Bread and childlessness

I had an urge to bake this morning. Bread, specifically. I enjoy the way the yeast and water react, froth, the way the dough texture changes after kneading, or when it rises, and the smell of the bread as it is cooking. The kneading is not my main pleasure. Instead, I am fascinated by the different textures of the bread-making process. I think all baking is like that - from the creamed butter and sugar, changing when you add eggs, changing again with flour, and then heat. I remember one of the first things I learned to make at home with my mother. Hokey pokey, the kiwi word for honeycomb toffee. It was so exciting adding the baking soda to the sugar/golden syrup, and seeing the ingredients explode into a magical frothy mixture. It was the chemical reaction I found fascinating, as much as the taste of the end result. I feel the same way about bread.

I could get all philosophical and say that life is like that too. Put different ingredients together, or leave one out, and see what you get. But that isn't the point of this post. Today, I just want some room to complain a little. I wanted to bake bread. But I still had some of my favourite bread (Vogel's spelt and flaxseed) left, and don't like throwing it away. DH was out playing golf, so wouldn't be home for lunch. And there was no-one else to help me eat whatever I was going to make. So it would be a case of making something simply for fun. Which maybe would have been fine, though I was taught not to waste food (even though these days I do my fair share). I have the same quandary when I bake anything, but with the added issue of how unhealthy will it be. Maybe that's another reason I like baking bread!

That's the thing, isn't it? Even decisions over which bread am I going to make are influenced by the fact that I don't have children. Okay, I know realistically any kids I might have had might not be living at home any longer. But I could have had years of baking bread for them or with them before they set off for university or careers or travel or love. It makes me feel a little sad.

And right now, I'm allowing myself to feel that regret. But what I won't do is allow myself to stay sitting in it. So this afternoon or tonight, I'm going to prepare the no-knead bread that needs to sit for at least 12 hours overnight, and will bake it tomorrow for lunch. I've only made it once, so I want to try it again. It will be nice in a sandwich with tomato and salad and cheese, or maybe some ham, or perhaps with some soup. I'm sure my husband will want to toast it. And over a few days, I'm pretty sure we will be able to devour the loaf. If it comes out okay, that is. Of course, there's no reason to assume that it won't. And there you have it - maybe bread-baking is a metaphor for life after all.

Don't feel guilty - be happy!

I thought I'd look back on some previous posts today, and went back to my first calendar year of blogging on No Kidding (I've blogged elsewhere for years longer), and the things I talked about that May 2011.

The month started with some thoughts (amongst others) about some of the things I would be doing if I'd had children, if my ectopic babies had not been ectopic. These were wistful thoughts that had sneaked up on me, things I hadn't realised I was missing out on, although in writing about them I was able to focus on the things I loved, rather than the fact I wasn't doing them with children.

But then I moved onto happier thoughts, and wrote about all the things I was missing out on because I don't have children, but it was a happy list, things I am pleased I have missed out on.

Finally, I wrote a post celebrating all the things I can do precisely because I have children. It still stands, and might be worth looking at if you're feeling a bit down. I called it Yee hah, the things I'm doing because I don't have kids!

Seven years later my message is the same; it's okay to embrace our lifestyles, to feel happy about the advantages, and to cast off any guilt that might be lurking.

Knowing what is important

When people say that they “know what is important,” I know that they always mean family and to them family clearly means children, and what they really mean is that if you don’t have any, then you don't have anything truly important. I know that that’s what they mean, because it was recently said to me.

In a conversation about old age, I mentioned my hope that we can continue to travel, and so the follow-up statement to their “knowing what is important” pearl of wisdom – from a parent who had just admitted that she didn’t particularly enjoy travel – was very pointedly directed at me. 

“But it’s not something that is important; no-one old ever says that they regret not travelling more.” 

 “Well, obviously, if I had to stop now, I would say that,” I responded, somewhat self-consciously because she’d just said pointedly that my life was indeed meaningless if I thought travelling was important.

What I didn’t say is that I know several people who would agree with me, and one 90+ year old (with whom this particular self-righteous parent was actually staying at the time) who repeatedly, and very sadly, says those exact words to me, wishing she'd seen the things that my husband and I see, and that she had had the adventures we have, and she has never once consoled herself (to me) with the fact that she has children (and grandchildren), perhaps because she hardly ever sees them (except one).

