A No Kidding Long Weekend

It's the last day of Easter. Tomorrow everyone goes back to work, except those in education, who historically get another day off. The country has been on holiday.  

My sister-in-law posted a photo of a big gathering at her house – her kids and friends kids all together. She loves to entertain, and as she rightly said, her house is a great party house. I had a little twinge, I will admit. But in a few years, all her kids will have left home. She’ll probably still throw parties - who needs kids to do that? These days, most parents I know have kids who are grown, and living far afield. Their Easters will have been quiet too. Most of us don’t have parents around anymore. Many of us don’t have siblings or other relatives in this same town, where so many migrate to work, and then stay. So we spend the time alone, or with friends, as we might otherwise spend any weekend. So it’s all about maintaining perspective. 

Yes, I have a few close friends whose families still live around them, and they spend public holidays together. But most of us make do. Some years we might travel to see family. But most years we stay at home and undertake house maintenance (Easter is a huge gardening time in NZ!), some years we might meet friends for dinner, other years we curl up and read. Some years we do all of the above!

I mentioned a nice meal I was making. “Just for you and Mr Mali?” another sister-in-law asked. “It’s only ever me and Mr Mali,” was my response, “so if we want to eat a roast dinner we do it.” And damn good it was too!

That’s how we spent our Easter. I made only four little Easter eggs, because that’s all we needed. We’ve been out for coffee and done some furniture window shopping. I’ve cooked up a storm, and chilled out on the couch watching a Midsomer Murderathon on one of the cable channels here. It’s so dark in the mornings now, we’ve been sleeping in longer. I started a furniture covering which I’m hoping to make progress on after I’ve written this. I’ve been on a walk this morning. It was a normal, No Kidding, long weekend. And it has been lovely. There’s nothing wrong with that.

No Kidding Voices Count

If you haven’t read Jess’s post about speaking, from a No Kidding childless not by choice perspective at the function for the book Adoption Unfiltered (frequent commenter here, Lori Lavender Luz is a co-author) then I urge you to do it. Do it now! She talks from the perspective of someone who tried to go the adoption route, but is now living a kick-ass (her words) life without children. Many of you might share her perspective, or recognise some of her concerns from your own experience. There was an interesting series of posts from different bloggers some years ago about why we did not adopt. Here’s my post at that time, and it includes links to other posts.

She noted that she hoped her comments would not be seen as sour grapes, given that she did not get the child(ren) she had hoped for from adoption. It was this sentence, above all others, that set me thinking, and that inspired this post.

Why should we feel that our comments on a process that did not work for us should be disparaged as “bitter” or “sour grapes” compared to those who are considered the “success” stories? Answer = we shouldn’t. Our views are just as valid, and perhaps more so, because we are evidence that the processes are not infallible, that they don’t work for everyone, and in many cases, they don’t work for the majority. Everyone needs to understand why that is. Our voices count, and should be heard.

In general, people who get what they wanted understandably find it hard to critique the processes that gave them their heart’s desire, however hard they were to go through. Stepping back and looking at these difficult processes objectively can be very confronting to them. (Though Lori LL is a notable exception, and is doing great work talking about adoption.) How can someone who got the child they wanted critique the process if, in doing that, they feel they’re betraying that child? How can they critique a process or agency or clinic when that can be seen as a critique of their own decisions, or of them and their families. It’s not surprising some might react defensively, or simply be unable to step back and review the process without bias. Those of us who went through these processes but came out without a child have a very different perspective on what is good, what needs to be changed, and why. But for the adoptive/IVF parents, it is as if they wouldn’t have their children if things needed to be changed. And that becomes terrifyingly unimaginable for them.

And of course, the best form of defence is attack. So yes, it is true, just as Jess feared, that some of the “successes” of assisted reproduction/adoption etc will label us as bitter, our perspective as “sour grapes,” and any criticism is seen as “not getting over it.” Or they think we’ve taken the easy way out, and didn’t deserve their “success.” I’ve seen all these reactions in the media, in blogs, and in email exchanges. Our own Pamela Tsigdinos has been subjected to this view in the media, but is undeterred, still speaking out on IVF still speaking out on IVF and patient rights just last week. It’s a case of being prepared to see things from a different perspective. We all have different points of view, and those who didn’t get the “golden ticket” may even have a wider perspective. We learn to see a subject from all sides, because we’ve been on both sides – the hopeful who desperately want it to work, and those for whom hope wasn’t enough.

