Things I Know because I don't have kids

“You don’t understand.” The statement (some) parents make to those of us without children, either to stop any suggestions of advice, criticism, judgement, or as a defensive reaction when they feel they’ve been criticised or judged. But what really do they mean? Do they mean we don’t know how they feel? Do they mean you can’t imagine parenthood with actually being one? Do they mean we don’t know what’s best for children? Do they mean we can never have an opinion on raising children or children’s behaviour? Do they mean our experience of being a child is irrelevant? Do they mean independent observers – whether experts in the field or not – will, if they are not parents, always be wrong? Or do they mean “it’s hard enough being a parent without feeling criticised by those who aren’t also subject to this type of judgement?” As I write this, I’m almost wishing someone would say this to me, so I could ask these questions. I wonder if it would help them see things from a different perspective? Or would it just make them more defensive?

There are things I know about children and child development because I’ve been a child, because I’m an  observant adult, or because I’m interested in psychology, in relationships, in human behaviour, and personal development. Some of this interest is more intense because I was unable to have children. Some of this interest has come because I couldn’t have children, and was forced to look at the world from a completely different perspective. I'm slowly writing a series of posts over at A Separate Life, inspired by someone who thought of the idea before me, about 100 Things I Know. Many of those "things" are a result of not having children, although I am not spelling it out there. But I thought it was useful to do so here.

These are some of the things I know because I don’t have children:

Things don't "happen for a reason." 

You don't have to be a parent for your life to be valuable.

You don’t have to be a parent or even want to be/to have been a parent to have an opinion on how children are treated in an array of circumstances. I’m not saying I would do any better. But as a non-parent, I can see what isn’t working. As an independent observer, a non-parent could play an important part in mediating difficult situations between parents and children, if they weren’t so often dismissed.

I have noticed that many parents automatically see situations from the perspective of a parent, rather than from the perspective of the child. Sometimes that is necessary. Many times, it is not. In fact, it can be detrimental to solving a problem, resolving a difficult situation, or helping a child move ahead. Their overwhelming empathy with parents (or “as a parent”) precludes them from looking at a situation from a more distanced point of view, or a more holistic perspective.

For example, I know that a lot of babies cry on aeroplanes because they cannot regulate their sinus pain by swallowing etc. It’s nothing to do with being “a good child” or not. I’ve experienced a lot of sinus pain on flights. It is agonising. It makes me want to take a drill and bore a hole through my skull to relieve the pressure. But it is my choice to take that flight. The fact that parents, or perhaps everyone, accepts this for tiny babies and little children, is mind-boggling to me. When would we ever permit a parent to torture a child for up to an hour, in any other situation? But society as a whole seems to think this is fine when taking children away on a flight – whether to go on holiday, visit relatives, etc. Sure, they might not remember the pain. But does that make it any better? You're right, I don’t understand that.

Becoming a parent has both selfish and unselfish motivations – wanting to be loved unconditionally alongside wanting to love unconditionally, wanting to pass on knowledge and interests and passions, wanting families around them in their old age, wanting to leave a legacy, etc. I know that because the reasons I decided to try to have children were, ultimately, selfish for me and my husband.

I know that the act of parenting requires a selflessness to those children that not parenting does not require. Unless … we might be caring for an elderly person, someone who is a dependent for any number of reasons, or we are on-call for particular jobs, work long hours to fund ourselves or members of extended families, etc.

But I also know that it doesn’t follow that not parenting means you are a selfish person, just as it doesn’t follow that parents are by definition unselfish. (I know someone living in a hot climate who actually said that their kids’ rooms don’t get the benefit of their poorly functioning air-conditioning, but because the parents’ room is cool, they just don’t think about their kids).

You don’t have to be a parent to have a feeling about what is fair/unfair, right/wrong, selfish/unselfish.

You don't have to be a parent to care about future generations, or about the planet.  

You don’t have to be a parent to see a child in pain, a child who feels neglected, a child whose wishes are ignored, and feel anger and empathy for that child. 

You don't have to be a parent to want to help children - individually or as a group - who are struggling. In fact, I know many parents who are so focused on their own children, they don't care about all the children at their schools, or in their community, or their country. They haven't got the wavelength to do so, and don't see the hypocrisy in that.

I know that parents generally want the best for their kids, but in pursuing the parent's idea of "the best," they often brush aside their child’s wants, needs, beliefs, and principles.

I know that parents' execution of their parenting philosophies are often deeply flawed, and can leave the children as overly-anxious or suffering because of the parents’ belief in harsh parenting being good for the child in the long run. And conversely, I've seen overly indulgent parenting that does not prepare the child for the realities of the world.

I know that we all learn by making mistakes, children included, and that many parents won’t let their children make mistakes, to their detriment.

I know that I, like any parent, would have made mistakes. But I always disagree when I hear, “a parent/mother knows what is best for their child.” I’m sorry, but there are myriad examples of why this is not always true. Anti-vax parents, for example, just to name one. Parents who keep their children in cults, for another.  Two extreme examples, but the list of more minor examples is endless. Parents who don't listen to teachers, just as one.

I know that children often confide in others, when they know their parents won’t hear them. 

And I know that we will always do our best to help them.

