Childlessness in a book that wasn't kidding

I recently read a book recommended by Loribeth. Yes, I've been managing to read again and listen to audiobooks. Yay. You Are Here is by David Nicholls, a wonderful writer, and takes you on a journey across hills and dales in England. There's a discussion of childlessness at one point, in which a character mentions  "the tyranny of proving your life is fulfilled, and not a leaky bucket." (paraphrased as I listened to it as an audiobook).

I've written about that here - the expectation that we have to have a Next Big Thing if we are not having children. When actually Life is our Next Big Thing. And it comes with joys and challenges just like life with children. 

Later in the book, I noted a comment about friends re-emerging from parenthood as their children grew up. That too has been my experience, and I have of course written about it too. That friends are able to be friends again, without the all-consuming need to be with their children. I've even noticed that friends who dropped us years ago because they were only or mainly socialising with other people who had kids, the parents of their kids' friends, for example, have now reappeared. Maybe they realised that those were really friendships of convenience, and once the children were grown, they didn't have much in common? I don't know. But the reappearance has been nice too. Of course, none of that made the fact that we were dropped any easier. Or reduces my new levels of wariness around them too. But being open to reclaim these friendships has been good for all of us.

How nice to see ourselves reflected in a book in a calm, non-histrionic way, when childlessness was not the central feature of the book, but it was a very present, talked about, and acknowledged feature that contributed to the richness of the characters and story. 

 

Now is not the time for accomplishments

 Wow, I didn't realise it had been well over a month since I had posted. How easy it is to slip out of a habit!

Mel's latest Roundup pointed me in the direction of Middle Girl's blog here, in which someone (who can be found here at 8thDay)  made a comment that really spoke to my situation now. It also reminded me of all those who are grieving their loss of fertility, of the loss of their dreams of a family, and that time of coming to understand accept that we would never have children.

"This is not the time for accomplishments."

I've been feeling that way now. There is so much I need to do, but at the moment, surviving with some sanity intact is about all I can manage. Remembering to breathe. Treading water. And that's okay. 

It's okay too when someone is realising that their life will be one without children. Getting through a day without collapsing in tears (or at least, not too many times), with managing a smile or even a laugh, with appreciating the sun's warmth or a cool breeze (depending which hemisphere you're in right now), with appreciating and maintaining your primary relationships, and with getting some sleep, or managing to eat right or even exercise; any or all of these are actually major accomplishments. It's easy to feel we are drowning, when what we are actually doing is surviving. "Accomplishments" are all relative.

Grief for what we are losing and the future we thought we'd have is paramount at such a time, and that's okay too. Anticipating the future can come later. Of course, inevitably, it creeps into our thoughts. But we need to deal with that in manageable lots, especially at first. Major decisions can come later.  

This is not the time for accomplishments. I've often written about the feeling that we need a "Next Big Thing" if we are not going to have children. But in reality is that the next big thing is just getting through the next hour, day, week, month or year. If there is an easy "next big thing" then that is great. But my experience in watching women (and men) grappling with the idea of a No Kidding life has shown that most of us do not have a "next big thing." Why does there need to be one? To fill a hole? It will fill a space, but it won't fill the hole - just life fills the hole. Very gradually, and to different extents and in different ways for us all. That is life.

But today. Today is just today. We're surviving, not drowning. Whenever you feel that you're being swamped, or that everything is just too much, be kind to yourself. It is not the time for accomplishments. Accepting that makes life a little bit easier. 

 

 

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

Happily Ever After

Hands up who likes romance novels? I confess .... I rarely read them. In fact, I can’t remember when I last did. Oh wait, I read some of the Bridgerton novels after the first series of the Netflix show. Though I view that as more of a research effort than as a fan reading the books! (For the record, I’m a fan of the TV series, not a fan of the books.) But I like the fact that a happy ending is guaranteed. The one thing that is common in all romance novels is the Happily Ever After. And that’s something we all need.

A romance novelist herself, Steff Green (who writes as Steffanie Holmes) wrote an essay in Otherhood about the pressure – from society, the romance industry and the readers themselves – that demands that the Happily Ever After includes marriage and babies. In her essay "More Schlongs, more cats," she points out all the changes* in romance novels over the years, but finds that the insistence remains that traditional marriage and babies is the only possible Happily Ever After

It is changing, but so slowly. We've all seen that. It feels to me that there's almost more pressure on young women in the last decade to confirm and have children than there was in the 1990s, when I was subject to some of this pressure. It distresses me, not only because of the pain it causes those who wanted them, but because it doesn't allow young women the valid choice to not have children, or tell a story that a life without children is legitimate, equal in value, and happy.

