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?

Finally, acknowledgement for No Kidding women

I'm feeling a bit nervous. Recently, I was interviewed by a major women's magazine here in New Zealand. The writer had found my blog here, and I guess she thought what I had said was interesting, and wanted to interview me for an article she was writing about women without children. I was initially a bit hesitant, especially when I learned that her focus was going to be on women who were childfree by choice. But she was aware of the numbers of women who don't have children, and wanted to see what our lives were like. This wasn't going to be one of those nasty, attack articles about the selfish and frivolous lives of the childfree. So I bit the bullet, and gave her my name, and - it turned out - some quotes for the article.

The magazine arrived in the mail earlier this week. I read the article tentatively. She had written the article as originally envisaged, and I was accurately quoted, making at least one or two points I wanted to make. But there, in a magazine anyone in New Zealand might pick up, this month or for years to come in doctors' waiting rooms or fish and chip shops or Chinese takeaways, is my name, the name of this blog, and some of my history. I have generally kept this blog private. I guess that's blown now, as this magazine is the most widely read magazine in New Zealand (according to its own publicity).

Two things grated a little with me. The first was referring to my ectopic pregnancies as miscarriages. As someone who spent years volunteering for an ectopic pregnancy organisation, ignoring the difference just feeds the ignorance of the population, and this ignorance can, in fact, be very dangerous, even lethal. Still, I guess it was incidental to the topic of the article, so I can live with it.

The second jarring note was seeing my age in black and white. I don't feel that old, and seeing it in print was - laughably, I guess, considering it is no surprise to me -  quite shocking!

I don't have a link to the article yet. I am told that it will become available once the magazine is off the shelves in about a month, and will make it public here. For any kiwis reading this, the magazine is the Australian Women's Weekly (NZ edition). Feel free to read it!I actually think that No Kidding women sit confidently and comfortably next to the inevitable gushing about little Prince George and Princess Charlotte and their mother (who, of course, features on the cover) that is the main fodder of a women's magazine.

The whole point of this post though, is how pleased I am that a major women's magazine has focused on the sheer number of women who don't have children, and highlighted some features of our lives, that others might not have considered. Finally.

Sharing about sharing

Telling, not telling, opening ourselves up to criticism, judgement and support; is it being vulnerable, or ensuring we have a wider support group?  Is it setting ourselves up for hurt, or for having  people with us  who know what we are going through, and can help us?  This is one of the issues we all face when we are facing infertility, or down-stream when we have come through the other side, and are either living our lives with or without children.

The need to tell, to connect with others who understand, is of course why so many of us have come to blogging, both writing blogs, and writing comments on other peoples' blogs.  But even here, we have the same issues.  Do we open up and say everything, or edit our thoughts and our opinions?   When we're blogging, of course, we are also vulnerable to accusations of over-sharing.  

I've talked about it before, and my conclusion has always been that we are all different, and we should all do what is right for us at the time.  And what is right for us when we are going through the difficult times might not be how we choose to handle "life after infertility."   I was one of those who chose not to make it public knowledge, though my immediate family and close friends knew bits (not all) of the story.  They knew about the losses, but not generally about the IVF. 

Yes, I hear you.  Here I go again.  1, 2, 3, Roll your eyes!  But the reason I'm addressing this is two-fold.  First, I keep seeing the issue come up, whether it is a question about Facebook sharing, a post written and removed (but it still makes its way to my feed) about reactions to a pregnancy, or discussions of our responsibility to speak out, to spread awareness of our situations.  To tell or not to tell is a real question for us all.

So I was interested to see what Brene Brown would say about sharing and over-sharing, in her book Daring Greatly.   We share to connect, that's clear.  But when we share with someone, anyone, everyone, where there is no existing connection, then we are perhaps "over-sharing."  The response of the those on the receiving end might be, as she suggest, simply to wince, feel awkward, or  (and this is my addition), as many of us have found here on the internet, to be on the receiving end of judgements, nasty comments, and even abuse.  If we are at a stage where we are very vulnerable, hurting, sad and alone, then over-sharing is both a reflection of our pain, reaching out desperately for understanding, but also - if we don't receive the support we want - yet another disappointment, another example of where we don't "measure up."