What do you know?

Thoughts on my Otherhood

It's been a long time since I felt the need to read other people's experiences and say, "that's just how I feel." I needed that a lot when going through my ectopic pregnancies, and a lot too when going through the realisation and acceptance that I would never have children. I got plenty of satisfaction during the first example, and much less during the second. But there were at least a few people around in similar circumstances, and we would share our experiences and the Things People Said and for a moment, feel understood. Much later, when I began blogging and reading blogs (for over 13 years), I also found that comfort. But because I am older than most writing about this, and had already been writing about it (on messageboards etc) since 2001, it has been more of an exercise in personally putting words to what I think and believe and have learnt, and more importantly, sharing that knowledge, than the discovery and relief of finding I am not alone. Although knowing others understand is always, always, a bonus.

Yesterday, I had to take a selfie of me with Otherhood, the book (see Note below), and make a video reading a sentence (or two) from my essay. To do that, I'd watched the video of another contributor. Her sentences were ones we all know: 

"Just a note: never say to someone who is struggling to get pregnant, 'Have you thought about adoption?' Yes, they fucking have."  Kate Camp, in Otherhood: Essays on being childless, childfree, and child adjacent.

I grinned with delight. This was going to be good! For some reason, I'd been holding off reading the other essays. But Kate's sentence, her grin and glare in her video, set me off. I finally picked up my copy of Otherhood and started reading.

I laughed at the first essay I chose to read, by Kathryn van Beek, one of the editors. With humour and heartbreak, she ticked off so many issues I've talked about here over the years, and except one, that all the blogs I've read have mentioned too. She mentioned an experience I thought I alone had had. But of course, I wasn't the only one. And although I felt alone, I was not. It was the one mentioned in the first paragraph of this post. It was then that I realised anew the power of sharing experiences, of letting people know they're not alone, of knowing that there are others out there who understand. All this time later, over 20 years, I finally know that someone else saw those signs, and felt the same way I felt seeing them in the midst of losing a much-wanted pregnancy.

Since then, I've dived into other essays. In every essay I've read (only 4-5 so far), there has been at least one thing that has made me think, "that was (or is) me!" Including in at least one childfree essay. I'm resisting the urge not to mark the book, because I hate writing on books. I mentioned to my husband I think I need to buy another copy that I can write on or highlight! (He thought that was weird.) There is so much in it worth blogging about. I feel a renewed enthusiasm. I don't want to overwhelm you or push the book on you. But I definitely want to share some of the thoughts I have about it.

At the moment, I'm only reading the essays from my town, because we have our launch function on Wednesday. I want to meet those other authors, tell them what their essays mean to me, and share in an environment when, for once, I'm with my tribe in real life. But I'm so happy and grateful that I have my online tribe to share this with too.

 

Note: Links to buy can be found here, including for ebooks. Our editors advise that the print book will be available internationally from 8 August. Orders from overseas distributors come quite late and then the books have to be shipped via Melbourne, aggregated with other publishers’ books and then shipped to Chicago and London, hence the delay in availability. However, from May 9 people overseas will still be able to buy OTHERHOOD from NZ retailers, or from Massey Uni Press directly – they'll just have to pay international shipping fees.

How people say they don't understand, without saying it

One of the most empowering things about healing and getting older is that I know that comments to us, or comments about being parents, or about us not being parents, tells me so much more about the person saying it than it does about me or my situation.

How people say they don’t understand without actually saying it:

•                    “Here, you can have my kids”
•          “At least you get to sleep in on the weekend”
•          “I wish I could travel like you”
•          “You don’t know true love till you’re a mother”
•          “Being a mother teaches you empathy”
•          “You’ve never been tired until you’ve been a mother”
•          “You could still adopt” when I’m already in my 50s
•          “We’re empty-nesters, just the same as you”
•          “I wouldn’t be the same person without my children”
•          “I know how you feel”
•          “As a mother …”
•          “As the father of daughters, …”

All these comments have been said to me, or around me, or by public figures. I know others have heard worse. What they tell me is that the people speaking either don’t understand that our lives are different, and what therefore that might mean for us, or they don’t want to understand or accept that our lives are different, or maybe that they are incapable of understanding. Or they just don't care. And they don't realise how they expose themselves with their comments.

I want understanding, not pity.
Acknowledgement, not silence.
Awareness of my life - its gains and losses - not invisibility.
Equality, not condescension.

Self-knowledge beats fear

I had a bit of a wobble at the beginning of the New Year. The blissful isolation of Christmas Day dragged on, and I felt alone. We weren’t doing fun things with a wider family, or friends. The entire country seemed to be having fun, and we weren’t. I knew of course, realistically, that I was not alone, and that others were having harder times than I was. But for a while, I felt cast adrift.

One of the things that was bugging me was a relationship that has changed over the last 20 years - as I had pregnancy losses and forged a childlessness path, and they became a parent and socialised with other parents more and more. I know we’ve drifted apart, and I had been wondering if I was ready to let it go. But we’d never had a falling out, even though we weren’t as close as we had been (and will never be), and so I wondered if there was still value in the relationship. Those negative thoughts had been doing their evil thing, telling me that we hadn’t been in touch because they were ready to let me go. That it was always me reaching out (which wasn't quite true, but ... negative voices were convincing me it was). And that may have been the truth, and if it was, then I was ok with that.

