Who deserves to hear my story?

 The following is my World Childless Week 2025 Submission for the topic: Have you got kids?

Who deserves to hear my story?

Have you got kids? The question so many childless women and men dread. The question that has made us shrivel inside and want to disappear, or has sparked tears in our eyes, or that has infuriated us. I’ve had all these reactions, but these days, over twenty years since I first knew that I would never be a mother, my most common reaction is a sigh of resignation. That question again.

I sigh because it is such a lazy way of getting to know someone, of finding commonalities. If you’re talking about your children and their children, are you really getting to know someone? Or just their children?

I sigh too because it is a question that assumes that we all have children. Yet if everyone listened to signals, they would know that people either refer to their children early in a conversation, or they don’t. If they don’t, then they either don’t have any, or they just don’t want to talk about their children, for any number of legitimate reasons. The information is there if they would only listen for it.

When it is relevant, I will freely volunteer the information I do not have children in conversation. Pre-empting the question, on my own terms, casually and in passing, gets the message across in a usually painless way.

But still, the question is asked. “Do you have kids?” I sigh in frustration, because it’s just a question to them. But it is more than that to me. Even now my brain still jumps to a whole host of other questions I must consider before I answer, such as:

·         Do I have to tell them? Why?

·         Do I make a joke?

·         Do I go into any detail? If so, how much?

·         How are they going to react? Will they judge me?

·         Do I need to brace myself to hear tiresome, inaccurate and sometimes offensive cliches?

·         Do I have any smart answers for them today? If not, why not? And, isn’t it time I got some?!

·         Will I need to tactfully remove myself from the conversation? Do I feel like being tactful today?

·         Does this person really care about the answer, or do they just want me to ask them, “do you?”

·         What is my face saying right now?

I do find strength though, in knowing that it is my choice how or even if I answer. I do often wish I could decline to answer completely. Even if someone else demands to know my reproductive history or choices, I am under no obligation to give them that information. It is not rude of me to choose not to answer at all; it is rude of them to demand an answer. If there is awkwardness, I haven’t caused it. I’m afraid I haven’t yet come up with a response avoiding the issue entirely that sits comfortably with me. … Or maybe, today, as I write this, I have. Twenty years too late:

“Oh, let’s not talk about children today!” I wish I had said to the woman sitting next to me at the networking lunch for women in business who asked me this before anything else. (When I answered “no,” she turned her back on me and ignored me for the rest of the function!) It wouldn’t have given any information about my parental status. It would have just emphasised that it wasn’t the right time for that conversation.

Still, I almost always answer the question. Saying “No” and nothing more, is my most common response these days. The silence after “No” speaks for itself. It doesn’t invite follow ups. It invites a change of subject. “No” is a complete answer.

I know a lot of childless people take comfort in having a “script” so they don’t have to think about what to say each time. I’ve never had one – my answer can and does change with every person who asks the question. It depends on my mood, how well I know or want to know the person, how I think they will react, whether they might listen or not. I might choose to educate, or I might be in no mood to share. Sometimes, an open and honest conversation with a person I might never see again can be quite therapeutic. It depends on the day, the moment.

Sometimes I feel the need to share and educate. It might be as simple as letting someone know that this question isn’t the easy ice-breaker they think it is. It can be done, informally, in conversation. Or more formally. I remember the shocked looks on a bunch of engineers’ faces when, at a networking course I was running, I suggested that this was not always the best question to open with, and explained my background. They’d clearly never thought about it. And let’s face it, most people haven’t – until they have to.

If the question has been asked genuinely and kindly, then I might be prepared to expand on my answer. Even the blithely ignorant, if I think they can learn from it, might get a more detailed response. If my answer is followed up with an accusing “Why not?” I am much less likely to be helpful. That’s when the flippant “the cat/dog would be jealous” response gets trotted out.

I’m all for educating the public. But it is not my responsibility to do so when I am not feeling up to it, or when I think that the person will never understand. So I ask myself, “does this person deserve to hear my story?”

