Childlessness and Pregnancy Loss

I listened to an interesting podcast the other day. Those of you who know me might be surprised - I definitely struggle with podcasts. In fact, I started to write an explanation, but have turned it into a post on A Separate Life this week. But this was one I had to hear. Because Loribeth featured on The Full Stop podcast, in a discussion that is very pertinent to me - Childlessness and Pregnancy Loss. Don't continue if you're not ready for this, or if you have difficult feelings around pregnancy and pregnancy loss. (Though I try to address these at the end.) You'll find the link here via  Loribeth's post about the podcast. And a warning: it's a tear-jerker!

As any regular reading of No Kidding in NZ knows, I had two pregnancy losses in my path to Otherhood, and then spent years participating in and moderating an ectopic pregnancy website, before I even thought of starting this blog. So I was interested to see what angle the discussion might take. Any limited time for four people to discuss a topic is, of necessity, going to limit the discussion itself. (In her post, Loribeth mentioned the "gazillion" things she wished she'd been able to say!)  We understand that. And there were some very interesting points. These are my comments on it.

First, the issue of silencing ourselves was raised. Loribeth has talked about this too, but I was thinking about it from my own perspective. Talking about loss seems to be largely taboo in our society. The whole "don't say you're pregnant until after the first trimester" really says "it doesn't count until you are properly pregnant." (I had someone say, "oh, it's still really early then" as if it didn't count, even though my nausea was very real. I'd announced my pregnancy early only to my family at Christmas, as they would have wanted to know why I wasn't drinking! But it was dismissed.) After a loss, the rule of no early announcement says, "we don't care about early pregnancy losses." People don't want to hear it. It's as if you're "not really pregnant" or, as a friend said to me, "you never had anything so there was nothing really to lose." So even when we have a loss, we are unable to talk about it. We are silenced. 

In ectopic terms, this too is incredibly dangerous, as it means a general lack of awareness by both family and friends, the women themselves, and their doctors. Women's early pregnancy pains or other symptoms are easily dismissed. I was lucky that I had a great GP, who wanted to monitor my HCG levels to ensure I was having a miscarriage. When my levels did not fall, but rose insufficiently, it was clear I was not - it was an ectopic pregnancy, which instantly means "danger." I've since seen many many women - one woman is too many - be told by their doctors not to worry, they're just having a miscarriage, only to end up in hospital with life-saving emergency surgery after internal bleeding, or needing emergency medication. I remember Bamberlamb telling me that, when presenting at hospital with symptoms of her third ectopic pregnancy, she had to ask the nurses/doctors for their names so her husband would know how to name if she died as a result of a ruptured ectopic pregnancy. It was only then that she got the help she needed. And it was only because she had been active on the Ectopic Pregnancy Trust Messageboard that she knew all the symptoms and what they meant - and knew them far better than the medical professionals at the emergency department.*

But, as the podcasters noted, we also silence ourselves. At first we do it out of self-protection, I think. I found I could talk about the mechanics of my ectopic pregnancies - the reality of the medical treatment, what implanted where, etc - more easily than the fact that I lost the future baby. Anything involving emotions would have set me off - I wasn't much of a crier before loss, but then the floodgates opened! So I preferred not to talk about it, except with a select few, or online, when you can type even when the screen is blurry through the tears. I also felt embarrassed and ashamed. I don't now. Not at all. But at the time, emotions are complicated. Protecting ourselves as we work through them is important self-care.

We also silence ourselves, trying to be sensitive to others. We don't want them to be uncomfortable, so we hide our own emotions and therefore our own experience. We don't want newly pregnant women to worry any more than they might. But in doing that, we are also not being honest about how it affects us, or the significant percentage of women who experience loss or childlessness. I find it interesting that it is often the grieving person who is forced to be the most sensitive to others. (Don't get me started!)

But all this silence is not entirely honest either. When we can cope, when we are ready, talking about loss openly is much more honest, both to our own experiences and our own relationships with others. It must help those who will come after us. Because there are always those who come after us, and knowledge is important, awareness is life-saving, and information is power. That's why I worked in the field (voluntarily) for years, and why I still try to talk about it openly when I feel it is appropriate and/or necessary.

Support, as Lori mentioned on the podcast, is something we take when we can get it. But often that support drops away, especially if people go on to have children and drop off the radar. She found that in her support group, and I found it also at the ectopic messageboards, as more and more of my friends went off and had their families, and disappeared. I didn't really belong there except in the anonymous moderator role. But my presence, like Lori's as a leader of her support group, was important visually, just to let people know we were okay. And then I found blogging, where I do belong, even if I live on the other side of the world from most of you. That's why I love this community so much!

