No Kidding in NZ

Over the last month, my husband and I have had three separate groups of visitors. Two crossed over with each other so we could have family dinners together. But I didn't estimate how exhausting it would be dealing with all the stresses and emotions of the visitors, the catering, the cleaning, the planning and the conversation. I guess starting at a high stress level doesn't help, does it? 

We had lots of laughs, and good times, and I appreciated all the visits, the wine, the avocados, the lunches and dinners bought for us. The adults-only nature of the visits was a change too, and made it easier. I am not ungrateful, and overall the visits were wonderful.

But I have to get a few things off my chest that I am pretty sure only my readers and one or two friends will understand. 

Actually, although I'm sure parents in my situation would feel the same, they might not be quite so afraid of saying the wrong thing, because they're never going to be hit with "you're not a parent, so you know nothing!" Not that anyone said this to me. It's just that I am always conscious it could be coming. 

Sometimes I laugh, and pre-empt the comments, saying, "I know I don't have kids, but at least that means I can't be criticised for doing the wrong thing, or doing the opposite of what I say I am doing!" Often that's enough to get a message across, and to point out the obvious before they do. 

Then I bite my tongue, as I hear about:

• kids not being given the freedom to choose what they study
• assumptions that only certain professions will a) make money, or are b) worthy for their kids
• kids who rarely get told "no" because their parent feels guilty 
• anxious kids, who desperately want a parent's approval, but the parent doesn't realise it or won't give it
• kids who are almost neglected, because they are "out of sight, out of mind"
• kids who are still treated like kids, and manipulated and encouraged in the direction that the parents want, when they have been adults for years!
• parents who are in complete denial that they are infantilising their adult children
• parents who believe they are allowing their kids to make their own decisions, but are clearly not
• parents who are horrified that their children are treating them the exact way they (the parent) treated their parents.

And yes, I know that last point dates me! 

It's also really frustrating to see male parents modelling traditional male behaviour to their daughters and sons, while their very capable (perhaps much more capable) wives bear all the emotional labour as well as all the physical work of parenting. So it also frustrates me to see the wives model traditional female behaviour to their daughters and sons too. As an old feminist, you can just imagine my stress levels rising, cumulatively, over the last month!

Mostly, though, I wanted to reach out and hug the (now adult or almost adult) children who were the subjects of many a conversation. And tell them that to wish to be someone else is to waste the person they are. Or to succumb to someone else's wish that you be someone else is to waste the person that they are. There are things we learn through pain and loss that could really help the next generation. 

And given that this is a bit of a rant, I'm going to finish saying that it is also frustrating to be spoken to as if I am indeed a teenager or young adult who knows nothing of the world, because this is how the parents speak now! Especially when the parents show little or no self-awareness of that. (Okay, I did not keep silent about that.)

So I bit my tongue, daily, sometimes hourly, sometimes every minute! Well, mostly. Ha ha!  

The thing I most wanted to say, though, and didn't, was "make your own damn cup of tea!"

“No Kids? Do You want mine?” Every childless person has probably heard these words at some stage in their lives. Depending on our stage of life, and whether we are newly grieving loss or fully accepting our childlessness and embracing the childfree benefits of that, it lands differently. It’s a silly remark, that is never fully thought through. I wonder why they say it? That got me thinking:

·         They might think it is funny, and have given no further thought to the comment and its impact on us than that.

·         Maybe they want to silence us; after all, what is there to say to such a comment? Unable to help us, they instead find our losses uncomfortable and easier not to talk about, so dismiss us with a jest instead

·         They might think we are foolish, wanting the children who are exhausting them, looking at parenthood through rose-coloured glasses.

·         Or is it annoyance that they need some acknowledgement and an ear for the realities of their life, just as we do?

·         Perhaps they feel guilt that they got something so easily that we were not able to have, and so feel defensive

·         Is it stress that prompts them to dream of a time without the constant worry and effort that comes with being a parent? The sense of relief they might feel at that possibility could prompt such a comment, but cased as a joke, so they don’t feel terrible and can brush it off.

·         Or is it sheer frustration that having kids is not what they thought it might be, and they genuinely need a break?

·         Or is there a moment of jealousy, when they envy our lives, and they want to lash out?

Most of the time, I think this comment is not meant to be is deliberately hurtful. Even if it is, maybe that says more about their happiness than ours. I think there is often misunderstanding about our lives – on both sides. Thinking this way helps me deal with insensitive comments like these. They always say so much more about the person who utters these thoughtless or unkind statements than they do about us.

It was great to see this week that our local library is offering unlimited downloads of Otherhood this week. And as a result, I also discovered that our library has a quite interesting blog! And in that blog* was an interview with the three editors. There were a few takeaways that I really liked, that sum up my view of No Kidding/Otherhood life, and that say what I want to say, just in a different way. 

The theme of the book really became, "what makes a fulfilling life?" And noted that the relationship between parent and child wasn't the "be all and end all." They were preaching to the choir on this one.

They wanted a diversity of experience, and got it, and I loved this part of the book. Because whether we wanted children or not, whether it was a deliberate choice or not, we are all affected by pronatalism, by judgement, and by condescension. 

Through the book, they've helped create a community, just as parents have an in-built community through prenatal classes or schools etc. They recognised that communities of No Kidding women already exist (like ours), but this is another option. I'm all for that. Not everyone is as lucky as I have been to find first my ectopic community, and then my blogging community. Community is, of course, especially important to those who otherwise feel isolated from society. As many as possible, please!