That’s the most important question, and the essence of my approach. My story – like any childless person’s story – has endured loss, disappointment, hope, expectation, pressure, and heartbreak. Even relief, and joy. That’s a complicated mix. So I don’t share those emotions lightly. And I give myself permission to say “No.” That in itself is empowering.

Who deserves to hear your story?

World Childless Week 2025

 

 

Talking about my freedom

I’ve had a draft sitting in my computer, based on a post written four years ago by Infertile Phoenix.  She talked about the thoughts that go through clients’ brains when she says she has no kids. The assumptions they make – their ignorance of her pain, her loss, her grief, her healing, her hard work. I could relate to that. 

More recently, it made me think of two interactions I have had travelling. The first was over ten years ago, with a younger couple. They asked if we had kids, quite publicly, in front of a big group. I was a bit surprised, as it wasn't something that the group had been talking about. I gave my standard answer, without embellishment. “No, we don’t.” This was not a time when I wanted to go into any details. The couple were themselves Not Kidding, as far as I recall. (We spent three days together, so if they had kids, they would have mentioned them!) I assumed they were childfree, purely because of the way they phrased the question and response. “But you’re happy, right?” was their almost aggressive response. 

But I don't want to make assumptions either. There could, of course, have been years of disappointment behind that question, an almost defiant reaction daring anyone to pity them, or us. Maybe even there was hope that if we were happy, they could be too. On the other hand, there could have been just complete disdain for the need or desire to have kids. My response was simply, “we’re here, aren’t we?” gesturing at our amazing surroundings. Of course, that downplayed my history. Did they deserve to hear my story? I don’t know. I didn’t know them well enough. But I wasn’t ready to share it there and then. And they didn't seem to want to know, or they would have asked the question differently.

Something similar happened much more recently. The question was asked, answered, and I got a simple response, “so you get to do things like this.” And then we changed the subject. There wasn’t any  judgement in that response. It was, in fact, a statement of fact. Whether they understood that while there was loss, there was also a silver lining, or whether they assumed that we had chosen our lives, so we could travel, wasn't clear. Maybe they were just being polite. But it was a couple on their honeymoon. Maybe they want children, maybe they don’t. They didn't mention it. It was a potentially teachable moment that I let pass. Should I have? I’m not sure. But equally, I was in a happy place, my kid-free/less status was the last thing on my mind. The question had the opportunity to spoil my equilibrium, my delight in where I was. So I dismissed it as quickly as I could.

I find it such a hard balance. I don’t want to ignore or downplay everything I’ve missed out on, and continue to miss out on. But I also don’t want to imply that there’s no joy in my life, because there is a lot of it. As Lori LL, a commenter here, says, “it’s BothAnd.” I’m still fretting over pointing out to a parent that their No Kidding daughter would be okay when I learned that she could not conceive. I still hope that my positivity didn't dismiss the losses that their daughter might be feeling. Even after all this time, I agonise over getting it right.

But let’s face it, I won’t always get it right. However much I want to, or feel that it gives me some purpose. And there’s rarely time (or inclination, on either side) to go into the issue. So some people get to hear about the cost of my freedom. Others get to just see that freedom in action. At the same time that I don’t want to hide my situation, and that I’m happy to publicise it, it is still a very personal thing. So I continue muddling through, taking it question by question, person by person, case by case, depending on my mood, surroundings, company, etc. I'm comfortable with that. I don't owe anyone an explanation. It works for me.  

What works for you?

More Otherhood Thoughts: Inspired by the library

It was great to see this week that our local library is offering unlimited downloads of Otherhood this week. And as a result, I also discovered that our library has a quite interesting blog! And in that blog* was an interview with the three editors. There were a few takeaways that I really liked, that sum up my view of No Kidding/Otherhood life, and that say what I want to say, just in a different way. 

