Ageing out of Childless Perks

I'm a member of a social media group called "Childless Perks." This is not a group for the always childfree, but for those of us who might have tried to have or wanted children, and have had to adapt to the life we didn't know we would have. And in that we have looked for the joys in that life, the benefits, advantages, gifts, and perks. I've written a whole series on this, as many of my readers know, that you can find by clicking here. And I have always been determined to embrace the benefits of my life, at the same time facing the realities of not having children.

The thing is, many of the perks that I used to think about are largely irrelevant now that I am older. On a daily basis, my life is not much different to those friends of mine who have children. We all share in these gifts of life at our stage of life: 

• We can all sleep in whenever we like.
• We can all be spontaneous because we have no-one dependent on us (except for those of us who might be caring for elderly relatives) 
• We can all eat what we want, when we want, and we can drink wine and not have to care for children or pick up a teenager from a party/social outing etc afterwards
• We can all go to adults only destinations  
• We can all travel outside of school holidays (except for the poor, dedicated teachers among us), 
• We are all (or will soon be) free of financial burdens, such as school/university fees, sports expenses/music or dance lessons, etc.
• Et cetera 

So I see posts about these "perks" on this social media group, and I am speechless. Especially at the moment. I struggle to name a gift of my childless life that those with children don't share. Rather, it is the opposite.  

Right now, I see others who are ill being supported and wrapped in comfort by their children. (Even though I know they'd rather the children don't have to do it). 

I face a future on my own - not in the immediate short term, but certainly when I am older. So I need to prepare for that, without children to help, to comfort, to be in my life. (And yes, I know that is not guaranteed even if I had had children, but complete isolation from children is not common),

A now-single friend said to me recently that her children are her world. With her parents now gone, and in one sentence, she discounted everyone else in her life. Even though I know she loves and values her friends. But of course I know friends are always secondary - I know that from direct experience, but also because I am not a complete idiot! So I wonder, what does she think my world consists of? Yes, my husband, of course. And I acknowledge how lucky I am to have someone I like being with, and can still converse with about all sorts of things. But long term? Is my world empty? 

Anyway, as I'm writing this, I have discovered one perk that still applies! I was chatting with someone earlier, and I talked about something being romantic. She noted that she and her husband can only talk for about 15 minutes on a "romantic" date, and then start complaining or worrying about her (adult) kids. We've never been able to or felt we had to centre our entire conversation around children, and so my husband and I can quite happily go on a three-month trip, let alone a three-hour date, still have plenty to talk about, and not get tired of each other! 

So even when I feel quite gloomy, I am glad I can still find a gift in my childless life.

 

 

Simultaneous joy and sadness

I can’t find if I have written about this before. But for me it is a reminder of the need to accept feelings of joy and sadness at the same time. To know that we can hold both in the same space at the same time. To see this as the start of healing, and know we'll be okay. After my first ectopic pregnancy, my husband and I went to France. I even took steps to ensure I would not be pregnant, as the last thing either of us wanted was a repeat ectopic in a strange country.

We flew in to Paris and picked up a car at the airport, and set off for a month. We relished the freedom of going where and when we wanted. We knew that if we did have a child once we got home, as we hoped, this freedom wouldn’t be possible for a long time. We had the most wonderful time, exploring most of the country, seeing unexpectedly gorgeous scenery and fairy-tale villages, eating amazing food, shopping in markets, practicing my French. We explored the chateaux of the Loire Valley, stayed in famous wine villages, walked through medieval palaces in Avignon, and had a magical day in the Tarn Gorge, choosing a beautiful picnic spot by the Tarn River under the “new” bridge (that was still hundreds of years old) and the willows, eating the most delicious ripe sweet strawberries we had found earlier that day in the market at Uzes.

The sadness from our ectopic pregnancy remained, but all this time later, I don’t actually remember feeling it most of the trip. Except for once. I sat beside the Dordogne River at beautiful La Roque Gageac, and felt overwhelming emotion at the beauty of the old village curving around the river under ancient cliffs. I thought about the fact I wouldn’t be there if we had not lost our pregnancy. I felt the tears coming, but realised that it was possible to feel joy at the same time as feeling grief. One didn’t cancel the other out, and feeling joy was not a betrayal of the one you were grieving. It was rather a chance to snatch a piece of peace and happiness in the world, even in the midst of sadness. A chance to offer our souls some replenishment, and to know that we would survive.

La Roque Gageac

 

Being on the other side

Right now, I find myself in a situation where I need to call on all the things I've learned through infertility and loss and childlessness over the years. Someone I know well has a major surgery next week. It's one with considerable risks, and those risks are not happy ones or ones that can be brushed aside. It's not just a case of "every surgery has risks" because it is "this specific surgery has risks." It's just that it has to be done. There's no real option.

They seem to be rather gloomy about it. That's understandable. Their partner doesn't sound very sympathetic, and is in fact, frustrated by the gloom. I guess that's understandable too, for different reasons.

I'm having to remember:

• to listen to the person 
• to let them feel what they want to feel
• to tell them I wish them the best, and that I am hoping for a great outcome
• to contact them more regularly, just to chat
• to offer support to their partner and family too.

This is one of the weird gifts of being through other tough times. We know what doesn't help. We know that dismissing our feelings can be really hurtful. We know that people who say, "it'll be fine" really don't have a clue! We know that silence, because we don't know what to say, is isolating and lonely and selfish. We know that it isn't about us, but them.

Wish me luck in remembering all the lessons I've learned.