It is precisely because of this differing perspective that we are the ones who should be speaking out. I see both the joy of the wanted results and the problematic issues around the assisted reproduction industry and adoption – the so-called success rates, regulation and limits and lack of limits, over-pricing and prescribing, the treatment of birth parents, care or lack of care for the children involved, payment and non-payment, support and lack of support, and all the myriad international and cultural issues, etc. It’s not a contradiction to both be pleased that there are paths to parenthood for the infertile, and to want to ensure these paths take care of those prospective parents during and after this process, as well as act in the best interests of the children who may emerge from this. That’s not sour grapes. It is in fact much more holistic. And maybe we might actually be better placed to think about the children’s interests, because we don’t have that deep, personal parental relationship that can at times (understandably) trigger defence mechanisms and block honest reflection.

It should be a requirement to consider all these factors in any discussion about assisted reproduction or adoption. All of these processes are far more complicated than the public discourse or industry advocates ever acknowledge. Along with the details – the science, financial, emotional and societal issues – of adoption or assisted reproduction, they don’t talk about the hidden results that no-one involved really wants to acknowledge. The No Kidding. Us. Me. My existence suggests an outcome no-one wants to admit is real or is statistically very significant, and is terrifying to those people entering these processes. It’s easier not to consider us, talk to us, or include us.

Yet we might be the ones who understand best what the data means to real people. Many of us who walked away from IVF or assisted reproduction or adoption – either before by choosing not to go through the process, or after, when it was clear there wouldn’t be a baby coming as a result – are the ones who recognised these risk factors, who understood the data, the implications of all the various options and avenues, and made the hard decision – or had it made for us – and had to walk away. That was never easy. But it is an outcome that everyone needs to acknowledge, and more importantly, understand.

After all, our message is that our outcomes should not be hidden, ignored, or feared. We shouldn’t be erased from the conversation. We should be an important part of it. Our perspective counts.

That is why I’m immensely proud of Jess that her always wise perspective was included in the conversation around Adoption Unfiltered. (Of course, I’m immensely proud of Lori LL and her co-authors too.) In fact, I think it is terribly important, and moving – monumental even – that someone who didn't get the baby they wanted should be the one to talk about that. An unfiltered discussion indeed!

Our voices count, and our voices matter. Sadly, the opportunities to use them are still too few and far between.

 

Perspective in a No Kidding life

I have been struggling with what I might post today. I know what I'm going to write about next week. But today, I have been drawing a blank. As a result, I've been doing a lot of reading - of my drafts document, of previous posts, and of articles that have been referenced, discussed, and debated in the wider ALI blogging community. It has been interesting. The key theme that keeps coming up is that of perspective. 

It comes up because so often there is a lack of perspective. Too often parents are unable to put themselves in our shoes, to see their comments from our perspective. Or we might be angry at others, unable to fully understand their perspective, or understand what motivates their comments. Equally, it might be that we can fully understand the perspective from the other side, but equally, not agree with their conclusions. After all, I might hear and understand someone's perspective and the points they are making, but still, on balance, disagree with their statements or analysis or judgements or approach.

But when there is perspective, there is better balance. By trying to look at things from the perspectives of others, I understand that life is not always greener on the other side, that our "what-ifs" focus only on our dreams, not the myriad possible realities of life. Perspective therefore is really important to me. Developing it has helped me heal, it has helped me better understand others (including someone close to me), and it has helped me become more compassionate and forgiving. Though I've always had it (I credit that for being a middle child!), my approach is much more conscious these days. As a result, it has changed the way I think.

Perspective grounds me. It gives me balance. It helps me understand and appreciate my life. It also gives me more confidence in my own views, knowing that I have tried to consider the positions of all involved. That is liberating to someone who has always been more hesitant about volunteering my views.

Perspective is particularly valuable in our No Kidding lives, allowing us to legitimately mourn what we have lost, and at the exact same time, allowing us to embrace and enjoy what we have as a result. There's such freedom in that.

Other relevant posts include:

• Balance
• Pathways, not Barriers

The grass is always greener ... or is it?

It is World Childless Week.
Today we are talking about the comment parents make, “you’re so lucky to not have kids” and the question, “Do you consider yourself lucky?” 

If I’d been told 20 years ago that I was lucky to not have kids I would have been angry. Such a comment ignores what I have lost, minimises it, dismisses it. I’ve long known that most people don’t see our losses, ever since a friend said, “but you never had anything, so you haven’t lost anything,” as I was recovering from my second ectopic pregnancy. That feeling of being misunderstood is not new to me. But twenty years on, I know now that the comment “you are lucky” tells me more about the mindset of the questioner than it does about my own life.

Yes, I would still be annoyed today that someone could be so thoughtless. But I also see that for many, the grass is always greener on the other side. Being a parent is difficult. Being childless is difficult. And if all we can do is envy the other side, then we are stuck in a mindset of envy, of dissatisfaction, and unable to see the realities of life. No one lifestyle is perfect, without trouble or hardship, without heartache. A parent who looks at our lives and thinks we are free and easy with no responsibilities is being shallow and thoughtless. And if those of us without children envy parents, then we are ignoring the realities of their lives, the stress, the difficulties, and the worry that come along with the joy and love for which we have yearned. Ignoring the complexities of life is superficial thinking. Sadly, we are all guilty of it from time to time.

