Cliches - not always as simple as they seem

 I was reading some pronatalism/childless/childfree articles, and got thinking. I don't feel the gap between the childless and childfree, because I have been both. In my earlier years, I had no desire to be a mother or have children. I didn't have much younger siblings, or cousins that I knew well. I never wanted to "play house" or play with dolls. My mother's life was not enviable to me. It looked like unrelenting work, little social interaction (living in the country on a farm), etc. I was interested in being outdoors, or reading of other places and worlds, and dreaming of escape. As a teenager and young woman, I knew I was part of the first generation of women who could actually have a career as a right, whereas women before me had to fight for everything, for contraception, entrance into professions, universities, careers, etc. (Which is not to say I haven't had to do that, but my university classes and work places were filled with men and women of equal talent, which had not been the case for my predecessors. Or even for me when I was at primary school.) I bristled at assumptions that I would do things just because I was female. I'm sorry - I'm sure I am repeating myself in this rant.

So it wasn't until I was in my 30s that I wanted children. And with infertility issues and pregnancy losses, it hit me hard. Twenty years later, I'm still writing about the subject. Because I'm living it. 

Yes, I am a cliche. I'm the woman who didn't want children, until she did. The one who "changed her mind." The one that people warn against, that doctors use as an example and as an excuse not to perform sterilisation procedures, the one who causes the genuinely-held feelings and desires of women to be dismissed. And I hate that my example could be used to shame young women, or restrict their choices, or pressure them into something that they do not want or are not ready for. It infuriates me.

Because I wasn't ready until I was, in fact, ready. And I was determined that I wasn't going to be pressured to be ready before that. I was determined people were not going to stereotype me into a role just because of my biology. I don't think I ever said "I will never have children." But I said, often, "not yet" or "not now." Not knowing was fine. Normal even. It certainly was for me. 

Loribeth at The Road Less Travelled referred to an article about pronatalism, which talks about all the pressure still on women to have children. My head was ready to explode after reading it. Over forty years since I was at university, putting structure to my feminism, and what has changed? I finished the article full of everything I wanted to say to all those people who are promoting pronatalist policies and points of view: Let people make their own choices. Accept their realities, rather than trying to impose yours. Don't be a hypocrite. Don't have double standards for women and men. I never had a lot of pressure on me to have children. Sure, there were expectations, but at least my close family members were tactful about it. (Unlike the uncles and aunts at my wedding!)

These days, I fully appreciate the opportunities I have had and still have without children. But I am also cognisant of the losses my husband and I have experienced, and continue to experience. Lori Lavender Luz often talks and writes about the concepts of Both And. Nothing explains my life without children better than Both And. Joy and opportunity, loss and exclusion. If I had never said "I am ready" then it would have been okay too. I would not have regretted it. I do not regret waiting until I was ready. No-one is a cliche. We all have our reasons and stories and lives, and we are all different. Just let us be who we are.

 

Time passing

I have a niece staying for a couple of days. She's come from overseas with a friend, and our house is the last stop on a whirlwind tour of half of NZ. I had my first ectopic, and was still being treated for it, in December 2001. We had planned on going south to my family for Christmas, but doctors wanted me to stay close to the hospital, so we had to cancel. And my BIL and SIL arrived with their four month old baby, to meet the in-laws. I don't have much memory of that Christmas, except the first time I saw them with the baby, my BIL absolutely doting on her. It was hard.

24 years later, this intelligent, compassionate, vibrant, beautiful young woman is visiting. It's nice getting to know her as an adult. She mentioned how sad she was that her only female cousins around her age were overseas, and she has never actually met them. I debated saying anything, and then thought it was timely. I don't know what my BIL/SIL have said to her about my ectopics and how we became childless. So I just said, "well, I'm sorry. We did try to give you a cousin about your age." She nodded, and I think she must have known. But it's worth talking about. She's in her mid-20s now, in a long-term relationship, and maybe starting to think about kids. Or not. Her choice. But she needs to know it's not easy. Not everyone gets what they wanted.  Lifestyles can be very different, but still okay. I hope that's her takeaway from our conversation last night, anyway. 

As for me, because I try not to think about it, it was a reminder of the child we could have had, and the stage of life they are in.

