I often write here about the need to have THE TALK with one’s partner about whether or not you’re going to have children. But after that talk, we’ll probably find ourselves having another talk–with our parents–about how they’re not going to be getting any grandchildren from us.

If they’re like most parents of adult children, they’re going to start hinting for grandchildren shortly after the wedding. As time passes and you’re not pregnant, they’re likely to start dropping hints, asking questions, noting that you’re not getting any younger, and laying guilt trips about how their friends are all getting grandchildren

How do you respond? Do you put them off with “not yet,” tell them it’s not going to happen, or change the subject?

In my own case, although I remember many conversations about marriage while we did dishes together, I don’t remember telling my mother I wasn’t going to have kids with Fred. I know we talked about it, a lot, when I was with my first husband. Children were still a possibility then. After the divorce, I remember talking about whether or not I was too old–I wasn’t.

But when I hooked up with Fred, did we have the talk about his vasectomy and reluctance to have more children? I don’t think we did. I do remember that my mother took my side when other family members bugged me about kids. When I moped about not being a mother, she insisted I was a mother because I had stepchildren, even though she didn’t have much of a relationship with them.

As for my father, we didn’t talk about that kind of thing. I’d talk to Mom, and she’d talk to him. I know he would have enjoyed the children I might have had. But we’ve never spoken about it directly.

How about you? How did you break the news to your parents? How did they react? Or have you put off that conversation indefinitely?

Dear friends,
Please forgive my recent silence. My husband passed away yesterday. I will be back here with new posts soon.
Sue

I pause at a rest stop on the way to Albany and see a young couple playing with an adorable curly-haired baby. I think, oh, I should have had that, but other visions make me glad I missed that stage of life.

I see a pregnant woman walking with difficulty to the restroom, a squalling baby in her arms. I see another pregnant woman in town, pushing her one-year-old in a stroller. She walks heavily, her face bearing the weight of the world. Is she wondering how she got herself into this?

At Fred Meyer, I get in line behind this attractive white-haired woman who has a child somewhere between 18 months and two years old her stroller. The kid is grabbing everything as she tries to put it on the conveyer belt. Grandma is flummoxed. She leaves stuff in the cart and forgets to pay for it, seems totally confused. She sends a bagger off to get her a Coke. He brings regular and caffeine-free, not sure what she wants. She says, “Oh I need the caffeine; I’m taking care of three grandchildren.”

I plunk my light bulbs, tea and moisturizer on the conveyer belt, glad I don’t have to deal with any of this. Sometimes I feel bad about not having children, but other times, I think, “Oh, thank you, Lord.”

Think about it. As much as we might mourn our loss of children, there are some good things about not having children. Let’s make a list.

I’ll start:

1)I’m not wrestling a child at the grocery store.
2I can go to the bathroom in peace.
3)I’m not exhausted from being pregnant and taking care of a one-year-old at the same time.

What else should be on the list?

I have been leading the children in song at our Vacation Bible School this week. I’m finding that it’s fun. Somewhere along the way, I moved from seeing every child as a reminder of what I don’t have to simply enjoying children wherever I find them. They’re delightful, all jammed into the pews singing in their high voices, doing all the gestures, up, down, turn around, hands in the sky, hands to the ground, etc. Their young brains learn the songs far quickly than we can. Singing with them allows me to feel young and be goofy, too.

These little guys and girls have boundless energy, so I’m not sorry when they run off to their lessons and someone has else has to worry about keeping them from tearing the place apart. My music gives me a way to interact with them that fits my abilities and my temperament.

If you’re grieving over not having children, I understand. I have cried so many tears over this issue, but believe me, it really does get easier. Meanwhile, love the kids around you and know that while you are not a mother, you can play a role in their lives, even if it’s singing “Pharoh, Pharoh” to the tune of “Louie, Louie.”

I was reading a question put online by a woman who is 40, childless and married to a man who doesn’t want kids. She says it’s too late for her to get pregnant. What should she do? She sounded really heart-broken. I’m betting none of the answers given will ease her pain much. It’s so simple for folks not in this situation to tell us what to do. It’s very likely this woman already thought of all possibilities suggested and knows why they might not work for her.

Commenters offered this advice:

You’re not too old to get pregnant. Maybe yes, maybe no. It is harder when you’re over 40, and the problem with the husband remains.

Adopt. First, a husband who doesn’t want to father his own child probably doesn’t want to adopt someone else’s. Second, many adoption agencies have age limits.

Get a dog or cat. Well, that helps some, but it’s not the same.

Get counseling. Maybe you’re depressed. Perhaps, but not having children (when you want them) is a loss and she should be allowed to grieve. It can help to talk about it with a therapist, but it doesn’t solve the underlying problem.