I get so tired of the judgement that people without children have nothing, when in reality we all have different things that are important to us, whether it is enjoying nature, doting on children/grandchildren/nieces/friends or pets, gardening or writing or travel or our work. Whilst sometimes these things are enjoyed with family and friends, and sometimes they might fill the place left without family or friends, whatever it is that fills our lives and brings us joy is undeniably important to us.

Note: I have a full post, the last of my Gifts of Infertility series, planned to expand on this particular topic, but decided to throw this anecdote in now.

No regrets. Boom boom!

Last week, when I made a quip in my Microblog Mondays post, I finished the sentence with “boom boom!” and then asked if anyone got the reference. It probably wasn’t entirely fair, because I suspect only Commonwealth (and maybe only UK, Aus and NZ) countries might have seen the old series with Basil Brush. I used to watch it as a child, and had pretty much forgotten about him until that “boom boom!” just appeared out of nowhere.

Would I have loved to teach children to finish their jokes with a “boom boom” exclamation? Of course, but you know, I’m not overly sad about it. To be honest, it kind of tickled me that a little bit of my childhood popped up unexpectedly.

I prefer to appreciate memories of my own childhood for what they are, or for things I do now, rather than live in regret for what might have been. Life goes on, and it’s up to me to enjoy it.

Saying “goodbye” to our dreams

Some time ago, I read a post by a blogger who is parenting two children after infertility. She talked about how badly she wanted another child, but couldn't have, due to a range of different circumstances (infertility, finances, partner, etc). I will admit that I read this with a little roll of my eyes; she already has the “ideal” family, after all. But of course, that’s the point. Her “ideal” family, the one she imagined and hoped for, was larger than two kids and two parents. And so she continues to yearn. I may sound as if I have no compassion, but I do. I know all too well the loss, the lack, that she feels.

The comments on her post almost universally agreed with her, echoing (and amplifying?) her pain Other women parenting after infertility talked about their sadness that they can’t have more children, talking about the sometimes overwhelming urge, the desperation, and the refusal to shut the door on their dreams.

It struck me that these women, who had in the end got (most of) what they wanted, could not move on. Their door hadn't been slammed shut on them, as most of ours were (at whatever stage, for whatever reason, we felt we could not go on). Many of them have, it seems, never learned to move on - they got out of the waiting room by being pregnant or becoming a mother, and carry so much of the emotional trauma of infertility with them still.  They haven’t had to deal with ending their dreams.  Not totally.  (I know there are varying degrees of acceptance of the end of dreams with those who have to pursue IVF, donor eggs/sperm/adopting embryos, and fostering or adoption, and I don't want to belittle the loss involved with these choices.)  So they still endlessly torture themselves thinking about what their ideal families, and mourning the loss. 

But I see, time and again, evidence that those who go on to parent don't always realise that eventually it is a matter of choosing not to hurt. I remember choosing not to think, consciously stopping my “what if” thoughts. It was brutal – I’d remember, or have to remind myself, that it just wasn't going to happen. Each time it hurt, and sometimes the hurt was cumulative, before it started to ebb. It took time, but really, over just a few months, those thoughts - and the acute pain that accompanied them - receded. I'm not saying it was easy. I remember wanting to hang on to my grief, taking familiar comfort in the wanting, feeling guilty about relinquishing the dreams.  (Did it mean I didn't want it enough?) But in the end, I knew better than to entertain the "what-ifs" because they only brought pain – painful reminders of loss, and painful reminders that it wasn't going to happen.

It was a necessary maturity I've learned through infertility, learning not to want what I can’t have. The relatively brief (in the context of my life – or as Klara says, the next 15,000 days) pain of the process is followed up by peace and a new enthusiasm for life. I hope these women manage to face the loss of their dreams, and can work through it in the way we have had to. Because coming out on the other side is worth it.

I've had this post brewing for months now. Then this week, Loribeth* posted a link to this article about a study that says: 

“Women who already had children but wanted more had worse mental health than women who wanted children, didn't have them, but were able to move on with their lives.”