The theme of the book really became, "what makes a fulfilling life?" And noted that the relationship between parent and child wasn't the "be all and end all." They were preaching to the choir on this one.

They wanted a diversity of experience, and got it, and I loved this part of the book. Because whether we wanted children or not, whether it was a deliberate choice or not, we are all affected by pronatalism, by judgement, and by condescension. 

Through the book, they've helped create a community, just as parents have an in-built community through prenatal classes or schools etc. They recognised that communities of No Kidding women already exist (like ours), but this is another option. I'm all for that. Not everyone is as lucky as I have been to find first my ectopic community, and then my blogging community. Community is, of course, especially important to those who otherwise feel isolated from society. As many as possible, please!

I had to laugh too when they noted that they have to restrain themselves (or not) when young people say, "I'm going to have two/three/four children." Or, "next year we intend to have a baby!" I have certainly been there. As two of the editors also experienced infertility, they know too well that such predictions might not come true, and hope that by talking about this more, young people can realise earlier that nothing is guaranteed.

They also noted they hoped the book and the interview might prompt people to think twice about the questions they ask. One encouraged parents to think about the most interesting thing you can talk about that is not about your kids/parenthood, etc. This is so overdue. "But it's natural for people to ask that," everyone (usually parents, or my don't-rock-the-boat husband) protests. It doesn't have to be. It's lazy, and it's a habit, is my response! And now I'm thinking about the most interesting thing I can talk about too. "Interesting" needs to be defined differently for each person. Travel, work, volunteering, retirement, food, etc etc.

As Lil (I think), pointed out, asking questions in a different way makes the diversity of stories throughout our lives more visible, and therefore not as isolating. I love this thought. My situation has certainly made me more aware of the many other diverse stories in society.

"Tell us about YOU, don't lead with your kids," they all implored. I second that. And should be writing it on my other blog. (I have, and it will be up next week.)

I was amused too that they said they tried to get our notoriously private former Prime Minister Helen Clark (also Not Kidding) to be involved with the book, but with no luck. "Phone me, Helen," said one, cheekily. She made me smile. But how great it might have been if someone with Helen's profile spoke out, in the same way that Jacinda once cringingly said, "not as a Prime Minister, but as a mother." However, I also understand her desire for privacy. It is no-one's business. And she was just as compassionate (and successful) a politician as any parent ever was.

Finally, they noted that the response so far has been wonderful, that so many people have found our stories meaningful. And that parents have been both supportive, but also have been curious. After all, just as their lives could have been ours, Otherhood is the story of the life that could have been led.

* Would you believe it? Between finding the blog and the interview, making detailed notes (thankfully) through the interview, and today, the library website has been "updated" and I can't find the interview anywhere. Argh.

Wisdom in an advice column

I have discovered I love Carolyn Hax. She’s an advice columnist at The Washington Post, and I would never have heard of her if it hadn’t been for Mel at Stirrup Queens quoting her from time to time. I now have a subscription for the online Post, and part of the reason is her! She is so unerringly sensible, kind but direct. And sometimes really funny.  

The other day I saw an old question reposted, and in her response she said something that I’ve tried to say here too. Someone was worried that by expressing their true wishes they'd offend a friend. Her answer was a classic: 

“The sooner you learn that “direct” and “mean” are not synonymous, the better for your entire relationship future.”

I’ve often worried that same thing, when I have felt under attack simply for mentioning that my reality is different from another person's. I’ve seen a lot of people (on blogs and in messageboards) over the years worry that by speaking up for themselves they are being rude or unkind. No! We can be tactfully direct, eg by saying “those of us without children might see things differently/have to do things differently,” without ever being rude. Talking about our reality is not rude, or mean. It’s simply being truthful.

I know I’m repeating myself. But the older I get, the more I believe this. Don't get me wrong, I'm someone who hates conflict, and likes to smooth waters. But these days, I no longer feel the need to subjugate my truth and feelings for the mistaken perception that by speaking my truth I might upset someone else.

