I don't know why I didn't do this a long time ago, but I have set up a "Childless by Marriage" Google group. There's not much in it right now, but judging by the number of e-mails I get on this topic, it will grow quickly. Access the group at http://groups.google.com/group/childless-by-marriage. Come one and all. We have a lot to share.
As you probably know, I'm a writer working on a book and articles about childlessness, but I promise I will never quote you without asking for your permission, so have at it.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
Share childless feelings in Exhale zine
My Google alerts brought me to an interesting zine called "Exhale," which is subtitled "A literary magazine for intelligent people who have lost a baby, or can't figure out how to make one in the first place." You can get it in print or online. My friend Tiffany Lee Brown won an award from Exhale for her piece "The Kitchen Sink." It's available online and definitely worth a read.
Bravo, Tiffany.
I also discovered an interesting article called "The Men Who are Desperate for Kids," published April 19 in the UK's TimesOnline. So often, we only look at the woman's viewpoint, but men have strong feelings about childlessness, too. They may not show it, for fearing of appearing "soft," but writer Nirpal Dhaiwal tells how men who wanted children and don't have them can feel the loss just as much as woman can.
As all the advertising media won't let us forget, Sunday is Mother's Day. I'm planning to duck and cover till it's over. Someone already wished me a happy Mother's Day yesterday. I just said "thank you" and moved on. I didn't have the energy to set them straight.
Happy whatever, my friends.
Bravo, Tiffany.
I also discovered an interesting article called "The Men Who are Desperate for Kids," published April 19 in the UK's TimesOnline. So often, we only look at the woman's viewpoint, but men have strong feelings about childlessness, too. They may not show it, for fearing of appearing "soft," but writer Nirpal Dhaiwal tells how men who wanted children and don't have them can feel the loss just as much as woman can.
As all the advertising media won't let us forget, Sunday is Mother's Day. I'm planning to duck and cover till it's over. Someone already wished me a happy Mother's Day yesterday. I just said "thank you" and moved on. I didn't have the energy to set them straight.
Happy whatever, my friends.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Running Free
Following up on yesterday's post, I've noticed something interesting. Today, with my father and brother gone back home, I'm feeling amazingly freer and younger than I did when they were here. I danced to regae music last night, I had cake for lunch today, and just now I was outside running with the dogs. It felt good. Not having anyone to please or to care for can be awfully lonely, but it is also freeing. You become ageless, not pigeonholed into the role of daughter, mother, grandmother, or wife, just yourself, running in the unmowed grass, the breeze blowing your hair around and making the wind chimes sing.
There's a lot one can regret about not having children. God knows I have shed an ocean of tears, but there are advantages, too. As the Mother's Day ads threaten to drown us in our childlessness, try to remember the good parts. If there's a mother in your life, celebrate her. If not, just tune out the ads and go run with the dogs.
There's a lot one can regret about not having children. God knows I have shed an ocean of tears, but there are advantages, too. As the Mother's Day ads threaten to drown us in our childlessness, try to remember the good parts. If there's a mother in your life, celebrate her. If not, just tune out the ads and go run with the dogs.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Always the daughter, never the mother
The men in my family have been visiting. They put me right back in the role of the daughter. My brother insists on driving. My father insists on paying for my meals. I'm physically much smaller and more agile than they are, and I'm riding in the back seat again, wishing I had my MP3 to entertain myself. The one time I jump ahead to the cashier, at the air museum, my father drops 20-dollar bills on my table that night to reimburse me. To them, I'm the one having financial trouble, husband trouble and emotional trouble, so they assert their authority trying to straighten me out, not letting me explain how I'm taking care of things in my own way.
Being a wife and mother makes you look like an adult to the rest of the world. With Fred in the care home and no children of my own, I'm always the weird kid, not Mom, not Grandma. In the eyes of my family, I'll never move up into that "we're all adults with kids" role.
Do you ever feel that way?
Being a wife and mother makes you look like an adult to the rest of the world. With Fred in the care home and no children of my own, I'm always the weird kid, not Mom, not Grandma. In the eyes of my family, I'll never move up into that "we're all adults with kids" role.
Do you ever feel that way?
