All it took was one word to break my heart again.
That word was “Mama.”
I was down in the dumps anyway as I took my usual walk down Cedar Street. A migraine had dogged me all weekend. I missed a music jam I was looking forward to. I was tired of being alone.
A German shepherd standing in a driveway reminded me of Annie and all the dogs I have lost, including Heidi, the German shepherd I lost along with my first marriage.
Then I passed these two little brown-haired boys, one maybe two years old, the other maybe six.
As the little one stared at me, the big one shouted, “He might call you ‘Mama.’”
And then he did. “Mama!”
Gulp. No one has ever called me Mama.
I smiled and waved. “I don’t mind,” I assured the older boy as tears threatened. “He’s cute.”
What? Like a puppy? It was a dumb thing to say.
I let the tears fall as soon I got out of their sight. The pain of never having children was just as bad 20 years past menopause as it was when I was 35.
That scarred place in my heart breaks every time this happens.
A couple weeks ago at church, I was playing the piano at Mass. The family close to me in the front row included an adorable toddler happily squeezed between her mother and grandmother. Black hair, brown skin, big eyes, dimples. If I had had a little girl, she would have looked a lot like this one, maybe not as brown, but she’d have the same black hair and brown eyes.
Grandma held a big cloth book while the child turned the pages.
Oh my God, I wanted to be one of those women. I wanted to hold that baby. But I never would. I had no claim to her.
All I could do was keep playing the piano.
Back on my walk, I was visiting a neighbor’s dogs a little later when the boys came down the street with an older girl. In trying to keep up, the little guy stumbled and fell. He was not hurt, but he looked at me and cried “Mama!” I kept petting the dogs while the girl scooped up her little brother. She was already a mother-in-training. I missed that class.
I belong with the dogs, I told myself. I’m a dog person. I’m going to get another dog soon. I will feel better.
Why do I share this today? Because it still hurts. Because I want you to know that while you will feel okay most of the time about not having children and will build a good life without them, it’s still going to hurt when you least expect it. That scar is there, and it’s brittle.
As Jody Day, founder of Gateway Women and author of the book Living the Life Unexpected, likes to say, our pain is an unacknowledged, disenfranchised grief. When someone dies, it’s awful, but everyone sees and understands your loss. They hold you while you cry. They bring casseroles. They know it hurts and give you a break. When you get a divorce, lose a job, or crash your car, everybody sympathizes.
But not having children doesn’t seem to count. How can you grieve what you never had? Besides, they say, unless you were physically unable to bear children, you made the choices that led to this situation. Right? So get over it.
It’s not that easy. It will hurt sometimes. It’s okay. Cry, stomp, curse, whatever you have to do. Talk about it with people who might be sympathetic. Try to explain: When I hear the word Mama, it kills me.
It will pass. You’ll go on with the other wonderful things in your life. But it’s never gone.
Listen to Jody Day’s talk on Disenfranchised grief and know that those of us who experience this kind of grief are aware of your tears and your pain and acknowledge that it is real.
Are there words or situations that trigger your emotions? Do the people around you understand why you’re upset? Let’s talk about it in the comments.
Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com
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I have a new Substack titled “Can I Do It Alone?” Since my first post on April 1, it has taken off like wildfire. See what all the fuss is about at https://open.substack.com/pub/suelick/p/introducing-can-i-do-it-alone?r=ejjy9&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web
Childless by Marriage 
The words that trigger me most these days begin with “As a mother….” But that’s a blog post for another day.
I can relate to all of what you shared here. And while I’m in a good place, the triggers still find their marks occasionally.
I started to write that the people around me (meaning family) really don’t get why (though I have one sibling who is compassionate and tries), but then I really thought about it. And you know what? I do have people around me who understand because I have put myself out there and joined online CNBC communities, and I have nurtured friendships with other CNBC women, and I follow bloggers like you who assure me I am seen and we are not alone.
So, again: Thank you.
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Thank you, Kathleen. I’m so glad you’re here. You’re right. We have our childless community, and that’s a huge help. When I was young and fertile, there was really no such thing. We went through it alone. But thanks to so many people like you and Jody, now we have friends we can turn to who understand. “As a mother . . . ” Ooh. It implies that mothers are so much better than we are, and that’s not true. Yes, it’s a whole other blog post.