Other posts in this vein of thought can be found by clicking here and, with a lot of overlap, here. 

I'll repost this image reminding us we can be honest and true to ourselves, and still be a kind person:

 

Being kind to others and yourself

Being kind to others as well as yourself is something I've seen the No Kidding community struggle with for years and years. (I've listed previous posts on this issue at the bottom of this post, just before an admin note.) There's the feeling we can't reply to people the way we want to or stand up for ourselves in case we're considered to be rude. The idea that saying "no" to a question and not explaining ourselves might be rude. The idea that others can trample all over us and we would be rude to point that out, or that by putting a different point of view we are confrontational. The idea that by protecting ourselves we might not be a good friend. I've been quite disturbed by this at times. So I was really pleased to see a meme posted on social media the other day that pointed out all the things you can do and say and still be a kind person.

I've tried to find a credit for it, but can't. So I'm going to write my own No Kidding version. 

You can be a kind person and still:

• Refuse to answer invasive questions
• Set boundaries, protect your heart, and say "no"
• Refuse to be ignored or sidelined simply because you don't have children
• Point out incorrect stereotypes or assumptions
• Be honest about your life
• Forgive yourself and, in time, others
• Defend yourself and your tribe
• Realise that putting yourself and your needs last helps no-one

 

A few relevant previous posts include:

• My existence is not offensive
• All those questions 
• Saying "no

Lastly, some admin: I've been having trouble commenting on any blogger sites - including my own - for some reason. Sometimes I can't comment even though I'm logged into blogger myself. Sometimes I can't comment even with my name and URL.  It comes and goes, and is frustrating. I'm still reading though. Apologies if I've been silent on your blogs, or if - like me - you are having difficulties commenting here.

"

 

"Do you have children?" - how parents might react

Further to my post last week, this week I want to talk about the perspective of parents, both in asking this question, and their reactions to it.

From the perspective of the majority, the people who have children, the question* “do you have children?” seems perfectly reasonable. For them, it is an easy topic of conversation, an easy way for them to find things in common to talk about, with lots of follow-up questions (how old, what schools, etc). It breaks the ice, and allows people to bond quickly when they don’t know anything about each other. “What’s wrong with that?” they think, not allowing themselves to answer their own question. So I'll answer it for them.

When we do have a conversation with strangers, rather than ask the question bluntly, some throw in a casual comment or comments about their children that are often a seemingly natural part of conversation. This is perfectly natural – we talk about what we know. But it also might be that these comments are in fact a fishing expedition, a call-and-response process. Those making them might mention something as an aside, but they are also often testing the waters to see if there is a response that tells them whether they can continue to this line of discussion. It tells them whether they can delve further into the world of parenting and kids or not. I’m actually fine with this approach. It allows parents to choose whether or not they want to volunteer information about their children. And it is a much more subtle way of asking “the question,” and one which doesn’t require a direct response. It is more sensitive, and less intrusive, and allows me to show interest in their lives, without throwing myself into a whole “I have kids too” type of conversation.

We all follow this “fishing” technique in multiple ways – talking about work, or seeing if there is an interest in travel or sport or even politics or reading or gardening or any other topics of conversation – without directly broaching the issue which might cause conflict or make someone feel awkward. I, for example, am careful about talking about travel with people I don’t know (and people I do know) … though not so much on my blogs! I’m conscious that there are people who would love to travel, but can’t because of financial issues, fear of flying, child or parental care issues, health issues, work issues, partners who refuse to travel, nervousness, those who can’t travel because they don’t want to travel alone, or those who just aren’t interested! And so I take my cues from others. Just as anyone, casting out small comments about an issue to see if anyone takes a bite, needs to watch for those bites or their absence. Their absence is just as informative as a confirmation. People who are fishing like this need to read* the room, as do the others in the conversation. We all need to be aware.