Yes, some people get the traditional happily ever after, and it's perfect for them. But so many don't. They can't afford children, can't have them, or have other responsibilities that would make it difficult or impossible. They might not find the right partner and not want to go it alone, or they find the right one who doesn't want children, or doesn't want to do assisted reproduction or adopt. Or the partner they thought was right turns out not to be, even after the children arrived, and results in struggles for years. The concept of a Happily Ever After doesn't allow for sleepless nights, marriage breakdowns, ill children, tragedies, financial difficulties, or in other words, normal life.

But there is not just one Happily Ever After. Life is not that conformist, not that rigid, and not that unkind, even if many of our societies want us to think that way. I know plenty of No Kidding people with thriving careers, great relationships (from both before and after childlessness), alternative lifestyles, interesting hobbies, satisfying volunteer roles, contented lives, etc. I'm one of them. In my professional and private life, I was the most satisfied, the happiest, when I was doing a mix of volunteering, challenging and varied professional roles, and personal travel. This was some 5-10 years after my last loss. Even today, post job loss/covid/health difficulties, there's very little to complain about, and those are almost all privileged problems. If this is my Happily Ever After, then it's pretty damn good!

Contentment, happiness, and fulfilment are possible after trauma and loss, even thought it often feels impossible at the outset. There iss a rainbow at the end of the storm. And a Happily Ever After pot of gold, if we look for it.

Happily Ever After. It looks different for everyone. It's about time society figured that out.

 

 

* hence the reference, “more schlongs”

Administrative Note: I’ve noticed that many of my links in previous posts now seem broken. I don’t know how this has happened, but I’m trying to fix them when I find them. Bear with me, or please, point them out when you find them. I’ll be in your debt.

 

Just Us: Barbie, feminism, and Not Kidding

This is the last topic I ever thought I would write about. I had a Barbie when I was a girl - it must have been a birthday present, and it was very unlike other birthday presents I had received. I was a bit of a tomboy - I got a gun, holster, bolero, and Deputy Sheriff badge when I turned five, and was terribly jealous of the boy next door, who also had chaps! (As you can see, our one channel of TV in the late 60s early 70s was dominated by US Westerns. lol) Most of my dolls, teddies etc seemed to be hand-me-downs, so a brand new Barbie was exciting and terribly glamorous. Until, just a short time after my birthday, my mother gave me a haircut. So my little sister decided to give Barbie one too. Her long glamorous blonde hair was gone - she had a raggedy pixie cut for the rest of her life. I was not impressed. And my sister is tired of being reminded of it!

Barbie was always unrealistic - I didn't really know any/many blondes, her figure was ridiculous, and when I knew enough to understand, infuriating. And I'm pretty sure I had her before the unrelenting pink phase (I abhor unrelenting pink for girls - even though I quite like the colour), and before the cars, houses, and all the other Barbies appeared on sale. The commercialism, the sexism, the impossible physical expectations of Barbie turned me against her.

So when I heard there was a Barbie movie, I didn't think it would be for me. But a fellow No Kidding friend and I decided to go. We'd heard good things, and we knew we couldn't drag our significant others along to see it. We went this morning. It made this old feminist happy. There were so many brilliant throw-away lines. And I especially loved the comment "if my feet were this shape all the time, I'd never wear high heels again!" Hear, hear!

I'd heard about America Ferrera's monologue about the contradictory expectations of a modern woman. What I loved about it was the inclusion of those who were not mothers, as well as those who were mothers. I had been enjoying the feminism of the film up to then, and realised I had been unconsciously bracing myself against the onslaught of expectations for mothers, and to feel ignored. But we were not ignored, not forgotten. The message was acceptance - of who we are, regardless of whether we have children or not, regardless of whether we are high achievers or not. I loved that latter point too, because so many of us without children feel that we have to do find the "Next Big Thing" to make up for not being a mother. But we don't. We can, of course, and that is wonderful. But equally wonderful is finding happiness in our lives being ordinary. Surviving. Thriving. By just being us. Ken and Barbie both learned that lesson in the movie. We all need to be reminded of it. Brava, Barbie!