However, this doesn't mean we shouldn't share.  Because Brene Brown believes that receiving empathy when we are vulnerable is absolutely important.  She believes it banishes shame, and it restores that part of us that feels good about ourselves.  Her advice is advice I love: 

"We share our stories with people who have earned the right to hear them."

That sentence articulates completely why I don't explain to strangers why I don't have children, or why I didn't adopt, or why I waited so long to have children.  (Well, except on this blog or the Huff Post!)  These days, I'm feeling a lot less vulnerable about having no kids, and so I will talk about it relatively freely. I'm a pretty good judge of who I can tell, and who will respond supportively or with interest, and who will be embarrassed, or judgemental.  But I am still cautious.  I retain the right to choose whether or not to share, and I never feel obliged to share.  And even if, these days, I don't believe the basis of any negative comments I might receive, it doesn't mean they won't hurt, even as I tell myself to brush off the comments.  Ultimately, it's my pain, my truth, and I get to choose who sees that. 

So who do we share with?  Brene Brown's advice is to share with "people with whom we have ... relationships that can bear the weight of our story."

I love this too.  How often have we shared things with people and discovered they never talked to us again, or that friends and acquaintances stepped away, because they couldn't cope with our pain?  Or we were offered platitudes and advice to "get over it?"  Those relationships invariably suffered.  Or they were never strong enough to cope with the weight of our story.  And the people who stuck through this with us, who responded with empathy and not judgement?  Those are the connections we will keep and cherish for a long time; those are the connections that will grow.  And many of those connections are ones we have made here, or on other blogs.  Sharing when you receive empathy is the best medicine.  


Sharing.  I'm sure there's more to say.  I'll try to give it a break for a while!

Sharing our stories ... or not ...

As I mentioned before, one of the joys of being on holiday is just “being.”  We travel without labels, other than perhaps our nationality and first names.  At the end of our trip, we visited another game reserve.  There were two American couples on our trip, one a young (30-ish) honeymoon couple.  So inevitably the subject of children came up.  The second couple (40-ish) didn’t have children, and talked briefly one lunch-time about how it had never been an issue for them.  They were undeniably childfree.  The woman then turned to me across the lunch table, and joked that “oops, you must have kids.”  I shook my head.  “Nope,” we said.  “But you’re happy, right?” said the childfree,.  I nodded and laughed.  “We’re here, aren’t we?”  And the subject – around us – never came up again.

I didn't share my story.  It wasn't the place for that kind of conversation.  We were all meeting each other for the first time, a communal group of about 14 people at a long table.  And I felt comfortable not sharing.  In fact, I felt more than comfortable.  I felt free.  

I felt free, not having to justify my position to indignant parents.  I felt free, in a majority of people without children.  I felt free, not having to face people’s pity.  I felt free, feeling normal, not deficient in any way.  I felt free, not having to explain what ectopic pregnancies are, or blocked tubes, etc.  I felt free, not having to answer any questions about “why not?” or “did you consider adoption?”   I felt free.

Later, there were conversations we were on the periphery of, with the honeymoon couple.  He wanted to try for kids in the first year, she wanted to wait another year or two.  Our young ranger and his wife (the lodge manager) were expecting their first child, so the subject came up around them too.  One night, as we stood out in the middle of the African Bush, with a drink in hand as darkness feel, and as the giraffes skirted the vehicle, nibbling on the thorn trees, he was asked if they had been trying.  (I rolled my eyes.  This is such an intrusive question!)  “It wasn’t happening,” he said – and in those few words I understood the enormity of what he wasn’t saying, of what she (they) had probably gone through, of their fear, of the shaken confidence in their bodies.  “But,” he said ... and my heart sank.  You guessed it.  His explanation, in summary, was that “we just relaxed and it happened.”  A discussion ensured on the benefits of “just relaxing.”  I couldn’t contribute to this conversation (I was feeling decidedly under the weather from what turned out to be a brief bout of food poisoning).  But I was screaming in my head “you know that’s an old wives’ tale.” 

I left it at that, and we continued to enjoy our safari.  But I did go over the conversation, and questioned myself about whether I should have said anything or not.  Then I got home, and read posts about “passing or not passing,” and whether or not we have an obligation to put our stories out there.

