Monday Miscellany: No Kidding version

I have little to say today. The Husband and I celebrated a wedding anniversary a week or so ago. I mentioned it on A Separate Life in Another Year. As we hear of relationship or health issues that friends or family are going through, we appreciate each year we are lucky enough to have. Even when we drive each other crazy! It's odd - when I think of the decades we've been together (we met at university), I don't think about being childless. I think of all we've been through, and all we enjoy now. Because focusing on now, on what we have now, is so much more important than thinking about what we do not have.

Looking at the world right now, it would be easy to say that I'm glad I don't have children. There's so much horror, and insanity. It's going to come to our shores. It's scary. It would be tempting to wash my hands of it all, because I don't have descendants. But I can't do that. I care about all children, not just my own. I care about the world they're going to inherit, about the attitudes that they might be subject to, about the discrimination against girls and women that seems set to continue and even grow, thanks to social media. I may not have children, and I may feel isolated at time, but I have not dissociated from our communities, country, or world. 

And a couple of happy notes. I'm editing my trip photos at the moment. I like to take simple scenes, or close ups of flowers, and compose them specifically to be used here on this blog. You see, you're with me whether I'm sitting at my desk and laptop (as I am today), or standing on the southern coast of Ireland snapping a beach with sparkling water that will be perfect for a future No Kidding post.

And finally, No Kidding freedom is always good! We spent New Zealand's national day (Waitangi Day) in a beautiful olive grove on a warm, sunny day having lunch and catching up with friends. Their kids are grown and have children themselves. They are a loving family, but children are no longer part of their daily lives. Which means they have time for us. And of course, we have time for them. It was lovely.

It's only a part of me

Every Saturday we get the local newspaper. I know, we're dinosaurs. But we have a digital subscription that gives us a hard copy once a week. I like the puzzles in the Saturday paper, and it's quite nice for a change to linger over the newspaper with a cup of tea, so I've been reluctant to let it go. 

The last year or two, I've found myself skimming over the death notices that mostly appear on Saturdays. I realised I'm at the age where people I know are either losing their parents, or perhaps older bosses and colleagues are dying themselves. But I find it frustrating, because the only thing ever mentioned are their familial relationships. 

There's nothing identifying these people except family. When I forget names, or names are common, I'm not sure if this was the person I knew or not. No mention of their years of diplomatic service, or their volunteer work, of the books they loved or gardens they nurtured or clubs they belonged to. I understand all these things might be mentioned in an obituary, but who goes on line to find them, if they are even written? They're never in the newspapers unless the deceased was a public figure. Yet each person mentioned - whether they have long lists of loved ones and descendants or not - was so much more than their families. And we all know that families aren't perfect. It's impossible to tell if they were loving or largely estranged, if the children and grandchildren mentioned phoned regularly or cared enough to visit or care for their elderly relatives. That's just how people are summed up.

It strikes me as being very one-dimensional, and quite sad. In my own parents' notices, I didn't really think beyond the traditional either, so I'm not blaming others for doing the same. Yet my mother had a dear friend she would miss who deserved a mention, the friend keeping my mother company for the 11 years she survived without my father. Both my parents had a wide circle of acquaintances, both from the days living in a rural district and from their activities in their local communities, whether through school, or their own sporting and social activities, or through ours. My mother was a rifle shooter, and marched, she coached and managed netball teams, and was secretary of the school committee. My father belonged to other community groups, volunteering his time, and in his younger days tossed cabers and rode bulls, putting that aside for golf as he aged. They were farmers for years. All these things made them who they were, as much as being children, siblings, parents, aunt and uncle, grandparents, and great-grandparents. 

That's why I am able now to feel more comfortable about being childless, simply because I know it is only a part of me. Just as my friends who are parents are much more than that too. (And this is especially obvious as those children grow up and leave home and sometimes leave the country.) Those who might be tempted to distil my life down to simply being childless are showing their own limitations and lack of imagination. I feel sorry for them. I may be childless, but I am also much* more. So are you. I'm not kidding.

* see my 2012 post Who I Am

Life fills the void

The last week or two, I've been reading old posts and comments (10-15 years ago) from the infertility community. It's been interesting to see how my perspective - as someone who did end up on the road less travelled living a No Kidding life - is often completely different to both those who were desperately hoping to conceive and have children, those who were hoping to adopt, and those who became parents. 

I know that I'm reading these posts now as someone who has been living this life now for 22 years, who has had time to develop perspective, and who looks at the world from a very different viewpoint. But after so long, it has surprised me to see, so blatantly, some of the judgement towards those who might live a life without children, the self-congratulations for those who did not have to face the issues we might have had to face, and the pressure that was then put on those who were still trying, desperately believing that they would "join the club" or "climb out of the trenches" (in the terminology of the blogging community at the time) as mothers. And yet, I doubt that any of those people at the time realised what they were doing.

