Childless Marriage: Would I Do It Again?

Bearded white man petting shiny black Lab dog between green sofa and antique china cabinet. The man is the author's late husband Fred.

A reader wrote to me last week with a tough question. If I had it to do over, would I stay with the husband who wouldn’t/couldn’t make me a mother? She is currently married to a man who has never wanted children and has had a vasectomy to make sure it wouldn’t happen. They are very happy together now. They have a good life without children. But she is worried that she will regret her decision in later years.

I suspect a lot of us worry about that.

My initial response to whether I would do it over again was I don’t know. But after thinking about it for a minute, I said, “Yes, yes I would.” When Fred and I were married beside a pond on a beautiful spring day with all our loved ones nearby, we had no doubts, no worries, just joy. Out of our loneliness, we had found each other. It felt like a gift from God.

As for children, I thought his three would help fill the gap. I was a workaholic anyway, obsessed with my writing and music. Being a part-time mom might be perfect.

We could not know that Fred would suffer and die from Alzheimer’s disease or that his adult kids would pull away once he was gone. We could not know that I would end up alone in the woods in Oregon while most of my family was back in California.

Life is full of unknowns. Couples discover they can’t get pregnant. Or they break up. Or one of them dies. A new job requires a move across the country. You get sick. You win the lottery. Or you lose everything in an investment that goes wrong.

We don’t know what’s going to happen. The friend who fell off the camper step and broke her pelvis last month surely did not expect to spend the rest of her vacation in the hospital. Fred’s first wife had a stroke this year, catapulting the family into a life of caregiving and nursing home visits. We just don’t know.

All we know is what we have right now. Are you happy together? Is life good? Do you want this to last forever, or are you itching to run out the door? Can you love him or her wholeheartedly? Are they enough? All you can do is put your faith in your love, and in God, if you’re a believer.

Will you regret a life without children? The honest answer is yes, sometimes you might. I do. Most days I’m fine, but I hate not having a big family to gather with on the holidays and to help each other year-round. But would I marry Fred again? Yes, I would. I never met anyone else I could love as much as I loved him. Can you say the same?

I so appreciate you being here. Thank you for your emails and comments. Keep them coming. I don’t have all the answers. Together, we can figure it out.

******

You will be able to read much more about me and Fred in my forthcoming memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s disease, coming out next June from She Writes Press. It tells our love story from beginning to end, including the hard parts and the joyful ones. That’s Fred in the photo with our puppy Chico, who also plays a big part in the book. Stay tuned for more information.

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Sometimes you have to stick with your decision


You know what drives me crazy? When someone who has been married for 15 or 20 years decides to break up a marriage because NOW one of them has decided they have to have children. Sometimes it’s the one with baby lust who ends it. Sometimes it’s their partner because they can’t bear the resentment of the childless spouse—or because they believe that ridiculous old saying if you love them set them free.
Here’s a thought. Why not stick to the commitment you made years ago to stay together for the rest of your lives, no matter what? Rich or poor, in sickness or in health, through snoring, foot fungus, cancer scares and second thoughts about not having kids? So many people who comment here mention that they love this person, that he/she is their soul mate and they don’t know if they’ll ever find anyone else they love this much. Yet they’re thinking about leaving in the hope they’ll find someone else who has all the same great qualities, along with a yearning to be a parent.
The grass is not always greener, and the eggs are not getting any fresher. Before you leap out of a relationship or poison your relationship with resentment, consider that when you accepted this person into your life, you accepted the whole package, including his family, his kids from previous relationships, his big nose or balding head, and his reluctance to parent. Sometimes, as with my first marriage, there are a lot more problems besides disagreeing over whether to have children. That marriage was doomed. But if you really love him (or her), you stop looking around and considering other possibilities and other lives. Think about it.
Enough nagging. It’s the holidays. I hope you all survived Thanksgiving and are looking forward to Christmas. I spent Turkey Day with my dad, brother, and my sister-in-law’s vast family. All of the other women had children, lots of them. They also had living mothers and husbands. Did I feel a pang of sadness and loss? You bet. But then I thought about having to buy Christmas presents for six children and sixteen grandchildren, and I felt lucky. I can hang out with my niece and nephew and shower them with gifts. I can love the young people who are in my life through church and my writing and music activities. Then I can come home and do Christmas my way—and stay out of the shopping mall. I don’t mind that at all.
How are you doing this holiday season? Let us know in the comments.

What if the situation were different?

We often talk here about partners who deny us children because they don’t want them. They already have offspring from a first marriage or they just don’t want kids. Like many of you, I married a man who had been married before. He was older, he had three children from his first marriage, and he considered that part of his life finished. He had sealed the deal with a vasectomy.

That vasectomy complicated matters. Surgery to reverse it might or might not work. He wasn’t interested in finding out. Nor did he want to try any of the other ways we might acquire a child; he just didn’t want a baby in the house.

But what if he was simply unable to father children? It’s possible that he couldn’t have given me what I wanted anyway. Fred and his first wife didn’t conceive for 16 years after they got married. The doctors never figured out why. Assuming they could not get pregnant, they adopted their first two children. Eight years later, his wife gave birth to a son.

How do I know that was not the one and only time Fred’s sperm could do the job? What if instead of telling me he didn’t want any more children, he had told me, “I CAN’T give you children.” I loved him so much that I probably would have married him anyway, but it puts a whole different light on the situation. The decision would be irrevocable. I wouldn’t have adopted; I have never been interested in raising someone else’s child.

Now what if you were the one who physically couldn’t produce a child? How would you feel if your spouse or partner really wanted kids? How would it change your relationship?

It’s something to think about.