Births are Up–In Some Places

Sue Fagalde Lick Australian births, baby boomlet, National Center for Health Statistics

A report released yesterday on AOL by the National Center for Health Statistics shows that a record number of babies, 4.3 million, were born in the U.S. last year. That’s a lot of diapers. It was the largest number of births reported since 1957, the middle of the baby boom.

People have been talking about a baby “boomlet” for a while, but it’s not the same as in the ’50s when all the moms were about the same age, in their 20s, living in suburbia with their post-military husbands who were employed in the economic boom. On my street, every family had children about the same age. Not any more.

Demographer Arthur Nelson of the University of Utah, Salt Lake City, is quoted in the AOL report as saying that this boom won’t be nearly as big as the 1950s version. It can’t because so many of us remain childless. Plus the babies are coming from different groups, primarily immigrants, professional women who waited until their 40s to have children, and the 20-to-30-year old children of the original boomers. It’s just happening all at the same time. In a few years folks may wish they hadn’t turned so many schools into senior centers and shopping malls.

Although the numbers are up in some areas, it’s important to look at WHO is giving birth. Another report this week, coming from Melborne, Australia notes that the rate of childlessness among 20-to-44-year-old professional women is up to a whopping 62.5 percent. The overall childless rate among Australian women of that age group is 40 percent.

My point to this meandering wash of statistics? Having children in your 20s or 30s is not a given anymore. Although the overall birth rate may rise and fall, now that we have legal abortion and birth control, there will always be a segment of the population that does not have children, and we are too big a group to be ignored. People cannot assume that women of a certain age are mothers and grandmothers. They must consider the possiblity that all we have raised are puppies and goldfish.

What is Our Cancer Risk?

Sue Fagalde Lick breast cancer, cancer risks of childless women, estrogen

I have been doing research lately on the risk of certain cancers for childless women. I have now read dozens of times that childlessness increases the risk of breast, ovarian and uterine cancers. Apparently pregnancy offers some protection by giving us a break from nonstop estrogen onslaughts every month, and there are other hormonal protections that develop. There’s a trick to this. In order to reap the benefits, you have to give birth before 30 or 35, depending on which expert you ask, and you have to carry the pregnancy to term. Abortions and miscarriages do not help; in fact, they may increase the risk.

What I’m finding frustrating is that so far I can’t find out how much risk we’re talking about. In the U.S. the standard is that 1 in 8 women will have breast cancer. But if we haven’t had children, what is the ratio? 1 in 7, 1 in 6, worse? Or is the risk so small there’s no point in worrying about it? That’s what I’m trying to find out.

It does appear that having a family history of cancer is much more likely to be a problem, and of course if you’ve had suspicious mammograms or biopsies before, the odds get really scary.

As far as I know, I don’t have any cancer, but I’m waiting for my pap smear results and having my mammogram in August, so I can’t say for sure that I’m cancer-free. I’m surrounded by friends with cancer right now. Nobody can be smug about this stuff.

I’m still working on this project and when/if I get the numbers, I will share them here. Meanwhile, if you’d like to know more about female cancers, here are some sites to check out: National Cancer Institute, American Cancer Society, and the World Oncology Network.

If you have information on this subject or know someone good to interview, please let me know.

Stay healthy, okay?

Childless Fourth of July

Sue Fagalde Lick childless, fireworks, Fourth of July

It’s a drizzly Fourth of July on the Central Oregon Coast, which does not bode well for the planned parades and fireworks, but I’m content to stay home and enjoy a good book, maybe watch a video. I do worry about the puppies not getting out to play, but they’ll be all right.

If I had children around, it would be a different story. After all, aren’t they the ones who get the most excited about Fourth of July? The food, the fun, the fireworks are all new and thrilling to them. We have something in the nearby town of Yachats called the La De Da Parade. Anybody can join in, the sillier the better. If we had kids, could we deny them the privilege? In a tiny town like Yachats, they might well be representing their scout troop, their school, their dog club, their swim team, whatever. I might even be walking with them in the rain from the Commons around the downtown streets and back. Rain or not, that’s what moms do, right?