However, childless perk alert! I happily think about things that happened 13 years ago, or even 30 years ago, as not that long ago! Until you have two 24 year olds at the table saying, "13 years was a long time ago!" Ouch. But they'll learn! ha ha. And in the meantime, I can be in ignorant bliss about time and ageing, without the constant reminders from young people that I am old! People say kids keep you young. I think not having kids keeps me young. In my head, I'm still about that age! (Okay, maybe a little older. <wink>) 

Where do I belong?

Loribeth's post here, about a dream prompting questions about where she belongs, got me thinking. As she rightly said, many childless and perhaps even childfree people ask that question. 

I without doubt belong in New Zealand. Right now I belong in my city too, although my affections for it have plummeted these last few weeks, as our house has been battered with spring winds. I was caught thinking about where else I could live. I could move to the South Island where I have another sister and nieces and great-nephews, and one or two old friends. I have a fondness for that area. But my life has been very different, and so I don't think I belong there any more. There are other spots around the country that might be nice to live in, but where I might struggle to belong. A wealthy farming area has a charming wine village we love to visit but might be stifling to live in. Big cities can be thrilling but lonely. At one stage I belonged in Bangkok. I lived and worked there, loved being in an exciting environment, and felt very much at home amongst the Thais, even though I stuck out like a sore tall white thumb! But each time I return, I feel like I belong less and less. A friend has recently returned there, and feels that maybe she was trying to recapture a life that has passed. At one time we belonged, but do we still?

Even when I travel, I feel I belong - maybe as a tourist, rather than a local. But I'm not bothered by that. Sure, there might be some environments when I feel "out of place," but as long as I am engaged and exploring and enjoying myself, it's easy to feel comfortable, to feel as if I belong. Or perhaps I lie. Because when I travel too, on my own, I can feel terribly alone. Though I know it is possible to feel that without leaving home too.

But do I need to belong anywhere? I'm "at home" wherever I am if my husband is with me. We've been together for so long, he is my home. But I now know that's not going to be permanent. So I ask these questions anew. I think I prefer to belong to people rather than places. And that's the area I struggle. I need more people in my life. In the meantime, I have my sisters, nieces, and most importantly on a day to day basis, my friends who have also become my family. 

I remember after my ectopics and final resolution into a No Kidding life, I was desperate to travel and learn a language and spend time living somewhere else. I wanted to escape. I forgot, though, that I could not outrun my grief. I couldn't leave myself. My childlessness would follow me everywhere. 

I think maybe that's why we question where we belong. Because without children, we have always felt on the outside, as if we don't belong. Not in the way many parents feel they do - in their religions, schools, communities, and wider societies. We are always marginalised. I feel it less these days, as I mentioned here. But I still feel it. In all those places where parents feel validated, I feel othered. 

Belonging becomes something I've learned to do without. It doesn't mean I like it. But I've never quite thought about it this way before. As I read Loribeth's post, I jotted down my instinctive answer. I belong wherever I am. I belong in myself. Because that's who I need to survive. A healthy, contemplative, open and objective Mali with all her flaws. I take it all with me, and belonging comes with contentment, with acceptance, and with gratitude. I sometimes have to be reminded to find all those, but when prompted, it's possible. And then I can face the future. That's my answer. Wherever I am, I belong with me. Or perhaps, 

I am, therefore I belong.

 

 

Biting my childless tongue

Over the last month, my husband and I have had three separate groups of visitors. Two crossed over with each other so we could have family dinners together. But I didn't estimate how exhausting it would be dealing with all the stresses and emotions of the visitors, the catering, the cleaning, the planning and the conversation. I guess starting at a high stress level doesn't help, does it? 

We had lots of laughs, and good times, and I appreciated all the visits, the wine, the avocados, the lunches and dinners bought for us. The adults-only nature of the visits was a change too, and made it easier. I am not ungrateful, and overall the visits were wonderful.

But I have to get a few things off my chest that I am pretty sure only my readers and one or two friends will understand. 

Actually, although I'm sure parents in my situation would feel the same, they might not be quite so afraid of saying the wrong thing, because they're never going to be hit with "you're not a parent, so you know nothing!" Not that anyone said this to me. It's just that I am always conscious it could be coming. 

Sometimes I laugh, and pre-empt the comments, saying, "I know I don't have kids, but at least that means I can't be criticised for doing the wrong thing, or doing the opposite of what I say I am doing!" Often that's enough to get a message across, and to point out the obvious before they do. 