Unquestionably in Africa, I didn’t put the entirety of my story out there.  Maybe I should have.  Maybe it would have helped both the ranger and his wife, and the young honeymoon couple at some stage.  But I didn’t.    I needed the space.  I needed the freedom.  I was still true to myself.  We are happy after all.  And perhaps having that knowledge, seeing our example (and the example of the second American childfree couple) will have helped the ranger and his wife, and the other couple, in some way.  Perhaps seeing a happy relationship that has lasted 20+ years, and learning about fulfilled lives without children, might just make those couples think when they meet others, or even help them through some of their own difficult times.  And I have to say, having the choice about what I wanted to say (or not say) just felt right.

Christmas stockings

 Jen's post here made me remember ...

Years ago, at a market in Bangkok, I had bought a bunch of very cheap but colourful knitted Christmas stockings.  There were very large, very long (3-4 feet long) stockings, and shorter, more "traditional" style stockings.  They were so cheap, and so plentiful, that I bought a bunch.  Dozens in fact!  (I suspect I bought them at different times, forgetting I'd bought so many the time before.  That's what often happens at Chatuchak, the weekend market in Bangkok.  But that's another story.)


I'd imagined having these for our kids, and all the cousins coming to visit for family Christmases.  When it was obvious this wasn't going to happen, only two months after I learned I'd never have children, Christmas approached.  It was going to be a difficult Christmas, one which conveniently ended up being an adults-only Christmas.  But those Christmas stockings in the bottom of the Christmas decorations box were a painful reminder.  And so I wrapped up the stockings, and sent them off to brothers (in-law) and sisters with one for every member of the family, explaining why I was giving it to them, and that I hoped they would use them and have many great memories from them, and hopefully think of us and how much we loved their kids in the process.

I don't know if those stockings are ever used.  I don't want to know if they're not.  But I do know it made me feel lighter, and happier, to think that some children would be getting pleasure on Christmas Day as a result.  Even if they weren't my kids.  (And the positive thing about over-shopping - I have enough for my nieces'/nephews' kids if they have them!)

We're not being ignored this week

The other day I read Nicole's post "My blog featured on The Huffington Post" and was so excited for her.  It was one of my favourite posts, and had prompted a lot of discussion in our community.  Later when I was lounging downstairs in an armchair with my iPad, I opened my HuffPost ap, and there, the first item on the Women's section, was Nicole's post.  I felt an overwhelming pride that I "knew" her.

Then last night I had a look again, and smiled.  There was Lisa, from Life Without Baby!  I laughed in delight, the same warm feeling of pride I feel when I see Pamela quoted. And I realised that I really do feel part of this community, especially this small group of amazing women who are courageously forging happy and fulfilling lives without children in a children-focused world.  I realised I see their successes as my successes, and was so happy for them.

Then I got an email that astounded me.  And now I too am featured on The Huffington Post, a post I originally wrote for Pamela's Silent Sorority blog.   It's all a bit scary - I have explained why on A Separate Life here (as it seemed appropriate to the Don't Ignore theme of NIAW) - not least because there is a photo and my real name.  No longer am I exotic Mali, but boring ... well ... you'll have to read my Huff Post piece.

Childless, childfree ... or what?

Beef Princess made another point about the label childless not by choice when you’ve had to decide that enough is enough.  She suggests Childless by Exhaustion, which I understand and quite like!  In my case, it might be Childless by Running Out of Time.  But actually, these days, I wouldn’t use such a description.

The problem is that the labels childLESS or childFREE  automatically convey additional information about our history, and our feelings about our situation.  And (as you may have guessed) I don’t always want to share that information.  These labels make a point of telling people we either feel a loss and that we are living in sadness, or that we are delighted we don’t have children and celebrate it daily.  Some people are very comfortable with those labels, and that’s fine for them.  I can certainly understand that some people might choose to use the label childless because they don’t want to be grouped in with all the negative accusations that are (sadly) often directed at the childfree.  At times I have felt that way too, particularly in those immediate years after we learned we would live without children.  In those years, I certainly felt child less.  But, even then, that is not how I wanted to portray myself to the world.  I abhorred the idea of pity, and I hated the prospect of successful parents looking down on me, having achieved something I couldn’t.  My situation was private, and my feelings about it were private.  And so the label childless felt too defensive, too negative,  and I’ve never comfortably used it.