When my husband and I attend the parade, we watch from the sidelines, then skedaddle to a nearby restaurant for a romantic lunch for two, eating seafood croissants at a table overlooking the bay while all those parents and kids scramble to reunite and find something cheap to eat before dashing off to other holiday events, all of which will culminate in finally opening the big box of fireworks the second it gets dark.

As a non-mom, I can choose to stay home and do nothing special. I don’t even have to watch fireworks. I can just close my eyes and remember the many fireworks displays I have seen before: at the Calgary Stampede, at Great America, at Disneyland, at the Bees Stadium in San Jose after the baseball game, and so many other places. I can even track back to my own childhood. We could see the big fireworks show from Buck Shaw Stadium from our driveway. Dad set off smaller fireworks from the red, white and blue box Mom had bought earlier in the week. My little brother and I watched, swirling sparklers around, painting pictures of light in the darkness. I can still smell the smoke, hear the crackle, whoosh and bang of the Roman candles and firecrackers, and see the bright colors flashing in the street. The whole neighborhood came out, the summer nights were deliciously cool, and it was so much fun.

If I had children, I couldn’t deny these experiences to them—or to myself. It would be like getting a chance to relive my own childhood and share the best parts of it with a new generation. Although I’m not sad to stay in on this rainy holiday, I am aware once again that my life as a childless woman is different from the lives of those who have children and grandchildren, different from the life I could have had.

I’m wearing red, white and blue. Why not? It’s Fourth of July. Have a happy holiday and do something to delight the kid in you.

I get to keep my uterus

Sue Fagalde Lick gynecologist, menopause, never having children, uterus

Whoa, there’s a headline. I visited the gynecologist Wednesday, fully expecting that the two-years-delayed hysterectomy was about to occur. But no, she said things haven’t changed since last year. Just keep doing my kegels. Wait, I’m doing one now.
Okay.

The other good news was that I’d lost seven pounds since last year’s exam, and my blood pressure was lower than ever, a good thing in a family that tends to stroke out.

But back to the uterus. I was quite nervous driving to Corvallis for my exam. There’s always the awkwardness of showing your parts to the doctor and the fear she might find signs of cancer. Have I mentioned that childless women are more likely to get breast, uterine and ovarian cancers? We are. But I was also wondering how I was going to work surgery into my busy schedule. I pictured myself pleading, “Can I keep it until October? I have some time then.” Shoot, I don’t even know how to fit in my dog Annie’s spay job before she goes into her first heat.

As I muttered to myself on the road, I finally said the words I’ve always shied away from: “I’m never going to have children.” I heard myself and thought, whoa, I said it. Does that mean I’ve accepted my fate? Yes and no. With menopause, it’s a done deal. I still have regrets, and those puppies I’m always talking about are not the same thing. They’re dogs, not people. Cute, but really hard to call on the phone.

Part of me wants to get this useless uterus out. It’s almost like the final stage of menopause. Take out the unnessary parts. But it makes things so final.

Meanwhile, pregnant young women dominated the waiting room, their bellies sticking way out in front of them. I scanned the middles of every woman who came in, smiling at the ones with no “bump.” My group. An older lady sitting across from me scanned the magazines, heavy on parenting, and chose a National Geographic.

As I waited in the examining room, wearing a gown that left half of me exposed, I scanned the walls. Everything was about having babies: pictures of babies, nutrition for a healthy baby, how to make labor easier. Can’t they set aside an examining room for those who are never going to have babies and might be losing their uteri? Call it the Empty Womb Room? It would be the compassionate thing to do.

Anyway, I’m keeping my parts for now and hoping for happy test results. And I’m never going to have a baby.

Learning mother lessons from the dog

Sue Fagalde Lick blood, mother lessons, puppies as child substitutes


I came home from church choir, weary and glad to finally relax. A soak in the spa would feel great. But it was not to be.

As I opened the door of the dimly lit laundry room/dog room, Annie jumped on me, smearing something dark on the left leg of my jeans from knee to crotch. Mud, I thought. The floor was also covered with black. What was going on? I turned on the overhead fluorescent lights and gasped. It was not mud. It was blood. Blood in the shape of dog footprints.