Monday, April 20, 2009
Childless at the funeral
If you want to feel alone, attend a funeral with your widowed father. The husband is in a care home and he has virtually no family, except his children. They didn’t know the deceased, my 100-year-old Great-Aunt Edna, anyway. Cousins your age are accompanied by their grown children, talking about an upcoming wedding, to which you have not been invited.
You look up at the front row and see Virginia, 92-year-old sister of the deceased. She is wearing a neck brace and hiding feeding tubes under her clothes, reminders of a near-fatal fall a few months ago. As everyone visits after the formal rites, there are times when she sits there alone. I hasten to keep her company. Virginia never married nor had children. Her sister Edna was widowed for 44 years, and she never had children either. They were each other's partners in life.
The priest, Father "Jo-Jo", says Edna, though childless, adopted her husband's family, became the matriarch, etc. That's true, but still the church is troublingly empty. You know that this 100-year-old woman, who outlived most of her friends, could have had children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and maybe even great-great grandchildren who would have filled the sanctuary with their own spouses and children. But no. So many seats are empty.
In contrast, the priest at my mother's memorial service kept referring to her as Mother Elaine. At least with Aunt Edna, he spoke at length about the things she had done, her volunteer work and her travels, her full life. But Mom had more people.
I can see the generations slicing off. We're coming closer to mine all the time. I have one niece and nephew to whom I feel close and a bunch of cousins I'm starting to talk to on Facebook. I do have good friends, but sometimes I feel awfully alone. When I commented that I would be alone when I was old and dying, my remaining aunt-by-marriage grabbed my arm and fiercely insisted that that was not true, that people care. Yes, but they die and they get busy. If I'm still living in Oregon, we'd better reserve the little chapel.
If my husband was around, it would be different, wouldn't it? And didn't I trade it all for him? It's a gamble we women who are childless by marriage take.
The most comfortable moment of the trip: the day after the funeral, sitting on the ground in the sun next to the grave where the workmen had tossed the pink bouquets over a layer of gravel in the not-quite-filled opening. I could finally breathe. And I didn't feel so damned alone.
You look up at the front row and see Virginia, 92-year-old sister of the deceased. She is wearing a neck brace and hiding feeding tubes under her clothes, reminders of a near-fatal fall a few months ago. As everyone visits after the formal rites, there are times when she sits there alone. I hasten to keep her company. Virginia never married nor had children. Her sister Edna was widowed for 44 years, and she never had children either. They were each other's partners in life.
The priest, Father "Jo-Jo", says Edna, though childless, adopted her husband's family, became the matriarch, etc. That's true, but still the church is troublingly empty. You know that this 100-year-old woman, who outlived most of her friends, could have had children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and maybe even great-great grandchildren who would have filled the sanctuary with their own spouses and children. But no. So many seats are empty.
In contrast, the priest at my mother's memorial service kept referring to her as Mother Elaine. At least with Aunt Edna, he spoke at length about the things she had done, her volunteer work and her travels, her full life. But Mom had more people.
I can see the generations slicing off. We're coming closer to mine all the time. I have one niece and nephew to whom I feel close and a bunch of cousins I'm starting to talk to on Facebook. I do have good friends, but sometimes I feel awfully alone. When I commented that I would be alone when I was old and dying, my remaining aunt-by-marriage grabbed my arm and fiercely insisted that that was not true, that people care. Yes, but they die and they get busy. If I'm still living in Oregon, we'd better reserve the little chapel.
If my husband was around, it would be different, wouldn't it? And didn't I trade it all for him? It's a gamble we women who are childless by marriage take.
The most comfortable moment of the trip: the day after the funeral, sitting on the ground in the sun next to the grave where the workmen had tossed the pink bouquets over a layer of gravel in the not-quite-filled opening. I could finally breathe. And I didn't feel so damned alone.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Easter sans children
Well, it's the season for little girls in frothy dresses, boys with their hair slicked back and dress shirts buttoned to their necks. The store aisles are loaded with Easter baskets and candy and toys to put in them. I remember those great baskets my mother used to sneak into our rooms during the night. Magic. The Easter Bunny had been there. And then Grandma would show up with another basket the Easter Bunny left for us at her house. We believed it for a long time. My brother and I used to compete as we ate our chocolate bunnies. I got the ears and the nose. How about you?