Yes, there are many times I feel lucky not to have children, just as there are many times when I do not feel lucky. There is a long list of things I will never do because I don’t have children, but equally there is a long list of things I can do as well, because I don’t have children. I have written on my blog about the 25 gifts that I feel infertility and childlessness have given me. Some of those would come with parenthood. Some might not. Some were lessons painfully learned. Some were freedoms and friendship and travel. I have learned not to feel guilty about that. It took some time.

However, I think I feel lucky for other, much more important reasons too. I have learned to adapt and be resilient, even if my life has turned out differently than I had intended. I am lucky that I can embrace my life without children. I do so joyously, without the guilt that comes so easily at first. I am lucky that I can see and feel the benefits of this life without children, and feel happy and content living this life. I am lucky that I have accepted what is, and I am not stuck, not forever grieving, nor am I yearning for something that can never be. I am lucky that I am not living in regret. This is not to say that regret and sadness and loneliness and other losses never raise their heads. They do. But they are not constant companions, as they might have been in the early days of navigating this No Kidding life. I can appreciate what I have now.

How tragic it would be to have this life I have been given, and not to live it to its fullest. What a waste of the years of grief and loss to refuse to appreciate the wonderful parts of my life, to refuse to breathe deeply and yes, to feel lucky. If we practice self-compassion and care, we can nurture the grass on this side of the fence until it is lush and green and welcoming. Life is not always greener on the other side.

 

A good life: despite or because I don't have children?

As I was writing a post recently, I found myself typing "my life is good now despite not having children." I stopped. I might have felt that way many years ago. But the word “despite” didn’t feel right for me now, in 2022. I asked myself, "is my life is good now despite not having children, or because I don't have them?" Maybe the answer is because. Sacrilege!

I will never know if my life is good despite or because. I will never know how my life would have worked out. Accepting that, rather than clinging to an idealised vision of what my life with children would have been like, is key to dismissing all the painful what-ifs. I'll never know how I would have reacted, or coped with any range of issues (I see the strength of my sister dealing with her CF child), or whether I would have had the energy, the temperament, etc to thrive as a parent. I might have. I might not have. Plenty of parents struggle. So there's no point in thinking about that. It might have been wonderful. It might not have been. If anything, everything I've been through in the last 20 or so years have reminded me that nothing is certain, and a happy ending is never guaranteed, regardless of the path we take.

The reality is that it doesn’t need to be an and/or situation. Maybe I could do all the things that I like about my life even if I had children. Almost certainly I would have found other things I liked about my life. Maybe the things I like about my life right now actually have nothing to do with the fact that I am not a parent. Maybe it’s all about attitude, luck, personality, life choices and opportunities. Realising that brings a feeling of liberation. Ironically, even though I write a blog about my life without kids post-infertility, my No Kidding situation doesn’t define my life – either despite, or because.

I think this is a progression of healing, and inevitably of age. I started off post-infertility being pleased when I could find joy in amongst the pain, finding positives despite my situation. I then moved to embracing my No Kidding life, loving the freedom I had because I wasn’t a parent. Right now, I think that I’ve moved beyond that too. My life is good now because a) I am lucky, and b) I choose to focus on the things I have, not the things I don’t. Life is a wonderful thing, and the alternative (death) is not. Right now I choose to live, I choose to enjoy my life, and I choose to be happy. As I age it will perhaps be harder to do this. So I’m going to make the most of life now, regardless of how or why it is good. My life is neither better or worse despite not having children, or because I don’t have them. The "why's" don't matter. In this moment it is good. That’s all I can ever ask for.

Growth and personality

Back in September, Infertile Phoenix wrote this post asking Does Trauma Change our Personality? I recognised a lot of me in her post, in the shift away from confidence, or I would suggest, towards more thoughtfulness and reflection.

I've written about how trauma affected me in this post about confidence and balance, and again in my Gifts of Infertility series, when I wrote called Accepting My Mortality. To recap, whilst I've never been brimming with self-confidence, or an ability to brush off other people's views or actions, I was growing in confidence in my late 30s. But with infertility, pregnancy loss that threatened my own mortality, and the resultant childlessness, I had a much deeper feeling that we are all vulnerable, and that anything can happen at any time. It has made my behaviour more conservative in some ways. I never had an out-there risk-taking bravado, perhaps because I always had a realistic awareness of risk (I was in awe of a female colleague who travelled to Pakistan for a month on her own just for fun). But I did have a willingness to be reasonably adventurous, emotionally and geographically, if not always physically! (Don't get me on a swing bridge or a steep mountain, lol) I travelled the world on my own without a thought, took on challenging roles, and swallowed my fear to live the life I wanted to live.

