Where's the Nursery?

"Dream House," the slender file was labeled. I remembered it well, a 1968 home economics assignment filed away in a cabinet covered with bumper stickers for PBS, ecology groups, and local newspapers.
It was a great house, done up in bright red, green and yellow. I had an office, a darkroom, a craft room and a gallery, lots of bathrooms, a living room, kitchen, and bedroom, everything except a nursery. At 16, it never occurred to me to allot space for children. My home was a glorified office complex with living quarters attached.
The rest of the folder includes plans for a build-it-yourself desk and craft ideas for the kitchen and den. No nurseries or bunk beds.
Why didn't I think about a place for children? I couldn't have known that 35 years later I'd enter menopause without giving birth, that the equipment that caused me killer cramps every 28 days would never serve any purpose, that I would be married twice to men who wouldn't or couldn't have kids, that my only mothering experiences would be dog-mothering or step-mothering. I couldn't possible have known all that. I was not one of those teens who decide early that she doesn't even want to have children. And, although I claim a bit of ESP, I don't think that was involved here.
Perhaps I was just innocent. There's no space for a husband in that house either. A late bloomer, I didn't start dating until I was in college. By the time a man showed up at the door to take me on a date, my parents were so relieved they didn't even consider imposing a curfew or giving him the third degree. But I daydreamed like every other teen of boys and men falling in love with me, wanting to marry me. Did I not realize that relationships with men usually led to children, or at least they did back in the '60s? Love, marriage, baby carriage. I didn't know much about sex, but I think I knew that much.
So why at 16 didn't I leave space in my dream house for children? Why did I just seek work space?
I was a kid who "mothered" baby dolls, toddler dolls, Barbie dolls, stuffed animal dolls, enough dolls to cover my entire double bed. I gave them all names, carried them around with me, made them clothes, talked to them all the time, and grieved when they got torn or bent. I called myself their Mommy.
At the same time, I was in full wife and mother training. I learned how to cook and sew and clean. Mom had me washing, drying and ironing clothes by the hamper-full. By the time I was 10, I could copy her famous chocolate chip oatmeal cookies. By 15, I could prepare a full dinner. I could also knit, crochet, embroider and sew. Whatever other career I might pursue, my main life's work would be the same as my mother's: caring for a husband, home and children.
So why didn't I put a nursery in my dream house?
Had I already decided that since I had had no dates at 16, nobody would ever ask me out, so I might as well plan life as a creative spinster? I don't think so. As a 30-year-old divorcee whose life was all about work, I thought that, but not when I was in high school. I had crushes on several boys and at least one teacher, and I was berserk over Paul McCartney. But a nursery? Babies? I wasn't thinking about that. Do most 16-year-olds think about babies in that window between playing with dolls and real-life pregnancy? Maybe that's why so many teens get pregnant by accident. They don't see it as something that might really happen to them.
I have always wanted a terrific office. Nurseries are pretty and soft and warm and smell of baby powder, but I have never seen myself belonging in one. I wanted to fit in; babies are God's most amazing creation, but maybe I always knew he had another plan for me, a plan that required an office.
They say that the way you envision your life is the way it will turn out. If I had drawn a nursery into my dream house, would I be a mother and grandmother now? I'll never know because it never occurred to me at 16.
Just as most of my classmates never thought about including an office in their dream houses. What for?
Perhaps this pencil diagram in an old folder in an old file cabinet contains the key to why I never became a mother. I could blame husband number one for not wanting them or husband number two for not wanting any more than the ones he already had. I could attribute my childless state to persistent use of birth control. But the truth, somehow, is that I always wanted an office, not a nursery. And that's what I got.

As always, your comments are welcome.
Sue

Copyright 2007 Sue Fagalde Lick

IMPORTANT NOTICE: This blog has moved. Please switch over to the new site at http://www.childlessbymarriageblog.com. All of the old posts have already been transferred over there, and it would make life easier if you would comment at that site. Thank you.

How do you answer THE QUESTION

When people ask why you don't have children, what do you say? My favorite answer so far is "because I've seen yours." Another good one is, "No, would you like to give me yours?" But really, a lot parents start their conversations with "Do you have children?" And when you say "no," they want to know why. Depending on my mood, I just say, "No I don't. God had other plans," or I explain that I have three stepchildren but no kids of my own. Several of my friends just say they have dogs.
Do people ask you? What do you say?

IMPORTANT NOTICE: This blog has moved. Please switch over to the new site at http://www.childlessbymarriageblog.com. All of the old posts have already been transferred over there, and it would make life easier if you would comment at that site. Thank you.

Are you grieving over your lack of children?

As many of us know, not having children can be painful. A terrific article in today's Contra Costa Times talks about this and describes some of the agencies that are helping childless women deal with their grief through therapy. The piece, called "Childless by Fate, Choice," was written by Jessica Yadegaran. It includes a forum to answer the question "Have you come to terms with not having children?" I would love to have people answer that question here, too.
I'm currently working on the chapter about grief in my Childless by Marriage book, and it is interesting how one's feelings change over time. It's also hard not to project my feelings onto other people.
So how do you feel about it? Do you regret your choice? Are you still trying to decide what to do? What advice would you give someone like the 35-year-old woman I interviewed this weekend who is dating a man who doesn't want any more children?

IMPORTANT NOTICE: This blog has moved. Please switch over to the new site at http://www.childlessbymarriageblog.com. All of the old posts have already been transferred over there, and it would make life easier if you would comment at that site. Thank you.

Sadie's gone

This has to be short or I'll start crying. We had to put our dog to sleep yesterday. Sadie's cancer came out of remission and had reached the point where she was fighting to breathe. It was time to end the suffering. The actual dying was easy, thanks to a kind vet with wonderful shots that gave her her first restful sleep in months. It's a cliche, but she looked so peaceful. The hard part is facing the empty house. I keep thinking I hear her, that I will see her around the corner, that I need to open the door for her. Last night as I started gathering her food, her pills, and her blankets, I realized this has to be what it's like when you lose a child, your only child. Suddenly you don't need all these things, and the center of your existence is gone. Are you still a mother anyway? Am I still a dog mom?
Now all I have to hug is a stuffed bear and a husband who can't stop crying. It's time to share my mothering energy with him. While Sadie was sick, I'm afraid I put her first every time, just as I'm sure I would have done with a child.
We will get another dog eventually, but she--or he--won't be Sadie.

IMPORTANT NOTICE: This blog has moved. Please switch over to the new site at http://www.childlessbymarriageblog.com. All of the old posts have already been transferred over there, and it would make life easier if you would comment at that site. Thank you.