I also remember what fun we had dyeing eggs. I can still smell the vinegar as Mom set the little bowls with red, blue, orange, yellow and purple dye made from those little tabs that come in a kit. They still sell them. You dunk the eggs, let them dry and write on them with crayon or a white wax pencil.
Many years later, I pass those sections of stores thinking maybe I should buy myself a chocolate bunny or a filled Easter egg because the Easter Bunny doesn't come to my house anymore. I look at the lilies and wonder if anyone will think about buying me one. Not that I like lilies. It's the symbolism, the honoring-Mom-with-a-flower thing.
People with kids get involved with all that Easter Bunny stuff, putting together baskets, dying eggs, setting up Easter egg hunts, cooking a ham or lamb feast for the family. Maybe they even go to church. Our church is always jammed that day with lots of parishioners who only show up for Christmas and Easter. For my family, that was part of the tradition, the reason we got all dressed up.
But with no children, the traditions fade into memory. We're not teaching another generation how to carry them on, unless we're close to other people's children. It's a good job for an aunt or uncle, doing the Easter thing. If you've got a kid around, drag out the eggs.
On Sunday, I'll be singing at church and possibly going to a restaurant to eat. Maybe I'll watch a video later, glad to relax on a Sunday afternoon.
How about you? Does Easter push the childless button for you? How will you celebrate the holiday?
I also remember what fun we had dyeing eggs. I can still smell the vinegar as Mom set the little bowls with red, blue, orange, yellow and purple dye made from those little tabs that come in a kit. They still sell them. You dunk the eggs, let them dry and write on them with crayon or a white wax pencil.
Many years later, I pass those sections of stores thinking maybe I should buy myself a chocolate bunny or a filled Easter egg because the Easter Bunny doesn't come to my house anymore. I look at the lilies and wonder if anyone will think about buying me one. Not that I like lilies. It's the symbolism, the honoring-Mom-with-a-flower thing.
People with kids get involved with all that Easter Bunny stuff, putting together baskets, dying eggs, setting up Easter egg hunts, cooking a ham or lamb feast for the family. Maybe they even go to church. Our church is always jammed that day with lots of parishioners who only show up for Christmas and Easter. For my family, that was part of the tradition, the reason we got all dressed up.
But with no children, the traditions fade into memory. We're not teaching another generation how to carry them on, unless we're close to other people's children. It's a good job for an aunt or uncle, doing the Easter thing. If you've got a kid around, drag out the eggs.
On Sunday, I'll be singing at church and possibly going to a restaurant to eat. Maybe I'll watch a video later, glad to relax on a Sunday afternoon.
How about you? Does Easter push the childless button for you? How will you celebrate the holiday?
Monday, March 30, 2009
Babies, babies, babies!
At a party last week, one of the women brought her six-week-old son. He's a cute little critter, but I had no experience to share, and I was not one of the women reaching out to hold him. People's cats always wind up in my lap, but babies, nope.
A few nights later, I had dinner at a home of a woman in my church choir. I had already seen her personalized "Nana" license plate, but when I walked in the door, her walls were so plastered with photos of her children and grandchildren it made me dizzy. The other guest, who always brings her granddaughter to church with her, cooed appropriately, but I immediately knew we wouldn't have much to talk about. As she gave the tour of the house, we had to hear who was in each picture and what they were doing, and I began to regret turning down the glass of wine she had offered. It's a lot like those folks who send Christmas newsletters telling all about kids we've never met and never will. When we finally sat down to chat, I summoned the calico cat to sit in my lap. I loved the vibration of her purring against my thighs even as my sinuses clogged up with allergies. Thank God for cats.
A few nights later, I had dinner at a home of a woman in my church choir. I had already seen her personalized "Nana" license plate, but when I walked in the door, her walls were so plastered with photos of her children and grandchildren it made me dizzy. The other guest, who always brings her granddaughter to church with her, cooed appropriately, but I immediately knew we wouldn't have much to talk about. As she gave the tour of the house, we had to hear who was in each picture and what they were doing, and I began to regret turning down the glass of wine she had offered. It's a lot like those folks who send Christmas newsletters telling all about kids we've never met and never will. When we finally sat down to chat, I summoned the calico cat to sit in my lap. I loved the vibration of her purring against my thighs even as my sinuses clogged up with allergies. Thank God for cats.
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