To state the obvious, in a conversation amongst adults who have just met each other, if someone does not respond to a comment or several separate comments about children, or responds referring to their niece(s) or nephew(s), there is probably a very good reason for it. If anyone is not volunteering information about their children or nonchildren, then they are clearly not wanting to bring up the issue in that group. At that point, a tactful conversation can easily and gently continue in other directions, without making anyone feel awkward. It doesn’t even have to go as far as making anyone feel very awkward.

I’ve heard it suggested that asking "the question" allows shy parents to join in on the conversation, when otherwise they might feel excluded. In my observations, however, parents don’t generally hang back from mentioning their children, unless they don’t want to, and it is common for parents (even shy ones) to say, “mine too” or offer some other anecdote about their children, simply to establish a mutuality of experience, show that they understand, or that they are part of the club too, or to invite other conversation about kids. It’s an issue of where is the most or least harm. Parents who are shy about joining a conversation are rarely going to feel as excluded as those of us without children when asked a pointed question.

But those of us who are childless or childfree are not the only ones who might bristle at being asked this question, or feel excluded in a conversation. 

• Perhaps they are trying to have them and struggling? 
• Perhaps they have lost a child or pregnancy
  
• Perhaps they just don't want to talk about their kids that particular day
  
• Maybe they have special needs kids and so can’t join in on parts of the conversation and don't want to go through the explanation yet again
• Maybe they have a difficult relationship with their children. 
• Or perhaps they've just had a terrible day and need a break 
• What if their children are really struggling at the time?
• What if their kids have behavioural difficulties?
• What if their kids are diabolical teenagers at the moment/the last two years? 
• Let's not even touch on the conversations amongst women about vaginal births, breastfeeding etc which can isolate those with C-sections, adoptive parents, those who used surrogates, couldn’t breastfeed, etc.
• Maybe parents don't feel comfortable sharing anything about their children to strangers
• Some parents just don’t always want to talk about their kids all the time.
• Maybe a mother is sick of being categorised as a mother before everything else. 
• Maybe they want to be seen as a person in their own right at a particular event or in a business context
• Maybe they're my SIL, who told me how a colleague used to discuss business or clients with her when they were on the same train commuting home, until she had her first child. Then she was only asked about her child, even though she was a new partner at their law firm. She was put in a box, and was not treated as an equal. It infuriated her.
  
• Maybe parents go out to meet new people as an escape or break from parenting?
• Maybe not every parent is ecstatic about their parenthood
• Perhaps they don't want to be identified as a parent
• Perhaps they lost custody of their children
  

I’m sure there are many other reasons why some parents might not want to be invited into a conversation about their children.

It’s a question, then, that people ask from a place of privilege. Not just the privilege of being parents, but of being parents who are happy to talk about their kids, to share with others the fun stories, or the details of where they go to school, or play sports, or how well they’re doing at university or in their chosen careers. I really wish parents would think about that. After all, they might be more compassionate to their fellow parents than they are to the No Kidding!

Of course, having said that, I do have to acknowledge that parents might be so busy parenting that there is little else that they think about, or even have the capacity to think about. When parenting is so all-encompassing, they may feel uncomfortable in discussions about other issues - they don't have time or energy to travel, or read the latest news or listen to music or watch the latest Netflix shows or see plays or play sports or eat out. Maybe they don't work, or work is just a means to an end. I understand that. And I could talk about that with them, or even about what they wished they had time to do/see/read etc. It's not as if I am totally against discussions about children. Of course, although I'm especially interested in my friends' children, I'm happy to hear about other people's kids. But not to the exclusion of all else.

So my point is that it should never be a one-sided conversation, ignoring those who can't or who are uncomfortable participating. Conversations should be an exploration of experiences, views, commonalities, information. They should invite people in rather than leave people out.  Some questions don't do that. "Do you have children?" might be one of them.

* Yes, I know, I’m in danger of mixing metaphors, and I hope this is not too obscure for my English as a Second Language readers.