Then I bite my tongue, as I hear about:

• kids not being given the freedom to choose what they study
• assumptions that only certain professions will a) make money, or are b) worthy for their kids
• kids who rarely get told "no" because their parent feels guilty 
• anxious kids, who desperately want a parent's approval, but the parent doesn't realise it or won't give it
• kids who are almost neglected, because they are "out of sight, out of mind"
• kids who are still treated like kids, and manipulated and encouraged in the direction that the parents want, when they have been adults for years!
• parents who are in complete denial that they are infantilising their adult children
• parents who believe they are allowing their kids to make their own decisions, but are clearly not
• parents who are horrified that their children are treating them the exact way they (the parent) treated their parents.

And yes, I know that last point dates me! 

It's also really frustrating to see male parents modelling traditional male behaviour to their daughters and sons, while their very capable (perhaps much more capable) wives bear all the emotional labour as well as all the physical work of parenting. So it also frustrates me to see the wives model traditional female behaviour to their daughters and sons too. As an old feminist, you can just imagine my stress levels rising, cumulatively, over the last month!

Mostly, though, I wanted to reach out and hug the (now adult or almost adult) children who were the subjects of many a conversation. And tell them that to wish to be someone else is to waste the person they are. Or to succumb to someone else's wish that you be someone else is to waste the person that they are. There are things we learn through pain and loss that could really help the next generation. 

 

And given that this is a bit of a rant, I'm going to finish saying that it is also frustrating to be spoken to as if I am indeed a teenager or young adult who knows nothing of the world, because this is how the parents speak now! Especially when the parents show little or no self-awareness of that. (Okay, I did not keep silent about that.)

So I bit my tongue, daily, sometimes hourly, sometimes every minute! Well, mostly. Ha ha!  

The thing I most wanted to say, though, and didn't, was "make your own damn cup of tea!"

And now I am going to make myself, and only myself, a cup of tea and relax.
 

 

 

 

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.

Childless or Childfree: Not that different

I spent the morning chatting with a friend and her younger relative, a student doing a major project (for her degree), about No Kidding issues. How refreshing it was to be able to talk freely! How we could have talked for hours about the topic! How great it is that the younger generation want to explore the issue.

Ultimately, the project focuses on women's reproductive choices, not specifically childless, or childfree, or women who intend to be parents. We’re all subject to the same things though. We all feel the judgement of society, the pressure from friends or relatives to have children, and the isolation from policy discussions. This rampant pronatalism affects us all, and tries to remove our choices, to tell us we are wrong, that our lives aren’t full or happy or valued, or even valid. Pronatalism doesn’t even address the fact that for some of us, there is no choice involved. The choice was made for us. So our pronatalist society shunts us into the “pitiable” box, and forgets about us. Along with the childfree who get put in different boxes in the same forgotten corner. We all get judged first, then ignored. 

I could very much relate to the young women of today, who just want a choice. The old 1980s feminist in me has always only ever wanted to be able to live my life the way I want to, rather than the way others think I should. And so I do. (Well, as much as I can without that lottery win!) It's the only life I have. It's as worthy as anyone else's life. And it is a good one.

 

Language and assumptions

I'm a fan of words. I love the nuances of language, and languages. Language tells us so much about cultures and individuals and history and colonialism and oppression and dominance and, thankfully, change. And language too is so much part of pronatalism, and oppresses and disadvantages those of us who are not parents. How "as a mother" is supposed to convey a degree of sanctity and superiority. How childLESS focuses on the LESS part of our lives, and not on the full part of our lives that we live when we find we can't have children. Etc.

So as a fan of words, I am a fan of those who make words accessible. I bought a great book years ago called The Meaning of Tingo, which shares words in different cultures and languages that have no equivalent translations. And I am a fan of Susie Dent, an English exicographer and etymologist. She has a Word of the Day on social media, and I love these. She introduced me to a favourite word - "scurryfunge" - which means the frenetic cleaning you do in anticipation of a visitor arriving. I'm an expert scurryfunger! In fact, scurryfunging is how my house remains clean. There aren't too many other motivations to do so!