But I decided I wasn’t going to let those negative thoughts have their own way. Not without one last challenge to them. So I reached out, tentatively, but openly. And was received with open arms. We made a date. We met, and talked for hours. Even if we don’t do it again for another year, or even ever, then I can live with that. The relationship has been worth holding on to, even if it is different now. If they don't reach out to me in the future, I can handle that. I've made the effort. And it seemed to be appreciated.

Of course, if I hadn’t been through loss and childlessness, then the relationship may never have changed. But equally, if I hadn’t been through those losses, and all the years of readjustment and thinking about who I am, and my place in the world, then I might not have recognised those negative voices in my head. I might not have been able to dismiss them. And I might not have been able to have come to a place where I was at peace regardless of what would happen, and so was able to reach out without fear. And for that, I’m grateful. 

 

The Great Parent-No Kidding Divide

And a lesson in restraint

Spending two weeks with someone with kids can take its toll. Especially when they focus on things that affect them, display a complete ignorance of things that affect us, and it seems, have absolutely no desire to understand. Mainly, this manifests in the parent/no kidding divide. Of course! Are you surprised?

They implied that they had a greater understanding that “life is precious” because they had a pregnancy loss, premature twins, and were parents. Even when I pointed out that I had grieved our losses, they still didn’t in any way ask, show interest, or even any compassion. Because we don’t have kids, they think we don’t understand. Or that we are always going to agree with them.

They continually talked about legacy, meaning both biological legacy and other aspects of legacy. It struck me that it was all about recognition, about being remembered, rather than about their impact on other people. I think people without children are forced to focus on the second, on how we affect other people and what legacy we might leave with them, rather than whether we are recognised for it. Because for me, recognition is irrelevant, as within a few generations (or as few as one generation) we will be forgotten, just names on a family tree on a branch that ended. But maybe a kindness or some wisdom or role modelling will be passed on, and that is our legacy. It's a legacy that I hope I will have.

I heard a lot about how “sentimental” this parent was about their childhood, and maybe their parents. I think I should get a medal for NOT saying “you weren’t sentimental enough to come back more regularly!” Of course, they didn’t need to, and they used their children (as they still do, even though the children are grown) as an excuse.

I also heard a lot about how it is so very hard for a parent to see their child in pain. I don’t think I rolled my eyes, though the urge was strong. Not because I don’t believe them. Of course it is hard for a parent to see their child in pain. Any normal human finds it hard to see anyone vulnerable in pain, especially someone you love. I found it awfully hard to see my parents and parents-in-law in pain, both physical and medical. But really, were WE the right people to say those words to us, in that way?

We had to listen to an extended discussion of the birth of their children. (Over 20 years ago!) The children were premature, so it was scary, and I understand that. And I initially handled it well. But as they went into all the details, and expressed how wonderful it was to touch the babies and take them home, and as they talked about breastfeeding, etc, the scars of my wounds were being pressed over and over again, and it was harder and harder to take.

I restrained myself so often. You should be proud of me! I did not say that I knew exactly how old a niece was because she was three months old and visiting when I was losing my first pregnancy. I did not ask too much about someone we all know because I suspect (though I may be wrong) that IVF and donor egg may have been involved, and I don’t think it’s any of my business. I didn't equate our losses with theirs, or point out that we had also been through some of these things, or always put an opposing point of view. I, of course, found it easier to talk about old age than about the vulnerabilities of infertility and loss. Even though they know something about that. I often avoided wading into a compassionless quagmire simply to protect myself. And I gave myself permission to do that.

Sometimes, though, I very matter-of-factly pointed out our situation without children, and that some of their assumptions were wrong. I did it only when it seemed appropriate or there was an opportunity in the conversation, not aggressively, and tried to keep it open and honest, using our experience as the base example. But for the most part, I tolerated it all. I was in a marathon, and didn’t want to cause any more tension. And the worst thing is that I probably would not have made any difference if I had explained this.

I wasn’t expecting understanding, or even compassion. I usually don’t. Of course, I didn’t receive any either. So it all made me wonder if they honestly think we never felt, and don’t feel, any pain over what we have lost. That our lives aren't as important as theirs. Or if they don’t even see that we have lost anything, because (to quote another friend) “we never had anything to lose?” The answer is both, I think. It made me wonder too how many parents feel and think like this? Sure, this particular person may be especially lacking in compassion and self-awareness, and many other parents with kids don’t always make me feel like this. Some are wonderfully compassionate and open to learning about our experiences. But sadly, I suspect these views and discussions are very indicative of the majority of our fellow humans. As a result, I will admit to feeling rather bruised from this encounter.

It wasn't meant to be

It is World Childless Week. Learn more about it and see all the other submissions on this topic here.

When I went through infertility, losses and childlessness, I learned that what comforts one person can feel like a dagger to the heart of another. Some people speak openly, others wish to be private, some want condolences and consideration, others don’t want to be treated any differently. We’re all individuals. There is no one answer, no one way to treat someone who is grieving or sad.