Now, eight years on, it certainly isn’t the right label for me.  Sometimes I feel childless.  Or I feel childless with a secret relief.  It’s simply not that straightforward, and so I try not to describe myself either way.  But neither is childfree, because the truth is that we tried to have children.  If either of my pregnancies had implanted in the right place, I might have children by now.  And so childfree doesn’t seem quite right.  Sure, sometimes I feel child free.  Or I feel child free tinged with guilt or sadness for feeling that way.  But it doesn’t fully describe me. 

The problem I have with both of these labels is that they allow others to make a judgement about our choices, and invite an emotional response (pity, superiority, horror, disbelief, etc).  And that isn’t fair.  After all, the words parent or mother don’t have any such connotations to them, do they?  They don’t say “mother by choice” or “mother not by choice” or “parent by accident” or “mother by drunken binge on a Friday night in the back seat of the car of a guy she’d just met in the bar” or “parent by broken condom.”  They don’t say “parent after ten years of trying to conceive and thousands of dollars of fertility treatments” or “mother who thought kids would save her marriage” or “ happy mother who always wanted kids and got everything she wanted” or “mother who thought she always wanted kids till she got them and now wishes she didn’t.”  The words parent or mother are just factual statements.

Fact:  I’m simply a woman, first and foremost. 
Fact:  I don’t have children. 

I'll proffer that information only if it's relevant.  I guess that’s why - here and in informal situations - I like using the “no kidding” term.  It’s simply a fact.  It doesn't comment on how others should feel about it, or I feel about it. And as anyone who has read my blog can see, my feelings aren't black and white (even if my blog is). 

I’m not kidding.

The answer to that question

THAT question.  Do you have kids?  There are quite a lot of posts around at the moment where the question of what to say to this question is being mentioned.  I know I’ve addressed this before.  But I keep seeing the issue come up - and the common thread is that no-one feels comfortable answering this question.

Some people feel it is rude not to answer.

Others feel they want to be "honest" and provide details.

Others feel they need to justify why they don’t have children.

Others don’t want to answer, but just don’t know what to say.

I remember seeing the film of a psychological experiment where someone, in a public place, simply started giving orders to passers-by.  The innocent passers-by were remarkably obedient, compliant, submissive even.  The conclusion was that obedience – especially to someone who projects authority and the expectation of obedience - is obviously an instinctive response.  I wonder if that explains why why we feel we have to answer a question, any question, when we’re asked?  Even when we don’t want to?  I think this instinct to be obedient, to conform, and not to be rude is especially strong in women.  So we’re really in trouble when we’re asked if we have kids, aren’t we?  It explains perhaps why we feel we’re being dishonest for not giving out full details of the reasons why we don’t have children.

But, you know, I don’t think that choosing to withhold information is in any way dishonest or rude.  Why should we feel that way, especially as sometimes the questions are rude / insensitive /invasive or personal?  I think we are simply exercising our right to privacy.  I don't choose to bring up that topic.  So why should I respond, in any detail or at all?  And a lack of response, or a simple answer, isn’t rudeness or dishonesty.  A rude response might be “mind your own @%$#*&^ business!”  A dishonest response might be a response that simply isn’t true.  But a decision not to answer or give details?  That’s not rude, or dishonest. It is simply the answer we want to give.

I chose to give a one word answer – No.  Depending on who is asking, I may or may not follow up with any details.  But usually, my view is that if they don't know me well enough to know I have children, then they don't know me well enough to know any details!  So I simply say "No."  And when I say it – with a strong tone, with a degree of finality, but always politely – I find I am not asked the inevitable follow-up question “why not?”  (And let’s face it, that’s the one we really don’t want to answer!)  By not offering more information, by strongly implying that that topic of conversation is a dead end, I find that those asking the question – perhaps responding to their own need to be obedient – move on to another topic too.

I feel strongly that as a community we need to claim our right to respond the way we want to.  We shouldn’t feel cowed, or victimised, by questions we don’t want to answer.  I hope that we all will one day  feel strong enough to choose to answer – or not – as we see fit, and without guilt, or fear, or shame.