Is a No Kidding life a radical one?

The Gateway Women Fireside Chat that I mentioned last week discussed the idea that those of us who are ageing without children are "radical old women." Apart from the fact that I really don’t feel like an old woman and I’m not ready for that term (despite being older than some on the panel!), I agreed with a lot of the opinions given in the discussion. They reiterated the key points that almost all childless-not-by-choice and many childfree women talk about when we get together. It's always worth repeating! But I came away with two thoughts that weren’t really represented.

The first is that I object to being labelled (by society, by anyone) as radical just for living my life. Sure, I don’t have children, but that's only a small part of what makes me who I am. This idea makes me bristle. I object to the idea that just because we differ in only one way – the fact that we haven’t reproduced or parented – we must be seen as radical. I know many No Kidding women (and men) who are the very opposite of radical. They live normal lives – they go to work or school, love their friends and their (extended) families, strive to be better, look after their homes and neighbours, and care about the world. They want to be accepted and recognised and seen, and considered to be an important part of society and their communities. Surely there is nothing particularly radical about that?

Of course, it comes down to the definition, and there are many definitions of “radical,” as pointed out in the panel discussion. There is the “extremist” definition, the one that automatically comes to mind when I first hear the term “radical.” To be radical means “believing or expressing the belief that there should be great or extreme social or political change.” (Cambridge dictionary) A radical holds very different views, opposing the status quo (as opposed to just differing from it), and speaking out about it. By definition, a radical view is or can be seen to be threatening to the existing dominant societal structure. I find it terribly sad that simply wanting to be accepted for being who we are is seen as threatening by those living different lives. I’m not a conformist, and never have been. I’ve certainly never understood why living life differently should be in any way seen as particularly "radical." But I don’t feel like an extremist or particularly militant either. I’m just someone who puts an alternative viewpoint – a viewpoint many people have never considered – out there, and who wants society to see us and accept us. Is that radical? It doesn't feel like it.

The second issue was the question Jody posed, “what do we want to do with our ‘radical’?”

I thought of all of our blogs, the articles we have contributed to or commented on, the social media posts we make or comment on, the art some of us make, and all the other things that we do to put the point of view of people who are childless not by choice, or who are simply living No Kidding lives. We’re already doing a lot!

Then I thought of my neglected Instagram account (@nokiddinginnz), the book I’ve written but never published, all the time I don’t contribute to other online groups (like Gateway Women), and felt guilty. Am I not doing enough with my ‘radical’? I think it is terribly important that we speak up. I think it is terribly important that people remember there are women and men out there who wanted children, but who couldn’t have them for whatever reason. And I think it is terribly important that people are reminded that any of us who don’t have children are still equally important members of society, with valid opinions, lives, and contributions to society. So I am forever grateful for those who do so, who represent us in public. I play a small part, I’ve definitely gone beyond my comfort zone, whether here on my blog when I’ve very nervously pressed “Publish,” in private conversations when I’ve made myself vulnerable by tentatively countered someone’s mainstream opinion, or by very nervously commenting under my real name in articles in national media outlets. My part might not be as big as Jody’s or Pamela’s, but it is still important, as is that of all my readers and fellow bloggers. And I'm going to keep doing it, as long as I have an audience.

But speaking up is not obligatory. Just as we don't have to find our "Next Big Thing" when we don't have children, we don't have to become spokespeople for the childless not by choice. I know that speaking up isn’t for everyone. Some of us feel much more vulnerable about exposing our sadness or perceived failures to the world, and many of us fear judgement. Some of us are uncomfortable with speaking up – so many of us have been taught that it is rude to disagree, for example, when it is really courageous. I’m personally uncomfortable with confrontation, and don’t particularly enjoy arguments, although I know others who thrive on debate. (I do like being able to put my point of view, or make someone think, by a well-placed comment or question, but it can take a toll.) It made me think. Why should any of us feel compelled to do anything with our radical? It can be hard enough just living our radical lives day-to-day, navigating this pronatalist world as people without children, let alone dealing with all the other stresses of life.

Then I came full circle. Maybe that’s the whole point of being “Radical Old Women?” The second definition of radical is as fundamental, “relating to or characteristic of the basic or inherent constitution of a person or thing” (Collins Dictionary). It brings everything back to basics. And the basis of being a woman is, in fact, simply being, whether or not we have children. Ditto, the basis of being a man is simply being. The basis of being a human is simply being a human. And we all do that. We show there is value in our being just who we are. I guess that is radical in both meanings of the word. 