Unfortunately, others haven’t learned that lesson. Platitudes and cliches take pride of place in many people’s vocabulary. I live in New Zealand, where religion is usually something private, it is rarely in the public eye, and most people are not religious, or adhere only in a cultural sense,. I am not religious, neither are my friends or family.

I learned to discount judgemental comments when I was a Girl Guide (around 11 years old), when the leader asked me if I went to church. When I said I didn’t, she called me a wicked girl. I was not, I knew that. My family were good, kind members of the community. Putting others first was one of our primary rules. And at my school, the “Golden Rule” (“treat others as you would have them treat you”) was the first thing on the classroom blackboard at the beginning of the year, and stayed there for the five years I was there. My friends and their families did generally not go to church either, and they were good and kind too. I never doubted this.

It is not surprising, therefore, that I rarely encounter religious statements. (Except perhaps in the comments section of the Huffington Post, where an article I wrote about childlessness once ran. Beware the comments section, as they say!) This means that I’ve never had someone casually say to me, “it is all in god’s plan.” However, I have heard people say, “it wasn’t meant to be.” If you ask me, that’s just secular for “it’s all in god’s plan.” And neither statement is comforting. In fact, both are quite insulting if you think about it. Both statements imply that someone or something decided that I wasn’t meant to be a mother, and that the speaker agrees with that basic premise. The further implication being that this means that there has been some judgement about my suitability to be a mother.

These implications are patently illogical and false. Implying that I was never meant to be a mother must also mean that all of those who have ever been mothers were, in fact, meant to be mothers. That includes the neglectful, the cruel, the stupid, the unkind, the ill, the humorless, the dull, the controlling, and the abusive. I don’t accept that. Anyone who implies that their motherhood was somehow “meant” and therefore better, but mine wasn’t, is deliberately insulting me. It makes me feel judged by them, lose trust in them, move away from them.

Personally, I dismissed those ideas many years ago. I don’t accept them, and don’t believe them. They were the unwelcome answer to a question that I wasn’t asking, the question, “why?” Gertrude Stein said it best when she said (I’m paraphrasing) “There is no answer. There never was an answer. That is the answer.” I’m very comfortable with that, and I find it comforting, even liberating.

But it also makes me question why they people might say this. “It wasn’t meant to be.” Do they honestly think it will help me, or the recipient of these comments, to hear this? Telling someone their misfortune is all in God’s plan or that it was never meant to be is really telling them that you don’t want to hear their concerns. It dismisses their loss, their grief, their unhappiness, and the enormous efforts they may have made to try to become parents, or the future efforts they may have to make (or have already made) to claw themselves back to normality, to reach an acceptance of the life they hadn’t planned.

I think too often that these statements are made because they are easy, and they are final. It tells the recipient that you must just accept it, and there’s not too much to be said after that! It doesn’t begin a conversation, rather it ends one. But at least the speaker’s discomfort is abated. They’ve tried to appease the recipient, and they feel good about that. If the recipient isn’t talking about their situation, then the problem must no longer exist, right? And that absolves them of the need to explore the issue further.

What’s more, these statements impose their world view on the recipient, when they have not lived the life of the recipient. They’re not thinking about the person on the other end of these comments, on how they have made them feel. It’s all about the speaker, when it shouldn’t be. And it says so much more about them than it does about us.

I think that’s the problem. I wish people who spout these platitudes – religious or not – would consider that.

Sending some love

Bamberlamb posted today/yesterday (depending where in the world you are) giving an update on her life. She's having a rough time. It's hard when we can't help because we're so far away. But we can all go over and give her some support! She mentioned the difference of getting cancer treatment when you don't have family/children to be at appointments/chemo sessions with you. This is an example of some of the things that parents don't think about when they say, "we know what it is like not to have children." 

Of course, they think they know what it is like not to have children. They were childless too, in their 20s and 30s, so of course they know what it's like! Right? Wrong! Being young means (often) having fun, making mistakes, starting out, beginning careers, finding out what you're good at, how you want to live. Yes, you might not have children then, but it's not like most people then have even tried. It can be an exciting time. After all, your whole life is ahead of you. The possibilities seem endless.

Being childless post infertility is not like that. One of the major possibilities of our lives has been closed off. A huge part of the human experience - parenting our own children - has been closed off to us. We have come across one of the permanent "nevers" we have to deal with as we age. We have endured pain and loss. We have to negotiate a future we had not planned, and that we largely don't have any idea what it will bring. We may not have any role models. And we have to go through it all with our family and friends who - mostly - don't understand what we are going through. That's on a day-to-day level. It is so very different when we are going through some of life's most difficult challenges without children.

So my heart goes out to Bamberlamb, and Loribeth who is going through surgery today, and anyone who is reading this who is going through a hard time. It may not feel like it, but we're with you right now. Sending you all our love and courage and strength.

 

Monday miscellany: No Kidding version

There are lots of articles/blogs/columns about the Pope's comment that people who have pets instead of children are selfish. I'm not going to go into detail here as others have responded to this far more eloquently than I could. There was a particularly good response here, and I have read others too. Lots of comments about the hypocrisy of a church that requires its priests and nuns to remain celibate and childless, whilst berating those without children. I am just frustrated that such a view continues to be repeated - it is at least the second time he has made the "selfish" comment about people without children.