Talk to your husband. Maybe she has, and he is not going to change his mind. If she hasn’t told him exactly how she feels, she should tell him and see if they can work out a solution that makes both of them happy.

Leave the bum. Maybe she loves him and wants to spend the rest of her life with him. She just wants to have children, too.

Judging by the comments we get here, I suspect many of you already understand the dilemma. There are no easy answers. Someone has to sacrifice, and it’s going to hurt. The best hope is to make a decision and try to find peace with that decision.

When Fred and I got together, I was 31 and still hoping to be a mom. He was 46 and had had a vasectomy after his third child was born. For a while after our engagement, we talked about having a child together. If his vasectomy couldn’t be reversed, we would try artificial insemination or adoption. We talked about it with my gynecologist. We collected information about adoptions. It never occurred to me that I would go to my grave without children.

Then one evening on a camping trip, Fred dropped the bomb. “I really don’t want to have any more children,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” I replied, stunned. That’s pretty much all I ever said about it until many years later. Somehow, I had this big case of denial. He would change his mind, or a persistent sperm would find its way to one of my eggs, and I would have a baby.

Looking back, I should have demanded that we talk about this a lot more. I should have made it clear that I wanted children. But I didn’t. Why? I was more afraid of losing Fred than of not having children. My first marriage blew up, the three-year relationship I had in-between turned out badly, and I had almost reconciled myself to being alone forever. Then Fred came along. I had never felt love like that, and I didn’t dare do anything to mess it up.

Now I suspect that, if I had insisted, he loved me enough that we would have had children. But it’s too late now.

So, ladies and gents in childless relationships, how did you discover your mate wouldn’t or couldn’t become a parent, and how did you react? Is there time to change the situation?

At the library for our monthly writers’ meeting, I hear a voice behind me calling my name. I turn and blink, trying to recognize this young woman with a baby attached to her by what looks like an overgrown scarf. I won’t remember her name until later, but I know she was one of my best students. She was writing about motherhood. It comes back to me. The last time I saw her, she was pregnant, and I was editing her proposal for a book about birthing plans. But that was—this is a different baby. She has three, I think. Then I discover this pudgy-faced Gerber baby is number four. The oldest is six. Oh. What do you say? He’s beautiful. I love his tiny coveralls and the soft brown fuzz on his head. As our guest speaker talks, every now and then he gurgles a loud amen, and when we write, he seems to be studying the page, thinking hard.

Although wearing the glassy-eyed stare of someone who rarely gets enough sleep, my student seems content and bonded to her baby.

In the front row, another young woman, very young, has the same translucent, puffy look of a new mother. She clutches what looks like a blanket in her lap. Later I’ll learn that it’s her jacket. She’s struggling to write about her recent experience giving her baby up for adoption. Like me, she keeps looking at the baby in the back row.

Afterward, I talk to my student, catching up. Yes, she is still writing when she can. She knows all about me from reading my newsletter. “How’s Annie?” she asks. My dog. “Good,” I say.

I get busy helping to put away the chairs. At home, as I relax into my big chair in front of the TV, Annie jumps into my lap, all 60 pounds of her. She keeps trying to lick my face. I pull her close and pet her soft fur. “Oh, baby, let’s just watch American Idol, okay?”

Could the Anonymous poster who commented yesterday or today on being 53 and devastated about not having children send their comment again? It was great, and I accidentally deleted it. Thanks.

I’m having a depressed day. It took an hour to pry myself out of bed, seeing little reason to do so. But for the dogs, I might never get up, and now I’m spending the day with these beautiful creatures whose only concerns are eating, sleeping, playing and peeing. My husband’s condition is worse every day. I try to wall off my emotions, but it doesn’t always work. Earlier I was sitting at my desk, crying. Human children would want to know why I was crying and demand that I fix them breakfast, but Annie just let me hold her. She and Chico both licked my face, and now they welcome me to their pack, no questions asked, no “what’s the matter”, no “snap out of it”, no “I need . . .” You’re sad; I’m here. That’s it. You rarely get that from a child. Plus you have to suck it up so you don’t worry them.

Get rid of the dogs? I can’t. A lot of trouble? Oh yes. Expense? Wow. But they’re what I’ve got now, and I’m glad to be in their pack. I took them from their mother; they’re my responsibility. They’re not like an old computer. They’re living beings, looking at me with those big brown eyes, plopping themselves into my lap, welcoming me to their yard. As long as we all eat, sleep, potty and stay together, everything’s cool.

Dear friends,
My husband fell and has been in the hospital this week. He will not be coming home for a while if ever, due to a long-term illness that has gotten much worse. I have been looking at nursing homes. So I have not been able to post anything new this week, but I will as soon as possible. The newsletter will also be delayed. Thanks for your understanding. Please feel free to post your own questions, comments and ideas while I’m doing the hospital shuffle.