Where was it coming from? I lifted up the front end of each four-month-old dog, looking for blood. I checked Annie’s mouth, feet and even under her tail to see if she had come into heat early. Then it was Chico’s turn. Oh God. He was bleeding heavily from the little toe of his left front foot. It looked as if someone had sliced it down to raw, bloody meat. The nail was completely gone. It appeared some of the toe was missing, too, but it was hard to tell with so much blood.

The puppy resisted inspection, although he didn’t seem to be in much pain and appeared to walk all right. I blotted with paper towels, one after another covered with blood. I had blood all over my hand in a minute, but I didn’t care.

I needed a closer look. I tried to lift all 30 pounds once and failed, took a deep breath, gave it all my strength and hefted him onto the washing machine, “Mom’s” examining table. Blood all over the white Maytag. It didn’t matter. I looked at his wound, felt sick at heart, and set the dog back down. I cleaned the washer with a baby wipe.

Chico kept licking blood off the concrete floor as I tried to wipe it off with paper towels. Annie kept biting at the towels. With every step, Chico spread more blood. Oh my God, I thought, something has cut off his toe. My perfect puppy is maimed.

He was still bleeding. I took him inside, not caring about the blood dripping on the kitchen floor and the beige rug in the den. It was 10 o’clock at night. Sitting on the floor, holding Chico next to me with one hand, I dialed the vet’s phone number and got the answering service.

“My puppy has hurt his foot and I don’t think it can wait until morning.”

The gruff woman said there were no emergency vets available that night. She could give me the number for a vet in the Valley . . .

“No, I can’t do that.” Not when I was too tired to drive an hour and a half of mountain roads, not when Chico was walking around just fine despite the blood.

“Well, Chico, I guess we’re on our own till morning,” I told the dog.

Back in the laundry room, I sank down onto the bloody floor. Chico walked over me, bleeding onto my bare ankle. It did not matter. All that mattered was that Chico be all right.

We sat vigil. Eventually the bleeding slowed. The puppies went into their crate, snuggling up together for the night.

I re-filled the water dish, put out the pee pads and locked the doors, saying a prayer that God take care of Chico.

Early the next morning, I dressed quickly and greeted the dogs. Chico’s wound was dry, with a magenta hole in his toe. It was just the nail that was gone. Still, I skipped breakfast and called the vet as soon as they opened. I listened to the hold tape, Mozart, interrupted three times by “Your call is important to us . . .” before Denise at the desk listened to my problem and told me there was nothing they could do. I should watch it and put pressure on the wound if it bleeds again.

“Will the nail ever grow back?” I asked.

“Oh sure,” Denise said.

The dogs, seeming to know that Chico was injured, spent the morning lying around on the deck instead of their usual roughhousing. I joined them, ignoring work and husband to snuggle with my puppies.

Mothers, even mothers of puppies, will do anything to keep them safe. If Chico had been hurt worse, I would have driven to the valley, arriving at midnight, probably getting lost on the way. I didn’t care about the blood on me. Whatever I had to sacrifice—sleep, clothes, my spa soak, a big vet bill–I did not care. I just wanted him to be all right.

Of course I know these are dogs, but when your family consists of two adults and two puppies, that’s your family, and you’re the mommy.

The lesson that motherhood teaches is that we are not the center of the universe; if we don’t have children, we must learn that lesson some other way or remain perpetual children. I may be late to class, but I’m learning more every day.

Suddenly they’re everywhere!