Anyway, one of her words of the day was "ultracrepidarian." It's a 19th century word that means one who loves to give their opinion on matters they know nothing about. It's perfect for the world today. But equally, it is perfect to describe those people who think they know what it is like to be a person living a No Kidding life. Especially parents. 

So now you know. If someone starts assuming that your life is free, with no responsibilities, no regrets, no "what-ifs"  you can stop them in their tracks, and say, "oh, you're an ultracrepidarian!" If they start telling you that you're sad, or that you don't know love, that your life is gloom and doom, or that your life is unfulfilled just because you don't have children, you can respond with, "oh, you're another ultracrepidarian!" 

Then explain what it means. And see if they get it! 

Disclaimers: 

1) I have not tried this, but I'd love to have the opportunity. 

2) I thought it was time to have a fun post!

Children and the Childless

I’ve had a number of post topic in my drafts file (which is ridiculously large, so I’m trying to whittle it down) for years. I do this regularly – note a post that has made me think, or one that urges me to put my perspective on it. Occasionally, I pick up on it – sometimes within days or weeks of the original post, sometimes years later!

Five years ago, Mel wrote a post talking about feeling that because she was infertile, she felt the need to prove that she was good at interacting with children. Wow, I can relate to that feeling!

But I’ve never felt that I was good at interacting with kids. I didn’t grow up with a lot of younger siblings or cousins. Most of them were around my age or my sister’s age, just three years younger. I had little to do with the ones that were much younger, and never really knew how to relate to them.  This never bothered me when I was contemplating becoming a parent. After all, parents “grow up” with their children, and their children’s friends. I was confident that would happen with me.

As an adult, I’ve had good relationships with nieces and nephews and friends’ kids when I’ve had the opportunity to get to know them, and often when we’ve been chatting or playing alone. But I have been self-conscious when I do it in the presence of other adults. I’m shy (though some friends would laugh at the idea) and self-conscious by nature – that might explain my feelings of awkwardness. I think that is because I’ve often felt people judging me.

Long before we tried to conceive, there have been the occasional “clucky” comments, simply because I was being a decent person and talking to or playing with little children. That infuriated me at the time. It infuriated me because I resented the gender stereotyping behind the comments. It also infuriated me because the people making these comments didn’t know if we had been trying or not trying, but clearly didn’t even bother to think about it. I remember my sister-in-law telling me once that she had raged at my husband’s brothers who had been making such comments (to me, and to my husband), telling them they didn’t know if we had fertility issues or not, and how would they feel if we had. (She was prescient – we hadn’t been trying at the time.)

Likewise, there are the “judgey” comments. A rather outspoken family member once harshly critiqued something I had said to our niece, taking something out of context when I was simply trying to find something that we might have in common. So, I’ve felt wounded by such judgement, and if anything, it encourages me to withdraw when certain people are around. That is sad for me, and sad for the kids too.

On a more casual basis, I will interact with children if I see them in a queue, or on a plane or public transport, for example, and they show interest. Kids can be curious and funny, and it can be enjoyable to chat or play with them. So when it feels natural, I do it. But equally, if I’m in a café enjoying a quiet coffee and a book, and a child is running riot, I’ll ignore them too. Just because I’m a woman, I don’t buy into the idea that it’s my job to entertain children. I reject it, in fact. I also reject the idea that childless women (or infertile women) need to take a role with children that women who are parents don’t do. In one extended family, I have close relationships with a couple of the children – much more so than the women who are parents. It’s as if they either don’t care – they have their own children to focus on – or they don’t see it as their role. They have nothing to prove. Grrr.

So do I feel that I need to prove that I’m good with kids? I have certainly felt that at times. When I was going through infertility, I genuinely enjoyed interacting with them, anticipating the time when I might have had my own. I liked proving to myself as much as to anyone else that I was good with kids. When I was grieving, it was painful, and so I generally didn’t put myself in the position to have much to do with little children. After all, I was questioning myself so much, I knew I couldn’t bear the judgement from others if I was to come up wanting.

Now, though, I don’t really care what people think! (I hope Mel feels that way now too.) I’ve seen plenty of parents who are both good with kids, or completely ignore kids that are not their own. Why should I be judged when they are not? Why should I feel that I need to prove anything, simply because I've suffered infertiity, or because I don't have children? I don’t. Realising this today is liberating. I have nothing to prove.