I was at a gathering on New Year's Day. Meeting a new couple, and along with the hosts, we chatted about all sorts of interesting things. It wasn't until another couple joined us - who knew the first couple through school kids - that the question of children came up. The guy asked it, not to my surprise. I often find that men ask this question. Perhaps they think they're trying to bring the women into the conversation (though my feminist sensibilities bristle at this idea), or perhaps his well of conversational topics was running dry (though he didn't seem to be someone who would ever be lost for words). Anyway, I digress. What was interesting, I thought, was the response of his wife, who turned to me and said that she felt she was moving into a different stage of life, as her children are about to leave home. The implication was that she could relate to me more, and she was being kind to include me in that, even though the two states (empty nest and childless) are very different (as I have written before). I appreciated her sensitivity.

Finally, another snippet of a conversation with my BIL. He was talking about his adult daughter (from his first wife), who apparently has decided to "stop contraception and see what happens." I said that I wished her luck, but that at her age (late 30s), "seeing what happens" is not always the wisest idea and that he should ensure she knows that if she has been actively trying for six months without conception, it might be worth getting checked out. "I'm sure that won't be necessary," he said. "Look at (my sister) and I. We did that, and everything worked out." "Yes," I said. "And so did (DH) and I. It's not always that simple." I was so frustrated. He could say that to me, of all people! But more importantly, I didn't want his daughter to delay seeking help out of a false sense of security. So I gave him some info - statistics related to age, related to infertility in the wider population, etc. His daughter was visiting a day or two later. I wonder if he broached the topic. But I did what I could. I'm pleased about that. For her sake, I tried.

 

2019: Looking Back on the Blog

Another year and I'm still here, even though 2019 wasn't my best blogging year. It's worth looking back though, as survival is a feat in itself! And worth celebrating. Remember that!

Over 2019, I wrote sixty posts, which I'm quite pleased about, as it averages one a week, with a few more thrown in. Sixty times last year, I thought about writing about not having children, I thought about the positives and negatives of my situation, and I thought about what you might want or need to hear about. Sixty times I reminded myself to be honest. I might not have always had words of wisdom (I hope I had some), and sometimes (like yesterday), I might skim past the topics, but even in that fact, I hope I'm showing that I am not defined by my No Kidding status. Instead, I'm just living my No Kidding life.

I kicked off the year with good intentions for blogging in 2019. I'm not sure I met many (any?) of these "blogging resolutions", but that's okay. There's always this year!

January and February saw me write my five-post menopause series, which you can find here.  It's funny, because just a year later, it feels like something I wrote a long time ago, and something I went through in the dim and distant past. I'm still on HRT, and I still overheat, but the horror memories are fading, thank goodness.

A lot of my writings have been focused on my efforts to see things from both sides. Two in particular are:

Issues from all sides
How infertility affects our world views
Stories we tell ourselves

I've written more about ageing when you don't have children, sometimes specifically, sometimes in thinking about the need to build a community, and quite often about what legacy we leave when we don't leave children. Perhaps that's natural when for the last years I've been surrounded by elderly parents and in-laws, with only one left still hanging in there. Ironically, having written about Recipes as Legacy, I was hunting for my mother-in-law's zucchini chutney recipe recently, and can't find it in her recipe books, despite finding at least one carefully copied recipe I gave her which I know she never made. It is very frustrating, as it is one of only a few recipes of hers I actually wanted, and I can't find it!

I started last year with some optimism because of a potentially changed situation, but due to someone else's misfortune, that didn't continue. It's a situation I'm not happy about, but have to remind myself - Pain Olympics style - that perspective is everything. Perhaps because of this though, and perhaps unconsciously, I wrote a couple of posts about suppressing ourselves, our wishes, our realities.

Suppressing our personalities
Celebrations vs Grief

But on the other hand, I did talk about occasions when I spoke out. These small instances, when I (figuratively) stamp my foot and refuse to let my situation be ignored, help me to remind myself, and the world, that I'm here, and that I (and all of us who are Not Kidding) count.

Speaking out revisited
Don't render me invisible

As usual, I got a lot of inspiration from other readers and writers on this topic, both from their posts, and comments. My posts are often sparked by ideas when I read a post, whether I agree with it, want to take it a bit further, or on a different tangent, or when I vehemently disagree. I think it helps me a lot when I try to figure out why those I disagree with take that attitude. Understanding, even if I still disagree, helps. So I thank you all for thinking and writing and discussing and inspiring me. Please continue to do it!

Finally, I conducted a To Instagram or Not survey. I'm monitoring the results, but will close it in the next week, so if you haven't commented, or filled it in, please do so here. It'll only take you about one minute! It's a question of whether to add Instagram to the No Kidding online presence, not to replace this space here, which was a concern of many.

Here's to another year of blogging, of thinking, of growing, and of trying to continue to be able to say, I'm Not Kidding.

This is an annual nod to Mel, who used to run the Crème de la Crème, where we would list our favourite post of the year. It always provided inspiring reading. So even though it doesn’t happen officially now, I hope that you too will list your favourite posts from your own blogs, on your blogs, for us to enjoy again (or for the first time). 