Just living our lives – with meaning and kindness and happiness and love – is enough of an example to others that society is varied, and that variation is valuable to us all. Life isn’t a one-size fits all proposition. How boring would societies and communities be if we were all the same? Embracing our existence, our No Kidding lives, is, after all, a radical act we didn’t think we were capable of at one stage in our lives. Wherever, and however, we live, we are here, and we are not going away. We are living, breathing, feeling role models. Maybe that’s radical enough for us all?

 

 

 

Life meanderings

 As some of you will know from my other blog (A Separate Life), I have been travelling this last month.I hinted at it a few weeks ago in this post about reclaiming the country when the children are back at school (and their parents at work), when I said "we reclaim the shops and restaurants and roads and ferries and tourist spots, and secluded outdoor areas. Next week it's all for us! I can't wait." Perhaps you thought there was more than the usual enthusiasm for having cafes and malls and cinemas free of children? There was.

Like many people, we discovered, we waited until school holidays were over before we drove onto the ferry (conveniently berthed about five minutes from our house) and set sail for the South Island. (Or so we thought - there was a delay and the usual 3 1/2 hour trip took 6 hours!) We've spent the last 3 1/2 weeks traversing the South Island, going to places we'd been before, but never really explored. Doing some new things. Reliving childhood memories. Seeing family. Eating too much. Drinking a bit much, though we were remarkably restrained, I thought! Taking a LOT of photos. I've put just a few on Instagram (I'm travellingmali there), and I'm planning to blog about the trip in more detail either on A Separate Life or a new space.

The trip was blissfully child-free. Sure, there were children some places, and some of them were amusing, cute, or both. They enhanced our trip. But the places we went weren't flooded with them, and that made it very relaxing. I know I'm privileged to be able to travel for this long at a time of my choosing. I know not all of you can do it. So I'll stop there.

I had the inevitable "are you having a nice Mother's Day?" question at a hotel reception. It was funny, because even when she said it, she didn't look as if she wanted to. "I'm not a mother," I responded. "So ... no." She immediately apologised profusely. It made me wonder if she'd been told to ask the question of women of a certain age (what that might be, over 18?), and had - for whatever reason, objected to that. I felt for her. Her apology was very much for the question, whereas I also received (somewhere, I can't remember where) an "I'm sorry" when I said that I did not have children, which was wholly pitying. Kind, perhaps, but judgemental too. Tone of voice and context is so important.

Anyway, it's kind of nice to be home. The holiday was a good break between clearing up FIL's house and estate, and the rest of my life. I feel a little like I did when I was coming out of the grief of the permanent no-kids diagnosis. What shall I do with the rest of my life? What is the next big thing? And then I remember. Life is the next big thing. And I need to live it. We don't have the responsibilities we have had the last decade, so things can change, if we want them to. That's what I'm figuring out now. But there's no rush. 

One more thing on Our Next Big Thing

I think I pressed Publish too soon on my last post. What I want to add now is the very important point that, when we’ve been hit with a major loss, surviving is a major accomplishment. It is no mean feat to just get through life, and to eventually find yourself and your relationship in a good place, even though all these things will be new and changed as a result too. Learning to be happy is not easy (certainly not at first), but it is possible, and indeed the most likely outcome for those of us without children. Living well, flourishing, when we didn’t get what we want requires energy and strength and honesty and compassion, and a myriad other reserves of strength and character that we don’t know we have until they’re called on.

So what I meant to say on my last post was that simply being able to embrace this No Kidding life is, in fact, a big thing. Our next big thing.

The next big thing

“My life is over.”
“What’s the point of living?”
“My life has no purpose.” "
"It’s all downhill from here."

These thoughts, or a variation, are common in those of us who come to face life without children. They are what I will call the first, transitional thoughts. It’s what we think when we are closing in on a final diagnosis or decision, it’s what we dread when we are in the midst of infertility, and it’s the view of the No Kidding door from Infertility's Waiting Room, and those first steps through it. So many of us really can’t see any joy in the life that is ahead of us. Maybe we don’t want to, because we’re still grieving, and feel that looking forward would be a betrayal of ourselves, and our losses.