Sue Fagalde Lick children at restaurants, grownup time, mother-baby bond

I’m on the road with my husband this week, and it seems as if everywhere we go, there are children, small childen, oodles of them. Even Tuesday at orientation for dog class, the teacher had to talk over the chatter of little kids whose parents think it will be good for them to train the dog. At every restaurant, we get seated next to a table of little ones who seem to think the world revolves around them. They don’t talk; they scream, and it gets old. But tonight while I gorged on a Denny’s chocolate brownie with ice cream and hot fudge, I watched a new mother hold her baby. You could tell they had a special connection. It didn’t seem to bother her when he babbled and squealed and grabbed for every condiment on the table. The mom ate a salad, probably trying to lose the baby weight and also not having time to eat much. The father blithely devoured a burger and fries.
Watching, I envied the closeness of mother and child and knew it would not last long before the child was too big to cuddle and would be demanding “Tacos!” or letting the world know they don’t like peas.
Was I sorry I don’t have children? Yes and no. It will always be that way.
I’m typing this in the lobby of our hotel. A woman checking in responded “Thank God, no” when asked if she had kids or pets with her. As someone who left her puppies at home and can put my shoes on the floor without having them chewed up, I agreed. Love them, but sometimes a little grownup people time is good. I even got the pool to myself, except for a motel cat named “Mouse” who minded his own business. Bliss.
I have a time limit and this keyboard leaves out half the letters. Gotta go.
Your comments are welcome.

Sometimes even puppies are too much

Sue Fagalde Lick pregnant with puppies, terrible twos

Puppies! They’re driving me crazy. Unlike human children, dogs move into the “terrible twos” by the time they’re three months old. Mine, now one day short of 16 weeks, have already gotten too big to carry, and they are so tall they can reach things I never thought they could reach, like my favorite shoes. Yesterday I looked out the window and saw them carrying something big and white. Didn’t take me long to figure out what it was. If they can reach that, they can reach everything on the tables in the back yard, so my ceramic frogs are doomed unless I figure out someplace higher and more stable—but not so high that the raccoons can get them.

They’re not only tall but energetic. I remember tales of my young cousins found climbing on top of the dining room table and such. At least my aunt had a year or so to get used to having them around, feeding them and changing diapers and such, before they learned to walk.

Speaking of diapers, Chico is fairly well house-trained, but Annie either doesn’t get it or chooses to express herself in the form of urine. The vet says she’s marking her territory. Lovely. I cleaned up an ocean of pee this morning. When I went to feed them, I was so flustered I forgot to make the dogs sit and Annie knocked the bowl out of my hand. Puppy chow everywhere.

The fact that it has been raining all day (this is Oregon in June) does not help. When I bring them in, the dogs are so restless they go after every electrical cord, gnaw every wooden furniture edge, and even chew the nubs that stick up on the carpet. They grab tissues out of the trash and carry them under the bed, somehow making themselves flat enough to crawl around under there. We hear muffled barks and see the occasional face sticking out.

They accidentally got locked outside when we went to lunch. When they came in, they covered the floor and my jeans with muddy paw marks. I guess they finally got some exercise because both are sleeping now in the crate in my office. It took a lot of doing to get them in there. Two months and 40 total pounds ago, they went in willingly and fit easily. Now if I leave the room, they’ll probably wake up and start gnawing on the door.

Whether you ever wanted children or not, you have to admire mothers. You can’t lock human babies outside or toss them a rawhide bone to amuse them for awhile. It’s a round-the-clock obligation for years. I don’t know if I ever would have been ready for that, but the payoff would be grown children and maybe grandchildren in my life now.

The dogs are asleep, all wrapped around each other. One of them is snoring. Nap time is the best, whether you’re raising children or dogs.

***
I’m heading out of town to sell books at a festival next week, so the next blog entry will either be early or late, depending on how the rest of my work goes. I promise to get back to serious childless issues.

Does having a baby make you smarter?

Sue Fagalde Lick Kinsley and Lambert, The Mommy Brain

Some scientists think so. Craig Kinsley and Kelly Lambert’s studies with rats showed that the flush of hormones that comes with pregnancy, childbirth and lactation cause permanent changes in the learning and memory capacities of mother rats compared to “virgin rats.” They were able to find food in a maze more easily, catch live food more quickly, and they seemed to have enhanced sensory powers. They’re also braver. In other words, as Kinsley put it, the experiments showed “mom rats kicking virgin rats’ butts.”

These and other studies are detailed in the book The Mommy Brain by Katherine Ellison (Perseus Books, 2005). Overall, it shows that while mothers may think their brains turn to Jello when they spend all day with their babies, they’re actually learning skills that will help in all aspects of life.

The experts theorize that these gains in brain power develop to help mothers protect their young and keep the species going. They may not seem to be learning anything, but the need to be constantly responsible for another being and learn on the job how to care for them not only makes them smarter but makes them better able to multi-task, prioritize and get along with other people.