PS: And Mel has reminded me that this week is blog delurking week. So do leave a quick hello in the comments (I'm okay with anonymous comments if you're really shy) or send a quick email. I'd love to start the year knowing who is here reading.

When pain heightens awareness

At the end of The Girl Who Smiled Beads, Clementine Wamariya said something else that I meant to include in my last post, but forgot. That's okay, because having its own post means I can comment on this idea a bit more.

She said (and I will paraphrase a little, because she struggled getting the words out),

"use your ears, not only to hear what others are saying to hurt you,
but to hear ALL the sounds around."

She recognised that it is so easy, especially when we are in pain, to only hear what hurts us. And this is normal. Suddenly, after a loss or when we find ourselves in a situation we never imagined or wanted, there are slights all around. Part of this is because we have a new awareness of how this world is focused on the majority, and ignores, neglects and insults the minority. Part of it, however, is that we are only capable of focusing on what accentuates the pain we are already in. After all, pain has a way of blocking off everything else around us, insisting we focus on it, and it alone.

But when we have healed a little, have become able to put the pain away for seconds, or minutes, or days (or weeks or months), it is good to start to hear "all the sounds around." Hear the reasons behind the hurtful comments, and the hurt – whilst very different from ours – that often prompts them. Understanding helps reduce the sting of those comments. Hear our own prejudices in addition to that of others against us, and ask if they are fair. And to those who have come out of infertility with children, I'd ask them to continue to hear the voices that included their own voices, just a short time ago.

We all share so much, even when our situations are so different. The experiences of those in pain are often very similar. Let's use our heightened awareness to hear the commonalities in our experience, rather than the differences.

What adds dimension to my life

Rather belatedly, I just read Infertility Honesty's post for World Childless Week, about the four words (the dreaded question "Do you have kids?") and the responses we get to our answer "no," that hurt. Amongst the many responses I'm sure you're all familiar with, including being given the cold shoulder, her most recent was “Children add dimension to your life.”  (Go read her take on it here.)

I find it hard to think why anyone would respond that way. But it got me thinking about the things that add dimension to my life:

1. Empathy – The person speaking to Sarah and her husband clearly lacks empathy, but I find that it is a constant reminder that life isn’t about me, and that others have struggles too, and we should all be kind to each other. 
2. Loss – With loss, of children, of a future, of hopes, my life took on an added dimension where I was mortal, where I was vulnerable, and where I knew that life would not deliver everything I needed, as it rarely does to anyone, no matter who or where you are. 
3. Grief – The experience of grief and pain and sadness taught me to know myself better, to be mindful about what I have and to be in the moment, and to understand more what others might be going through when they endure loss or experience depression.
4. Accidents and illness – I learn to appreciate what I have, and know how much worse it could be.
5. Exercise – It gets me out of the house, makes me appreciate health when I don’t have it, and reminds me that I can push myself further than I sometimes think possible.
6. Helping people – It breeds empathy, teaching me to put myself in other people's situations, reminding me not to concentrate on myself, and allowing me to feel good about myself at the same time.
7. Writing – It makes me think about motivations, about the use of words and how they can help or hurt, and because it encourages me to be so much more observant.
8. Photography – There is beauty in this world, and if we’re too busy, or to self-involved, we don’t get to stop and appreciate it, to smell the roses, or wonder at their colours and shapes.
9. Blogging – I get to have more technical IT skills than most of my friends, I get to write (see #7) and to use some of my photographs, and I get to make friends from all over the world and learn from their experiences and lives, to love them and receive their love (or not).
10. Cooking – Brings the world to my kitchen, and to those who eat from it, expanding my horizons further, giving me an outlet for nurturing, thinking about our food and our environment, our planet and our bodies.
11. Curiosity and learning – There are some people who take little interest in the world around them, who are not interested in discovering new information, in having new doors opened to them, who don’t want to explore the world or the world of information, and the delights held therein.
12. Being an aunt – Understanding better what my sisters and friends are going through, the sweet along with the bitter, and – whatever my level of involvement might be – playing a unique role in my nieces' and nephews' lives.
13. Travel – So many dimensions are added here (I dealt with them in a series of posts on A Separate Life), from collecting anecdotes to be shared or simply remembered, to always increasing my sense of wonder at the world, to encouraging a better understanding of different cultures and people from all walks of life, to a curiosity into why things are the way they are, and to appreciating home when we get there, and looking at it with different eyes, along with many many more. 
14. Living a No Kidding life – Having children might be a dimension to life that I will never have, but not having children, living our whole lives without children, also brings a different dimension to life.with all the gifts it brings, along with the challenges, just as having children brings gifts and challenges and a different dimension.
15. Being on the receiving end of comments like “Children add dimension to life” – It might add a painful dimension, but it also adds a dimension of understanding; that people are narrow and insensitive and self-involved and frequently cruel (intentionally and unintentionally), and that they see first-hand their emotional limitations to understand others, or perhaps simply that they have been hurt recently, and their response to us will always say far more about what’s going on in their heads than how they actually feel about us. 