But of course, time passes, and we walk through the door, and eventually into the light. Because there’s no other choice. Because human nature says that we adjust to our realities. Even if we don’t believe we’re going to get past this phase, we do.

The second line of thought  looks for the next big thing. “Well …” we say, wiping our hands of our lost dreams of parenthood, “what’s next?” I have seen this in many people. They feel that if they’re not going to make their mark on the world by producing children, then they need to do something else. Something big. Or that they have a big hole in their lives, and they need to fill it with something important.

I have thought this myself. I wanted to do something big, something different. I felt that our future was a blank slate, and that we should actively choose what we write on it. Part of this was fear. Fear that life as it had been would be too miserable without children. Fear that those initial, transitional thoughts would be proved right. I wanted to escape. Escape for me meant skipping the country, and going somewhere far far away. I looked at international language programmes, and imagined going somewhere where no-one knew me, and my non-parent state would be irrelevant. I was keen to plan a different life with my husband. I didn't know what we would do.  I just wanted to do something different, somewhere else.

You see, I think I thought I could escape the grief, escape the fear, escape the hard work of healing that I was going through. But if there's one thing I know now, is that all of that will come with you, wherever you are. I knew though, that I couldn't force my husband to do something he wasn't ready to do. I'd begged him to move to Bangkok in the early 1990s, and I couldn't do it again. Anything we would do needed to be a joint decision.

As it turned out, in that first year or two after my diagnosis, my husband had a new job, and I took on a new role as the Chair of the Board of Directors of a state company. Though I would have dropped the role like a hot potato if my husband had said, "let's move to <insert exotic location here> and let's go tomorrow." I got work as an independent consultant, and in due course I found enormous satisfaction from working as a volunteer online. I got my fix of travelling by trips to places I'd always wanted to visit, and managed to meet some of my closest online friends. It was a compromise, undoubtedly, but it worked for both of us. I'm sure my life looked as if it hadn't changed since before we'd tried to have children. But it wasn't the same. It felt different. Initially, as I was grieving, it was of course worse; but eventually, it felt better. Much better. The difference, I think, was in my attitude, my approach to life, my acceptance and understanding. Maybe that was wisdom that comes with age, or maybe it was wisdom that comes after infertility.

What I’ve learned, eleven years down the line, is that maybe we’ll find our next big thing. Or not. Maybe we’ll find our purpose and not even realise it for a while. Or not. Maybe we’ll find the next big thing and realise that it doesn’t need to be earth-shattering, momentous in impact or scale, to be important and of value. Maybe we’ll realise that living a good life is enough of a purpose. Maybe we’ll realise that there doesn’t have to be a next big thing. 

The interesting thing I find is that this is not necessarily the easy option. We might have to fight that yearning for the next big thing, and justify our lifestyle to ourselves. Or, we may have to justify our lifestyles to others. I’ve often heard bloggers and others complain that people think they should be doing something big, or travelling the world, or going out every night to the latest restaurants or clubs, or driving that red convertible or skydiving, to take advantage of that no kids lifestyle. They feel pressured to be doing more, to be doing something bigger or better. But why? Living a fulfilling, normal life – isn’t that enough? It should be.

Sure, maybe we are able to do things we wouldn't have done if we'd had children. My husband and I have travelled a lot, and we love that. But that was always going to be our thing, children or not. It's simply been easier without children. I wanted to be dramatic, and get a bright red convertible (convertibles are extremely uncommon in New Zealand), something that I absolutely couldn't have done with children. But you know what? I still don't have a bright red convertible. And frankly, I don't want one any more. I've never been skydiving either. (And I never will!) I'd still love to live overseas for a few years (I've always wanted to do it again), but no longer need to do it as an escape. Sadly, in recent years, elderly parents have made that impossible too. So I haven't found my next big thing, but I've found lots of satisfaction doing a lot of next small things. I believe that part of the fun of life is looking for that next big thing. For me it's the fun of the chase; the journey is more important than the goal.

If we find our next big thing that is great. But there doesn’t have to be a next big thing to replace having children. Life will fill up that hole, often to overflowing, with love and fun and new experiences and knowledge and people. Eventually, for me at least, it brought a sense of deep contentment. We don't have that gaping wound for the rest of our lives, we have rich, satisfying lives. Even if at first we couldn't have begun to contemplate that this would be possible, let alone achievable.

Update: See the next post for one last thought on this.