Realities of No Kidding childlessness

I have a good friend here who has no kids. We socialise together quite a bit, and it is a relief to go out with her and her partner, and not feel we have to deal with the kid issue. That said, I'm interested in the kids of most of my friends, and like hearing about their adventures, as they've almost all left home, or at least are finding some independence. That's a freedom of age, when our friends and family who have children once again have time (and inclination) to focus on something other than their offspring. But I acknowledge too that I'm very lucky, and all of my friends have always been able to focus on the wider world, as well as their children. 

Still, there is something about socialising with other No Kidding people that brings a quiet understanding. However, not all No Kidding people are the same. We like talking about our siblings' (and in-laws') children, and their children. But my friend's family lives mostly in the same city. I've met some of them, been to plays and dinner together, and have celebrated when they've achieved milestones. I popped over to her house before Christmas and the kids were showing me the gingerbread houses they had just made with my friend, a family tradition she has been doing with her relatives that is now in its second generation. Her wider family is very close, and she is an integral part of that. She won't be moving any further than the beach.

I don't have that. I have one adult niece who still lives in New Zealand. All the others, on both my side and the Husband's side of the family, live overseas. I have one teenage niece and one adult great-nephew in the country. That's it.  So our present, in terms of relationships with children, look very different, and a lot lonelier. As do our futures, despite the fact that we are all childless.

Too often, you'll hear people suggest that we volunteer with children to fill the gaps in our lives. But this doesn't work. I'm not someone who could work with children, I have no skills to do that, and I'm not sure it would be good for them, or me! I wanted kids, but I didn't want to work with them! Besides, it doesn't necessarily create lasting relationships.So my involvement with children is and has always been very limited. And because of geography, it will continue to be limited. I can deal with that. But from time to time, it is a painful reminder.

I know I am not alone, that many of you may not have siblings, or other children that you live close to and have relationships with. There are no simple solutions. No real solutions to this at all. It's just a fact that reminds me of my situation occasionally. It reminds me that, as a result, I have greater independence to choose what my life will look like, but that independence has both benefits and burdens. We have the freedom to choose where and how we might spend the rest of our lives, and there is no obligation to stay close to family (or no feelings of rejection if we choose to move). But we also know that our choices are the only ones we will have to live with, that we will have to choose what our ''old old age" will look like, and we have to cope with whatever life throws at us on our own. Just another reminder that I can't stick my head in the sand and pretend everything will be okay. But I can plan to make it that way.

Self-knowledge beats fear

I had a bit of a wobble at the beginning of the New Year. The blissful isolation of Christmas Day dragged on, and I felt alone. We weren’t doing fun things with a wider family, or friends. The entire country seemed to be having fun, and we weren’t. I knew of course, realistically, that I was not alone, and that others were having harder times than I was. But for a while, I felt cast adrift.

One of the things that was bugging me was a relationship that has changed over the last 20 years - as I had pregnancy losses and forged a childlessness path, and they became a parent and socialised with other parents more and more. I know we’ve drifted apart, and I had been wondering if I was ready to let it go. But we’d never had a falling out, even though we weren’t as close as we had been (and will never be), and so I wondered if there was still value in the relationship. Those negative thoughts had been doing their evil thing, telling me that we hadn’t been in touch because they were ready to let me go. That it was always me reaching out (which wasn't quite true, but ... negative voices were convincing me it was). And that may have been the truth, and if it was, then I was ok with that.

But I decided I wasn’t going to let those negative thoughts have their own way. Not without one last challenge to them. So I reached out, tentatively, but openly. And was received with open arms. We made a date. We met, and talked for hours. Even if we don’t do it again for another year, or even ever, then I can live with that. The relationship has been worth holding on to, even if it is different now. If they don't reach out to me in the future, I can handle that. I've made the effort. And it seemed to be appreciated.

Of course, if I hadn’t been through loss and childlessness, then the relationship may never have changed. But equally, if I hadn’t been through those losses, and all the years of readjustment and thinking about who I am, and my place in the world, then I might not have recognised those negative voices in my head. I might not have been able to dismiss them. And I might not have been able to have come to a place where I was at peace regardless of what would happen, and so was able to reach out without fear. And for that, I’m grateful. 

 

My Childless Relationship with the School Term

I have little to say this week. It is winter in New Zealand, and apart from the occasional beautiful, calm but cold day, the last week or two has been quite miserable. Of course, it coincided with the two-week winter school holidays, when families travel around the country, keen for a break in the middle of the winter, and those of us without kids possibly do as we do. That is, we hibernate. The habit might have started when we first found it painful to see happy families out and about, but now we do it because it fits our lifestyle. We’ve hardly gone out, postponing movies or shopping expeditions for when the kids are safely back at school, and have largely enjoyed staying inside, being cosy, and curling up with a good book. It’s a good combination. We don’t get in the way of families who are out and about and visiting our city, we get to avoid the possibility/likelihood of colds, flu and covid, save money on travel costs, and don’t resent it because the weather is nasty anyway. 

We are always most active when school is in term, and least active during the school holidays. We plan international travel according to holidays here, and holidays in our intended destination. (Our big exception some years ago was going to Rome in July, which was not a great decision because it was a) very hot and b) very crowded, full of families travelling in their northern school break.) Having the flexibility to travel out of season is one of the great benefits of being a No Kidding traveller. And even when we stay at home, we do everything the opposite of those with kids.

School went back today. We can go out again. See some movies. Eat out for lunch. Shop for those new walking shoes I need. But you know what? It’s just started raining again, and is cold today. Maybe I’ll put off venturing out until tomorrow!

From my post "The Childless Women's Guide ..."