The list is endless really – every aspect of my life (from my family structure and my place in it, my height and skin colour and where I grew up and my talents and flaws and all my experiences, etc) and the infinite number of interactions between each of those aspects, makes me uniquely me. They all add dimension to my life, just as they do for all of us.

Quoting Mali

Recently, off-blog, I answered some questions about living a No Kidding life, and these were some of my favourite comments. They're my favourites because they are so personal to me, and their truths were so hard-won.

• Give yourself permission not to answer questions - it is empowering.


• A happy life is not only possible, but inevitable.


• The real choice is between living childless or childfree.


• We are the real success stories.


• Our own thoughts and fears are worse than anything anyone will say to us.


• Life – that’s what’s next.

Reflecting on our days “in the infertility trenches”

When writing here, I sometimes reflect on what it was like when I was trying to conceive and carry a child, and I frequently (as I am sure, other No Kidding bloggers do this too) recognise myself in those who are still trying to conceive or resolve their infertility. This recognition, this hindsight - knowing now what I wished I had known then – causes me to reflect, to think about what would have helped, and to be – at times – brutally honest about my emotions and thoughts at the time.

I don’t believe that, in reflecting on and analysing our own feelings and experiences, there is any actual or intended judgement of the actively infertile, but I do understand that our thoughts and discussions (in blog posts and comment threads) can at times feel judgemental to those who are still stressed and emotional, still vulnerable and fearful, who feel perhaps that their choices are under attack, even though many or most of us made those same choices, and trod the same path.

Yet I firmly believe that we make these comments as a recognition of ourselves, of what we didn’t and indeed couldn’t understand at the time, and from the benefit of knowledge and experience and hindsight and time. I think that we look at these issues in an effort to understand not only ourselves, but often also the commercial and societal environments in which we are living, and in an effort to improve the environment or to ease the process for those who come after us.

Saying, for example, that it is possible to be scared or stuck on the treadmill or immersed in grief (as examples of words I have used) is not an insult, although it can be and has been taken as such, just as recognising societal pressures or problems in the fertility industry is a systemic discussion and indictment of structural and societal issues, not of the patients who, of necessity, use the industry’s services.

My intention at least is that when I think of those still on their infertility journey, I do so with love and empathy, having been there myself, knowing how hard it can be, understanding the pain they are going through right now, the pressure, the doubts, the fear, and that I write with the hope that their paths might be eased as a result of our discussions, our reflections, and our sometimes unwelcome honesty.

But I wonder, how successful do you think I am, and perhaps the No Kidding blogging community is as a whole, in remembering where we have been?

Privilege in the infertility world

 You can achieve anything series – Part 4

At best, the application of the idea that we can achieve anything if we put our minds to it/work hard enough/want it enough brings focus to our efforts, inspires us, and gives us hope. That encourages us to look at the ways we can improve our chances. When I was full of hope, I certainly tried a number of things I would never have attempted previously.

So if we are successful, we congratulate ourselves on doing that thing which, we believe, changed our fate. In the infertility world, it is pinpointing what made the difference in the particular cycle when they conceived, or during the pregnancy that stuck. Maybe it was just relaxing. Maybe it was sticking at it for just that one last cycle. Or pushing for a different protocol, or working with a different doctor or clinic. Everyone wants to feel that their choices made the difference, that they had some control, and they want the credit for that. It’s quite a natural response.

But that belief in our individual power can give rise to the message that there is actual proof that you can, in fact, achieve anything if you put your mind to it/want it enough/work hard enough. These messages exhort us to never give up, because they didn’t, and look at them now. Or they suggest that the reason we are not pregnant or parents is because we should have tried X, Y or Z, because it worked – so they have concluded - for them. When these messages are given out, this belief can become damaging, accusatory even. It can (though of course it doesn’t always, as shown by some of my wonderful readers and commenters) turn into an unpleasant smugness: “I’m pregnant because I did X, Y or Z.” The message, usually unspoken but not always, is that they tried harder/worked harder/wanted it more than we did.

That of course, intentionally or unintentionally, sends the message that those of us who didn’t achieve success only have ourselves to blame. It judges. And it is received as such. It makes those who might be contemplating stopping second guess their decisions, guiltily wondering if they don’t want it enough, feeling that others see them as weak, giving up, quitters. It makes them more susceptible to those who spread the message to never give up who have commercial motivations (their doctors and clinics), or with societal/religious motivations behind their message.

It makes those of us who did stop, whether through choice or not, feel guilty, as if we didn’t deserve to have children, because we too didn’t want it enough. Unlike the successfully pregnant/parents, this message tells us that we clearly didn’t work hard enough/want it enough/try hard enough/stick at it long enough to succeed. “It’s your fault,” say the messages. “You didn’t deserve it.” We feel this blame, this judgement, acutely, because – immersed in these messages - we inevitably ask ourselves if this means we were undeserving, if there was more we could have/should have done?

Yet there is still so much unknown about infertility and assisted reproduction that, in many cases, even if a couple did howl at the moon, stand on their heads, push for that one last cycle with a particular protocol, eat foods X and Y and avoid Z, before or during that particular cycle when they conceived, the facts are that they don’t know and may never definitively know which (if any) aspects made the difference, and which (if any) didn’t. Even doctors will admit that they don’t really know which results they control and which they don’t. Likewise, those of us who are No Kidding lifers don’t know if we could have taken any actions that would have seen us end up with a child, or if all our actions would have been futile. Ultimately, it all comes down to our own personal opinions.