It was interesting to see that a study had confirmed exactly what I had been thinking. The article comments that the study author also commented on the “I-can-do-anything-if I-try” types. I interpret this, in infertility terms, to refer to the “never give up” brigade, the ones who declare (once they have their happy little families) that they know would never have given up, they’re not quitters (not like us).

But as the study author says, 

“There is a moment when letting go of unachievable goals (be it parenthood or other important life goals) is a necessary and adaptive process for well-being.”

We all do this throughout our lives, after all. Years ago, I wrote a post about the dreams I had had to set aside as I grew up, and called it “Never.” Yes, having children is bigger and was always more – I don’t know if realistic is the word – statistically likely than getting into the Silver Ferns. But now, it is just another thing on the list I've left behind.

The study author makes on last point, one that I particularly like, and one that I think is very relevant to the ALI community; a community that provides wonderful support, but rarely accepts that there might be a time when they shouldn’t cheer each other on endlessly, imploring them to “never give up,” and at times (perhaps unwittingly) shaming those who do.

“We need to consider if societies nowadays actually allow people to let go of their goals and provide them with the necessary mechanisms to realistically assess when is the right moment.”

Once again, that is why I blog, why I comment, and why I'm still here in this community.

* Apologies to Loribeth - I read the article then wrote this, then double-checked your post and saw we’d picked out most of the same quotes!

Checking In

Spent the last few days with family in Qatar.  It is always odd seeing ordinary family life going on somewhere exotic, somewhere so foreign.  Of course, we've done it too, in Thailand, but that was a long time ago.  It is just proof that home and family can be wherever you make it.  However you make it.

It was lovely to see BIL and SIL again, and of course, our 13-year-old nephew too.  We don't know him that well - over the years have only seen him a few times, and being a boy he's a bit more reticent with us than his sister (who had the advantage of knowing us well before she left the country).  We had the opportunity to attend a major milestone for my nephew, and whilst he may not have realised it, it meant a lot to me that we could be there for it - supporting him, supporting his parents, and being part of the family.  I talked to his mother about it.  She acknowledges that she misses her family, having community and family around her for such events, so she appreciated us being there.  And I said to her too, that the childless aunt and uncle appreciated being there, as we don't get to be part of milestones like this.  It is one of my major sadnesses - that most of my nieces and nephews live so far away, and only know me as a theoretical name, the mysterious "Auntie (Mali)." 

But at least this day wasn't sad.  And I was glad to kick off our trip in this way.

Infertile weirdness

I met the new man of a friend the other night.  I knew when she first started seeing him that he wasn’t interested in meeting her friends.  I don’t know whether that was an accurate reflection of his feelings, or whether he was a bit shy or nervous.  I have a theory, but no evidence to support it, so will keep quiet about it.  Anyway, they've been seeing each other for a long time now (over a year), and this was our first opportunity to meet him officially.

It was to be a cosy evening in by the fire, getting to know each other, and catching up with my friend.  In general, he was as she had described him, and we got on fine.  At least he would engage with us, unlike her ex.  But there was an odd moment, one which I chose to ignore at the time, and just get through the evening, but one which I can't fully let go.  He raised a discussion – tell me why – about an item he had heard on National Radio about breasts.  (Yes, we stopped for the obligatory jokes about men and breasts as we tried to break the ice).  He had been surprised to learn that women’s breasts don’t “fully mature” until  (note the use of until rather than unless) they have breast-fed, and that breast-feeding reduces the woman’s risk of cancer.

Well, yes.  I knew that.  A few years ago, as studies came out trumpeting these legitimately important results, I felt more and more marginalised.  But I thought I’d come to terms with this.  There's nothing I can do about it, so these days I usually just shrug and move on.  His choice of subject gave me a twinge though, so I just said I knew that, nodded, looked at my husband, and changed the subject. 

I want to think that he was a bit nervous and was trying to find interesting topics of conversation.  I want to think that he didn’t think.  Because I know if there is one thing my friend will have told him about us, it will be that we don’t have any children.  And I strongly suspect she will have added the point that we tried to have children, but couldn’t. But you know, I have this grating feeling that it was deliberate, even pointed. I can’t imagine why, so I’m just going to say that obviously I am a bit paranoid (missing out on breast-feeding a child is one of my great regrets), and obviously I have read far too much into this. 

Infertility really screws with your mind, and potentially your friendships, even years later.