Michael, of the Full Stop podcast, also talked about how "the ghost (of his and his wife's losses) continues to be with us." Their losses are around birthdays and Mother's Day, and that is hard to ignore. I can relate to that. I learned I would never have children at a scan on my birthday, and both my ectopics took place over Christmas and New Year. Others I know remember the dates of their last IVFs, or when they decided not to look at assisted reproduction, or adoptions fell through or they had no choice but to opt out.Though I'd like to give some hope. After over 20 years, I can think of those dates and losses with love and compassion for the woman I was, but largely without the pain. (Although I admit that the Mother's Day reminder is an unkind double whammy.) I've written about this here, and here, amongst other places.

His perspective on how a man grieves, whilst at the same time wanting to help his wife, is complicated too. He had nowhere to find support. I remember my husband saying that his GP asked "if his wife was over it yet." I don't recall him saying the GP asked how HE was handling it. And I remember how, when I was feeling better recovered and stronger, that my husband felt he could finally open up to me more about his feelings. 

Finally, there was a really interesting discussion around envy amongst the childless community. Even though we are all living lives without children now, the speakers felt the envy of those who never got the joy of that positive pregnancy test, or who felt the losses of the children they never had but don't feel they can talk them as losses, or those who never had their losses recognised, or those who never named their losses or had those names recognised by family and friends, or those who never held their lost babies, or those who never saw them take a breath, etc. And those who are envied might also envy - it's only natural, I think. They might envy those who never felt the fear of an emergency hospital intervention, who never felt the grief of a late-term or full-term loss, who never had to take medication or have a D&C to end an incomplete miscarriage, who never had to tell family/friends/colleagues of their loss. 

Envy is, of course, for what the other person had, not what they lost. It's a blindness, and is only about the loss felt by the envious person (eg. the lack of a pregnancy positive, or a good scan, or heartbeat, etc). And that is real. But we also need to know the existence of that envy can feel like we are negating what the subject of that envy has lost. That the magnitude of their loss feels cancelled out by the moments they had that we might not have. 

That's where compassion comes in. And sometimes, compassion can only come with time, when we are less self-centred, and our envy can morph into true compassion and empathy for another's loss. I think, I hope, that the childless community is good at that, ultimately. Most of us recognise that everyone's grief is different, and there's no better or worse.

* I know all this is wordy and perhaps repetitive. If one woman finds this information about ectopic pregnancy, and it helps her or someone she knows, it is worth noting.

 

Beauty

It's hard to think of things to write when the world we've known since we were children is changing on its axis. But I heard something lovely this week that really struck a chord with me, and I wanted to share that instead. 

It was a discussion about the Japanese art of kintsugi, fixing broken pottery with gold, making it more beautiful. The discussion linked the idea with that of "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger." I know many of us don't like that. Whilst it sometimes a little bit true, it is also true that sometimes "what doesn't kill us" pretty much destroys us anyway. It certainly changes us, and it can make us feel much more vulnerable, and often weaker too. I've written about this before (click here), looking at the both/and of this statement. I know Bamberlamb hated this idea too. People would say to her, "you're so strong," when she had no choice but to go through surgery, chemotherapy, and inevitably, facing death. So often, that statement is a way of stepping back. It denies the pain and the fear and the sadness, and removes support, when instead it should show the speaker stepping forward and offering aid and love and an ear.

So I cringed at the "fix the broken pottery and make it stronger" analogy. Until the next speaker pointed out that it also makes it more beautiful than before. That, I can deal with. Even in anger and bitterness and fear, that so often comes from feeling broken, our emotions are beautiful, because they are genuine, and come from a place of heartbreak, of humanity, and so often, from love. 

Accepting those cracks, those fractures, and where possible, healing them is such a sign of dignity, which is beautiful. It all leads to growth, which is also beautiful. Especially when that growth means we are more self-aware, and more loving towards ourselves and our flaws (the broken bits). Yes, there is beauty in perfection, but so much more in imperfection, I think. Perfect (in humans) is artificial. Broken, imperfect, but filled up and healed with love and compassion and sensitivity - for ourselves and inevitably for others - is honest and very real. And yes, it is stunningly beautiful. 

I see it in my comments all the time, and in the other blogs I read, and messages I receive, and people I have come to know here in this community. You're all beautiful. Remember that.

 

Bamberlamb: A Tribute

As many of you already know, our fellow No Kidding blogger, Bamberlamb of Its Inconceivable, passed away last week. Her last post was a year ago, telling us of her secondary cancer. I know she touched many lives, including my own, and I send love to all those who have been affected by her death.

I first knew her as Lambsie, on the Ectopic Pregnancy Trust's messageboards over 20 years ago. In the years I was going through two ectopics, she was experiencing her second and third. She was such a voice of fun, but also, and always, of compassion. Understandably, it hurt her when others did not show the same compassion to her. So like me, she sought and found understanding online.