Do you buy that? The general stereotype of a stay-at-home mom is that she’s not as sharp as childless career women. A mother I talked with the other day just laughed when I mentioned this study and said, “Hah, where did you get that? My brain is mush.”

About now, you may be wondering a) if this is all B.S. and b) if it’s true, how can you catch up? Well, there’s no way to get all those pregnancy and breastfeeding hormones without having a baby, but changes have also been found in rats—and people—who spent a lot of time with infants or caregiving in general. The intimate contact leads to some of the same changes in both mothers and fathers.

So, maybe mothering my puppies makes me smarter. It certainly makes me quicker on my feet. Maybe caregiving elderly relatives is teaching me lessons I might have learned as a mother. Or maybe those years I spent caring for a live-in stepson did the job.

What do you think?

Puppies again

Sue Fagalde Lick dogs in baby buggies


Okay, those last couple posts were too sad. So let’s talk dogs again. The puppies are three months old and all legs. I swear you can see them grow as you watch. They can reach things our old dog never even though of reaching for. They’re smart. They can open doors and get into covered wastebaskets. Swear to God. This morning, they tore their unused pee pad to smithereens and scattered white fluff all over the laundry room and back yard. It looked like it had snowed. What do you do? By the time you discover it, dogs don’t remember what you’re mad about. So you cuss a little and clean it up. The wisdom offered in the dog books is that if they tore something up, you should hit yourself on the head with a newspaper for leaving it in their path. I guess this is their way of saying they don’t need pee pads during the day anymore.

But oh the joy of watching them run so fast they almost fly, the giggles watching Annie poke her head out of the tarp over the wood rack, the pure pleasure of sitting with one dog on each side sharing love, and the fun of watching them discover the world now that they’ve gotten over their fear of going for a walk. Everything is new and exciting to them. And if they greet me by jumping all me with muddy feet and nipping at my clothes, that’s because that’s how they greet each other, and I’m one of the pack.

I’m looking forward to starting doggy school next month. I want to get beyond come, sit and stay. I want them to really learn “Off!” When people ask how they are, the answer these days is always, “Big!”

It’s like raising children on an accelerated schedule. They’ll hit puberty at five months and be fully grown in a year. And eventually, please God, they’ll calm down and we can trust that if we bring them in the house they won’t bite through the TV cables or potty on the floor. Meanwhile, I’d better go see what they’re up to now.

Watching a family grow

Sue Fagalde Lick alone at memorial service

Last weekend I attended a Celebration of Life for my aunt and uncle, who both died recently. In addition to feeling sad about losing these pillars of my family who have always been there, I was struck by the sheer number of people their union has created. My cousin put together photo collages of the five children, seven grandchildren and three great-grandchildren. Many of them were there in person, astoundingly grown up. The photos included group shots of everyone together. It was quite a crowd.

I think the moment that sticks in my mind is when my cousin Denee, who is a year and half younger than I am, grabbed up her grandson, swung him around, bobbing for kisses on his pudgy cheeks, and shouted, “Grandma doesn’t love you much, does she?” She laughed. Denee’s a grandmother twice over. Her daughter’s a beautiful 30-something school counselor. My cousin has extended the family tree and taken her place as a future matriarch. Her four brothers have done their part, too. There were far more photos than we could fit on the walls.

I came early with my dad to help set up. More and more, when it comes to family events, it’s just the two of us, the widower and the childless cousin whose husband has Alzheimer’s. Yes, I have stepchildren. I invited them to join us, but they didn’t come or call. When it comes to hardcore family, they’re not part of it. Eventually my brother and his kids came and I clung to them like they were water and I was dying of thirst. After they went home, I spent a few more hours with Dad, then flew back to Portland on the late plane, alone in a crowd of strangers.

Why am I bumming you out with this? Take it as a warning. Oh ye who are considering never having children, think about the long-term consequences and how you, too, could be the lone cousin when everyone else has created a tribe of their own. Perhaps you’ll be fine with it, but I predict you’ll wish you could cover the walls with pictures of your own tribe.