However, post-infertility/childlessness, and even by embracing the freedom of uncertainty, I was perhaps even more aware of risks. I think perhaps my world view, or rather, my place in the world had changed. I'm no longer young where I believed that the world is my oyster. Lots of doors have closed to me. My early degrees of luck (or perhaps, privilege) were not an insurance against future bad luck. As I have said, whilst that freed me from guilt that genuine bad luck was my fault, it also made the world seem quite vulnerable. Age probably contributes to that. The knowledge that there are no children waiting in the wings to support us if that is necessary probably contributes to that too.

But it has also made me more prepared to grasp opportunities when I can. The pandemic has contributed to that. We never know when the world will shut down and limit our opportunities again. I know I can't control these things. On reflection, then, my risk profile probably hasn't changed a lot, in reality. My assessment of risk might be a bit more brutal - some of that comes with age I think, and further acceptance of mortality and future frailty and vulnerability, and some of it comes to my experiences of loss and childlessness. But my appreciation of my life, and what I am able to do, is stronger too, along with the confidence of knowing that I can cope with adversities that might confront me. 

I think too, that I know myself much better now too. I know my strengths and weaknesses. I know what is important to me, and the values I will stand up for. So I look after myself much more, I take care of my needs more than I might have in the past, and I am prepared to stand up for myself. (Being a middle child, this is really hard for me!) This might mean that I have limited my world somewhat - I have learned to say "no" much more often. That might feel as if I am more introverted. But maybe it has allowed me to be more true to myself too. However, knowing myself better has also allowed me to say "yes" more often too. It has allowed me to understand others. It tells me which risks are important to take, and which are not important to me. That is, I think, the biggest change. To answer Infertile Phoenix's question then, I am not sure that my personality has changed. But perhaps, through the combination of trauma, healing, and ageing, I know my personality better now.

Do you think you are substantially different now than when you were younger?

Pathways, not barriers

This morning I wanted, and needed, to get out of the house. Weeks of rain and gloomy weather have kept me inside, and it was time to do something fun. So I took myself off to Te Papa, our national museum, where they have an art exhibition of a famed New Zealand painter, Dame Robin White. I didn’t know much about her, though I realised once I saw some of her paintings that I knew some of her work. And I realised too that many other local artists have modelled themselves on her approach to landscape, even though she is very much focused on people in landscapes, to give the paintings context.

Context. Context and perspective. That’s how I come to be writing about an art exhibition here on No Kidding. Many of her paintings had quotes or comments she has made about her work. She has spent a lot of time living and working in the Pacific Islands (namely, but not only, Kiribati – pronounced “kiri – bus”), and noted that whilst Europeans see the ocean as a barrier, the Pacific peoples think of it as a pathway. I loved that change of perspective, and saw it immediately in my own context (which I’ve talked about on A Separate Life this week), as well as in my No Kidding context.

The concept of one thing that is seen both as a barrier, and a pathway, depending on your perspective, immediately made me think of infertility and parenthood. Parents look at having children as a pathway to development, to adulthood, and to living a full life. So do those going through infertility, still hoping to parent. Their chosen life is the end goal. Having children will get them there, they think, regardless of what they do with their lives then. Infertility or childlessness is the barrier to everything – to fulfilment, to happiness, to accomplishment, to love, to adulthood. We know this. I’ve written before about the idea that we, the No Kidding, the ones who came through life without children, are their worst nightmare. Many of us might remember feeling that ourselves. We’ve read those who become pregnant or parents after infertility talking about getting through to the “other side” and leaving behind those who are “still in the trenches.”

Yet for those of us who have also left the trenches, climbed out and put our faces to the light, I see that we no longer see childlessness as a barrier. For me, pregnancy loss, infertility, and childlessness have been a pathway to personal development, understanding, compassion, growth, and freedom. We’ve ridden the waves of loss and disappointment, and discovered that, once we stop fighting them, they work in our favour, carrying us to warmer waters, more tranquil and inviting. They changed our perspective from failure to achievement, from fear to delight, from rejection to an embrace of the present and future.We met others who have also ridden those waves, and we have been enriched beyond measure by our fellow travellers.

Most importantly, we’ve realised that our world views depend on our perspectives. And none of that is set in stone. And learning new perspectives open up new worlds of understanding and exploration and adventure. 

 

PS. Another No Kidding snippet from the Robin White exhibition: One of her famous works is a painting of her son when he was a toddler, with a dead seagull lying in front of it. She said that she was the seagull, exhausted by motherhood and the effort to combine that with her art. Again, it made me think of the writing and thinking that I have done both here and on A Separate Life, knowing that I probably would not have done this if I had had children.