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I go by Mimi. Lots of grandkids call their grandmothers Mimi. It bothers me every time I hear a kid call his grandmother “Mimi”.
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I can see how that would be an issue. Nobody uses that in my family, I have heard it. I’m sorry that happens to you.
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“… it’s still going to hurt when you least expect it.” Yep, it’s always when we least expect it.
I never quite know when something is going to hit as an “ouch” moment. Usually for me, it is an interaction between kids and their parents or grandparents. Or, as Kathleen said, the “as a mother …” comments. The kids themselves are fine. I can mostly take pleasure in their company. They’re not mine, and I try not to think about what mine would have been like. It’s my kids I mourned, and the loss of the relationship with them.
But you’re right. Those ouch moments pass, and we regain our equilibrium. And that’s what’s so important about our blogs – all our blogs – because they can see that these moments pass, we cope with them (as you have done), and we get back to enjoying our lives.
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Oh ladies! I feel you all. Like you Sue, I’ve mostly made my peace with my childless state but it’s hit me hard recently too.
Last week my niece had a scheduled C-Section early in the morning. I was excited for her. I certainly did not expect to receive the news until after they were settled, after my brother and sister in law had been notified, after great-grandparent were told, after they savored this new creation.
But around mid-morning I started to watch my phone. Even then, I figured it would be closer to noon before they got around to letting others know. Shortly after lunch I decided to text my brother. It had been six hours since the surgery. I was getting worried! Luckily he replied quickly that all was well, but he wasn’t supposed to share the news. My niece wanted to do that herself. I thought that was nice.
So I waited. And waited. Finally I texted my parents (they hadn’t heard anything either). I waited. I thought about texting my brother again but I didn’t want to be intrusive. I waited. My mom texted me to see I had heard anything. She was waiting too. I continued to wait until about 8:00 that evening when Mom called to tell me that my niece had finally called her.
I was happy to know details about the baby, but disappointed to wait all that time and not hear from my niece directly. But maybe I was next on the list and my mom had spoiled it. I decided to act surprised when my niece called.
About 9:30 pm my niece sent a group text with the details and the pictures. All I could do was cry. And feel hurt that I was so far down the line. I spent all day excited, praying, waiting to rejoice with my family. Only to learn that I was on the “14+ hours later” text chain. My parents were hurt too that they had to wait as long as they did. I was disappointed for my brother – that he wasn’t allowed the joy of announcing this awesome news to his parents and siblings. We should have been rejoicing all day but we were instead worrying and waiting.
The next morning I replied, with a text full of beautiful words. She never replied. I’ll never tell her how hurt I am. My niece has a history of being a bit selfish so this wasn’t personal. Plus I don’t even know if I have a right to be upset. I’m not a mother and I have no clue what any of this feels like. I googled “how long to wait to announce birth” but I didn’t get any real answers on what is appropriate.
It seemed too weird to text my brother at that point so I didn’t bother. I cried through most of my church service. I should have stayed home. I’m not a mother. I will never be a grandmother. I have over 20 nieces and nephews in my life and this is pretty much as good as it’s going to get.
To be honest I’m still not okay. But it will pass and in the meantime I’m blessed to have this online community of people who understand that strength is sometimes gained by quietly dealing with what you DON’T have.
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Anon, I’m sorry this hit you so hard. Families are . . . complicated. I’m glad it was good news in the end.
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I failed to mention that I spent the most of that day shopping with my best friend and her son. His lovely wife was with us and they revealed that they were keeping their eyes peeled for baby items! I truly felt joy for this lovely young couple. I really did. But I guess that could have influenced my overall feelings.
The reason I’m updating (releasing) today is because I just learned that my difficult sister in law (the one I’ve previously complained about endlessly) is expecting baby #8. Eight babies. All beautiful, healthy and lovely. It’s creating a buzz in the family text chain. I don’t begrudge them another child. As you said, it’s good news – it just feels complicated.
To add final insult, I highly suspect that the book I’m reading will reveal (in the last few chapters) that the older childless character is pregnant. The childlessness of the couple in the story was only a descriptive measure in an otherwise great book. But it’s ramping up, I can tell.
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Eight babies! Wow. I hope there’s no magic baby in your book, but it happens a lot. I try not to do that in my novels. We need books where the childless stay childless, like us.
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