We spent a few years online together when we were trying to conceive and/or recovering from our losses. Most of those who were online with us went on to conceive and have children. (After all, only about 10% of women who have an ectopic pregnancy do not.) But Lambsie and I did not, along with one or two others, including the author of the wise "inside out" comment I referenced in my post last week. 

I was lucky. In early 2005, I travelled to London to meet a bunch of women from that messageboard, and went on to stay with a few of the women I had connected with. I spent a lovely few days with Bamberlamb and her adored husband. They had a great relationship, and thought the world of each other. I know he has been her carer in recent months, and has done everything he can to make those comfortable and enjoyable. I hate to think what he is going through now.

Eventually, after several years of being present and supportive of other women, our role became more official, albeit anonymous. We both became EPT moderators, and given an official pseudonym. The moderators had a private site where we could seek confirmation that our information was correct (we were assisted by a medical lead, who had access to some of the world's leading specialists in ectopic pregnancy), share how to deal with difficult people, and work through our own issues. We did that together on an almost daily basis, for six years. 

Bamberlamb/Lambsie had a wonderfully kind way with words. Even if privately she might have been frustrated with a person's attitude or insensitivity towards others (as we all were from time to time), outwardly she was the voice of kindness, of compassion, and most importantly, of no judgement. She never made it about* herself. She was always so eloquent, she always found the right words for the right occasion. It was a skill I often envied. But rather than envy, I tried to learn from her. To know what to say that might help, and most importantly, what not to say. I fall short, I am sure. But I will keep trying, for her.

I met up with her several times in trips to the UK, and I have memories of noshing on cream cakes with her at the House of Commons on the banks of the Thames with some of our friends and colleagues, and a lively dinner with some other friends afterwards. The last time we met in person was 11 years ago. Sadly, she wasn't up to meeting on my last trip, and I completely understand that. My visit was just a little too late. It is frustrating having international online friendships and not being there in person. If I could have made meals, popped in to help with the cleaning, or run errands for them, I would have. I know many of us would have. Just as we know she would have done that for us too. I at least wanted her to know how much she was loved, by so many of us all around the world.

I wish I could have heard her sing in her choir, beyond the one youtube performance I was able to see a few years ago. I'd have loved to have been able to support her. Likewise, I know she was a talented artist. However, she once told me that her losses took away her love of drawing. I like to think that she used that talent, her observational skills, and her  ability to see light and dark and shades, in other ways, not least in her blog.

She gave me credit for starting Its Inconceivable, and becoming active in the No Kidding community. I know that, like me, she missed the messageboards when our roles ended. The support we gave each other also helped us, and without that, life was a little lonelier. It was why I started blogging here, and after a few years of encouragement, she started too, bringing another voice and different perspectives to our number. And she became much more active than I am in one of the UK-based childless communities, continuing to support others even when she was going through something terribly difficult.

Right up to the last, she kept her wonderfully whacky (and sometimes wicked) sense of humour. It is what I will always remember about her. Her humour, and her compassion, and enormous capacity for love. Love will be the prevailing emotion I think of when I think of her. What better legacy could she leave in this world than love?

 

* This post is not about me. Please focus any comments towards Bamberlamb/Lambsie.

From the Inside Out

Online connections last. I've just had the pleasure of a weekend with an eminent childless not by choice blogger, Pamela, who was visiting NZ. As one of my ectopic messageboard friends* said to me over two decades ago (and I've quoted her before here), we got to know each other from the inside out, so meeting in person meant that we had to fill in the gaps. Where did you grow up? Do you have siblings? What work did you do? etc. My blogger friend said that she agreed. "It is as if our souls connect at a deep level, and everything else is filler," she said. I liked that.

Once again, though, I found that meeting someone I've only ever known through the internet was remarkably easy and relaxed. Once again, I was reassured that these internet relationships are real, that we really do get to know each other in a different way, and that you can tell who you are going to like and feel comfortable with (or not) well before you meet face to face.

We were focused on getting to know each other, talking about the future or recent past, but inevitably conversations about Not Kidding came up, just as parents might share the things they had in common. Thoughts about what links us, about relationships with parents, and about ageing without children were inevitable topics of conversation. But they certainly didn't dominate. They were, like our childlessness, just a part of us. And it was wonderful. Plans will be made to visit them in their country sometime in the future.

I was also given some food for thought for future posts, but as they only left yesterday, I might have some cogitating to do first. 

 

 

Note: Photo above was taken on our childless walk through the local botannical gardens

* She wrote a lovely guest post here some years ago - https://nokiddinginnz.blogspot.com/2016/01/guest-post-sarahg-on-living-life.html

 

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!