Here's a radical thought. Perhaps I was lucky not to be part of that community when I was going through pregnancy loss and infertility and treatments. How hard it is to be infertile and feel the pressure from society, governments, and family. How much harder it must be to feel it also from your fellow infertiles, who have that need to see others get the desired outcome so that they know it is possible for them, too, to get it. To feel the pressure to never give up, and to feel the judgement of doing so. To be someone's "worst nightmare." It encourages me too, that I haven't really been a part of that community (or only in passing) or felt that pressure, as our No Kidding blogging community has grown.

How important it is to now be part of a community that can take those people - the ones who suspect or know that they won't end their infertility stories as parents - and tell them they will be okay, that the wounds heal (even if scars remain), and that their lives can and will still be good, happy, and filled with joy. I want to tell them that the judgement dissipates. It's no longer top of mind for any of those who've been through infertility - regardless of their outcome. It fades away, to an extent. But more particularly, i want to tell them that we become so much better at dealing with that judgement. We learn so much more about our own selves, develop our own perspectives, and grow in confidence. We learn that the judgement tells us more about the people judging and their issues at the time than it ever says about us. And that makes it so much easier to dismiss.

I'm so proud of all my fellow bloggers - each of them have shown the way through the difficult times. We are not giving blind messages of hope above reason. We are showing them, with our own experiences and lives, that one day, this will only be a part of them, each year a little smaller, a little less painful. That it won't always be all-consuming. That life fills the void. 

And right now, my life is filled with, well, readjusting back into real life* after an amazing three months away. Enjoying the little things - summer, the tui in our garden, tennis, tomatoes and basil, music, and good books. Savouring life after being absent and then sick. I hope your lives are equally full with these precious little things that make life worth living.

 

 

* See A Separate Life's recent post, Right Now

Continued Connections

Back in November, I wrote about Connections. A few days ago, I was pondering why I still write here. I started late (though was writing elsewhere), but I've still been writing here for 14 years, which is a long time, and a lot of thinking around not having children, the joys of that (and there are indeed joys, believe me), the loss and the sadness, and how I managed to heal. No Kidding in NZ is only ever about my thoughts on living life without children. I've kept it separate from A Separate Life, and various other writing or travel blogs. (See About Me here to connect with those if you are interested, including a new travel blog.) 

Many people of my vintage no longer write about their journeys. They, like me, have found that their lives are no longer dominated by thoughts of being childless (or childfree, depending on the day), and have moved on. I'm loath to do that, though, simply because I value the connections I have here, and with others who are still writing. I keep a lot of those connections alive elsewhere - whether it is through social media, private messageboards, other blogs, or zoom chats, my life is so full of connections that have only ever come about because I tried to have children, lost pregnancies, and never became a mother. But meeting in person is something special, and on my recent trip I was able to do that.

In Liverpool back in November, I met up with a long term friend from the ectopic message boards. We had met in person once before. I was in Switzerland visiting a friend, corresponding with my Liverpool friend who I had unfortunately missed in the UK a week or so earlier. "Invite her over," said my generous friend living in Switzerland. So I did. And she came, just for the weekend, to meet me! It was so lovely.  (And once again made me so envious that so many of my friends were in the UK, and could more easily meet up with each other.) So when I mentioned I was coming back for a longer trip, albeit 15 or so years later (!!!), she said she'd love to meet. We arranged a day, met at a train station along with our husbands, and they showed us around the city of Liverpool. Our husbands seemed to hit it off, and we had much more to chat about than our long ago history of lost pregnancies. 

But we did, at one stage, talk about how concerned we were about political changes around the world. She mentioned that someone had asked who she was meeting that day (as she was not going into work). She explained that if policies in some states in western nations had been in place back in the early 2000s, neither of us would be alive. So it was something to celebrate, our survival of a dangerous condition, and also something to mourn, that women in the 21st century might still suffer under unthinking policies put in place by ignorant politicians, making doctors unable or unwilling to provide appropriate medical attention. Then we turned to happier thoughts, delicious Asian food, and finally a fond farewell.

About a week later, I met up with another friend from those days. We had shared an estimated due date - my second ectopic pregnancy, and her first daughter.  We had chatted a lot in those days, finding a shared interest in travel and politics and wonderful books. I stayed with her once when her daughter was very young, and we met up in London or in her gorgeous English village twice more. But she had a second daughter, and life became very busy. We drifted, our correspondence gradually petering out, except through social media. But I contacted her and asked if she was keen to reconnect. 15 years (or more) since we had seen each other, it felt as if no time had passed at all. Our shared love of books led her husband to suggest we all meet at a pub once owned by Thomas Cromwell and then Anne of Cleves. Promises to come to New Zealand hopefully mean our connections will continue.

I spent a lovely day with another friend from ectopic messageboard days too. She had gone the adoption route, which has its own difficult challenges, and certainly isn't a "cure" for infertility, as she stressed. The fact that she is a mum and now a doting grandma did in no way counter all the things we have in common. We hobbled (both of us with different injuries) along the Thames at Henley, chatting non-stop, catching up with each other, and it was very special.