And these personal opinions are inevitably shaped by our own experiences, our own privilege - infertility privilege, in this case. The thing with privilege though, is that so many who benefit from it never understand or accept that they had advantages that others didn’t. They think their success or advantages are a result of their hard work or desire, rather than privilege or even random luck. Maybe they are – hard work and desire inevitably help. But we all know that we can have all the hard work and desire in the world and still not reach our goals.

Some of us might think that we recognise our own privilege, but do we? Do we recognise it all? In the infertility world, whilst we are probably aware that we might be lucky to live somewhere where assisted reproduction or adoption is available, we might feel grateful that we can afford to pursue these (if we can), and believe that we are recognising our privilege. But we might not realise that the simple geography of where we live will control whether we can pursue any or unlimited or funded or unregulated assisted reproduction cycles. For example, consider the postcode lottery of IVF funding in the UK, or that countries or states bordering or near to us might offer options that our own countries/states don’t. Our locations, our cultures, religions, laws, family circumstances, and societal norms, might determine whether or not we can adopt, and even how we might feel about facing a No Kidding life.

We might also think that we have a choice about continuing to try to reach our goals, but we might be oblivious to the benefits that have led us to that feeling - the fact that our diagnoses have not ruled out options completely, that our health doesn’t prevent us from adopting, that our health system or insurance company will fund more cycles, that our culture (and government) is open to IVF or adopting. We might not realise that the education or personal strength or family history or religious background or colour of our skin that gives us the ability to advocate for ourselves is a result of privilege. Sometimes, the very fact of being able to exercise our free will is privilege.

Am I saying that nothing is within our control? Maybe I am, but not entirely. What I am saying is that the issues that influence our choices or open doors or create barriers to choice are endless (I am sure you can think of areas of luck or privilege that I have not). We are kidding ourselves if we are so overcome with pride that we can ignore the influences of privilege or even sheer luck in the process.

All this makes the message that “you can achieve anything if you put your mind to it” seem very shallow. It’s a trite slogan that alienates many people, belittles and berates, blaming and shaming those of us without the goals we had wanted to achieve. It silences those who didn’t achieve, because clearly, as we never had the right stuff to reach our goals, we are not qualified to speak.

I admit that I’m writing this because I’m still smarting from something I read a year or two ago and, for various reasons, have never written about before. Those of us who reject the “put your mind to it” message or the “never give up” message were claimed to be, quote, “sanctimoniously competing for gold in the Pain Olympics.” That accusation cut to the quick (even though it was not necessarily personally directed at me –I don’t know), because it felt so viciously (if perhaps – I want to give the benefit of the doubt - unconsciously) judgemental.

Rejecting this message, saying it can be detrimental and judgemental, isn’t about competing in the Pain Olympics. I’m not interested in playing that game, because there is never a winner. I do not criticise those whose own path is to follow the “I’ll achieve it if I try hard enough” path. If it works for them, then I will be cheering them on. I’m also not interested in “silencing pregnant women or mothers” into submission as the writer suggested. But I am interested in talking about the facts. And equally, I won’t be silenced either.

The facts are that those of us in the No Kidding community in the infertility world could have tried every possible avenue, and we would still never have achieved our goal. We shouldn’t be shamed for that. But so often we are. We’re told, for example, that we chose not to have children, when all too often we feel we had no choice, that we gave up.

But the facts are that some of us did try everything that was available to us, everything that was possible for us. There are those who may not be prepared to believe that, but the truth is that we all have different opportunities, different abilities, different privilege, and different luck that dictates how far we can go. The facts are that we all go through different experiences, and these take different tolls on us, and so limits all differ from each other. The facts are that what seems to one person to be an easy choice and the logical next step is for another person an insurmountable hurdle for whatever reasons. The facts are that what seems to be weak and giving up to one person is in fact, to another, the hardest, bravest, most bitter decision to face reality and reclaim their life. One person might think that it takes the most strength to continue, when another might think that it takes the most strength to accept and move on to another path. One person might choose to continue to find professionals or new science that keeps giving them hope, and another might choose to believe the advice their current professionals/science are giving them. Continuing to pursue a dream is an investment in their future for one person, and yet for another saying good-bye to that dream and turning towards another is an investing in their future.

The facts are that none of us should be judged for any of our decisions or our limits or lack of limits. I wish that our limits were understood, that medical professionals were more honest and transparent, that money wasn’t a motivator or a barrier, that society and our friends and family didn’t shame us into continuing or stopping or feeling like failures.

The reality is that rejecting the “put your mind to it” or “never give up” messages, and realising that the only option is to accept that it is over, is for many of us the only truth we have. In rejecting these messages, we’re not criticising those who continue to try. It’s not about them. It isn’t a case of sour grapes, and we’re not playing in the Pain Olympics. We’re just seeking the truth, our truth, and asking for a little understanding, and a recognition of our reality.


Update: This series concludes in my next post, Privilege in the No Kidding world