Finally, in London, we had coffee and buns with another blogger and her husband. We'd only ever corresponded by email or social media comments, and of course, the occasional blog comments. But again there was that familiarity and closeness that I've found seeps through the screens into real life. If you like someone online, when you're being open and honest and heartfelt, you're almost guaranteed to like them in real life. Again, the husbands seemed to hit it off, and we chatted for ages. More promises of meeting in New Zealand give me hope of this connection continuing.

And on the weekend, back in NZ, I was chatting on Zoom with blogging friends I have still yet to meet in real life. We noted how important our online relationships have been. I was talking about how my husband and I grieved our pregnancy losses differently, and that was okay, because I had had the support of wonderful women online. And later as we moved into a No Kidding life, I still had the support of wonderful women online. It gave him the freedom to grieve in his own way, and I didn't place the burden of my grief wholly on him. That helped us both. It still helps me, knowing that other women (and men) know how I feel. These online connections are real, are so valuable, and I hope will long continue. 

That's why I'm still here. I have connections here that I don't have elsewhere. And I value them all.

Childless travellers

Ten or fifteen years ago, I was able to embrace travelling without children. Twenty years ago or more, I was still feeling the loss and grief, and there were plenty of ouch moments. But travelling now, in our ... gulp ... 60s, we are just another pair of grey-haired travellers, enjoying the off-season lack of tourists. I rarely even think about my childless state when I travel now. 

Until you realise that you're travelling in half-term. That happened twice - once in Scotland, and again a few weeks later in England. Suddenly we were surrounded by families. In Scotland it was fine. We arrived in Glasgow, and suddenly saw lots of families, a funfare with carousel etc in one of the pedestrian-only streets, and figured out what was happening. The hotel we were staying in was very much designed with adults in mind. Very NOT children-friendly. So we enjoyed some lovely pre-dinner drinks in the bar, and a delicious multi-course menu in their excellent restaurant. Eating out elsewhere was a little different. We went to a fun Indian restaurant, and saw several families. Next to us was a father and a couple of kids. One was a teenager, who barely spoke. The younger one was more chatty, but it was difficult to watch them. Maybe they were giving their mother a few hours of peace, or maybe this was a result of a half-term holiday visitation, after a separation. It was nice to see them together, but I felt sorry for them, not me. The teenager seemed starved, the dad seemed awkward. I'm not judging. But I hoped they would relax more as the week continued.

In England, we saw families in a lot of different spots. The sheer numbers meant that we didn't explore some places we had intended to (not that I was bothered). I saw families out in nature, which was lovely. Some of the kids were enjoying themselves, some seemed not to be. (Probably wishing they were home with their devices/computer games/friends, etc.) It reminds me now of my niece who informed me, whilst she was recently on a trip to the US for the first time, that the things her parents liked doing were "insanely boring!" I laughed, but felt a little sorry for my sister and her husband too. My sister-in-law and her family have also just travelled to Europe for Christmas. Even though they had a great time, on returning home my SIL said, "I think it's just easier to travel when it's just (Husband) and me."

I'm glad none of my trips have been ruined by ungrateful teenagers. I'm glad that I haven't had to figure out what children want to do when travelling, or feel that I was tearing them away from friends or boyfriends or activities they'd prefer. Yes, I'd have loved to have had the opportunity to instil my love of travel into my own children, but by observing others, this isn't always easy or even possible. So I'm glad I can still feel that unadulterated joy of a new place, experience, or activity without having it tempered by guilt or angst about whether the children were having fun. A parent might find that attitude is selfish. But when it's my only option, I think embracing it and appreciating what I've got is actually just an example of pure gratitude.

Looking back on the blog: 2024

It's become a habit now to review the year gone by. I've just done it also on A Separate Life, although it seems harder this year because so much of 2024 seems a very long time ago now!

So, back to the blog. I wrote 55 posts here in 2024, which is pretty good considering I was away or sick for almost four months of the year. (I will admit that I feel quite proud of writing and scheduling three months of blog posts before I left!) I'm not sure about recurring themes this year, although the book that included my essay was a topic I kept returning to, simply because so many of the other authors made me think. Otherhood then, was a key theme, and I finally published my No Kidding essay here in October.

No Kidding: My Otherhood Essay

It is harder to keep finding things to write about that are specifically related to my No Kidding status. I'm not grieving any more, I'm not recovering, and I'm not surrounded by people with small children. All my friends and most of my family now have children who are adults, and so aren't part of their day to day lives. My life is very different. I know some bloggers have moved on to concentrating on ageing issues - I've written plenty about that - or who have just said, "ok, that's enough, I don't need to write any more." I'd find it hard to stop, I think, so I'm just going to see where the blog and my readers and comments take me in 2025.

So this once again brings me to the fact that the first week of January is blog delurking week, as Mel at Stirrup Queens reminded me. Do leave a quick hello in the comments (I’m fine with anonymous comments if you’re shy) or send a quick email to me at nokiddinginnz at gmail dot com. I'd love to know who else is reading here.

And whether you comment or not, whether you’re a long time reader or have just stumbled across me for the first time, I want you to know how much I appreciate you.

Hoping you all have a very safe and happy 2025!