I had to laugh too when they noted that they have to restrain themselves (or not) when young people say, "I'm going to have two/three/four children." Or, "next year we intend to have a baby!" I have certainly been there. As two of the editors also experienced infertility, they know too well that such predictions might not come true, and hope that by talking about this more, young people can realise earlier that nothing is guaranteed.

They also noted they hoped the book and the interview might prompt people to think twice about the questions they ask. One encouraged parents to think about the most interesting thing you can talk about that is not about your kids/parenthood, etc. This is so overdue. "But it's natural for people to ask that," everyone (usually parents, or my don't-rock-the-boat husband) protests. It doesn't have to be. It's lazy, and it's a habit, is my response! And now I'm thinking about the most interesting thing I can talk about too. "Interesting" needs to be defined differently for each person. Travel, work, volunteering, retirement, food, etc etc.

As Lil (I think), pointed out, asking questions in a different way makes the diversity of stories throughout our lives more visible, and therefore not as isolating. I love this thought. My situation has certainly made me more aware of the many other diverse stories in society.

"Tell us about YOU, don't lead with your kids," they all implored. I second that. And should be writing it on my other blog. (I have, and it will be up next week.)

I was amused too that they said they tried to get our notoriously private former Prime Minister Helen Clark (also Not Kidding) to be involved with the book, but with no luck. "Phone me, Helen," said one, cheekily. She made me smile. But how great it might have been if someone with Helen's profile spoke out, in the same way that Jacinda once cringingly said, "not as a Prime Minister, but as a mother." However, I also understand her desire for privacy. It is no-one's business. And she was just as compassionate (and successful) a politician as any parent ever was.

Finally, they noted that the response so far has been wonderful, that so many people have found our stories meaningful. And that parents have been both supportive, but also have been curious. After all, just as their lives could have been ours, Otherhood is the story of the life that could have been led.

* Would you believe it? Between finding the blog and the interview, making detailed notes (thankfully) through the interview, and today, the library website has been "updated" and I can't find the interview anywhere. Argh.

One of the losses we have when we can’t have children is knowing what kind of parents we would have been. What we might have copied from our own parents, and what we would have done differently. Perhaps importantly, we want to have a chance to think about what our own parents did, what we wish they did instead, and how we might have adjusted that for our own kids, had we had any.

Yes, there are many experiences and knowledge that I wanted to pass on to my children. Good memories that I would love to recreate. And of course, no parents are perfect. I wish my parents had done some things differently. But I have been able to recognise how hard they tried, and how they did the best they could at the time, with the knowledge they had at the time. Looking at their lives this way gives me a lot of peace, and allows me to appreciate the many positives of my childhood, and my relationship with them.

So personally, I wouldn’t take any comfort in thinking about what I wish they had done differently, or how I might have done it instead. It's a recipe for pain. However, when I think about it, I realise that I could change this for myself now anyway. Or that I have already done so. I’m not a child any longer. I can change the way I think. Reflection, forced on me by loss and change, has enabled me to - in some ways - parent myself, and learn a little along the way:

• I’ve learned that just as I’m not my failures, I’m not my achievements either.
• I’ve learned that judgement can often come from low self-esteem, and at the same time that I fight against doing this myself, I can more easily forgive it in others.
• I’ve learned that I can stand up for myself. That sometimes I need to, and that’s okay to do. That we can be tactful and forthright at the same time. It’s the biggest change from the way I was brought up.
• And best of all, I’ve learned that not standing up for myself/speaking up, has nothing to do with my self-worth. That I want to fight some battles some days, and on other days, I’d just rather not. I’ve learned to know the difference. And I have given myself permission to do whatever feels right at the time. It has been liberating.
• I’ve learned that I am proud of my values.
• I’ve also learned that I can be proud of pushing myself, and that it is worth testing my instincts. But that I don’t have to push myself every single time, either. That my feelings matter.
• I’ve learned that while I appreciate a community spirit, I also commend individuality and difference. Actually, I’ve always admired that. But now I know that the two are possible at the same time.
• And I’ve learned that “do they/you have a family?” is the question asked by someone who grew up in the 30s and 40s, who had their children in the 50s and 60s, and who lived in a time and place when women’s families were their careers, and the only careers they would ever have. I learned that they don’t mean to judge or condescend by asking the question, but that they see the world differently from those of us born in later decades. And I’ve learned to accept that.

One of the most empowering things about healing and getting older is that I know that comments to us, or comments about being parents, or about us not being parents, tells me so much more about the person saying it than it does about me or my situation.

How people say they don’t understand without actually saying it:

•                    “Here, you can have my kids”
•          “At least you get to sleep in on the weekend”
•          “I wish I could travel like you”
•          “You don’t know true love till you’re a mother”
•          “Being a mother teaches you empathy”
•          “You’ve never been tired until you’ve been a mother”
•          “You could still adopt” when I’m already in my 50s
•          “We’re empty-nesters, just the same as you”
•          “I wouldn’t be the same person without my children”
•          “I know how you feel”
•          “As a mother …”
•          “As the father of daughters, …”

All these comments have been said to me, or around me, or by public figures. I know others have heard worse. What they tell me is that the people speaking either don’t understand that our lives are different, and what therefore that might mean for us, or they don’t want to understand or accept that our lives are different, or maybe that they are incapable of understanding. Or they just don't care. And they don't realise how they expose themselves with their comments.

I want understanding, not pity.
Acknowledgement, not silence.
Awareness of my life - its gains and losses - not invisibility.
Equality, not condescension.

And a lesson in restraint

Spending two weeks with someone with kids can take its toll. Especially when they focus on things that affect them, display a complete ignorance of things that affect us, and it seems, have absolutely no desire to understand. Mainly, this manifests in the parent/no kidding divide. Of course! Are you surprised?

They implied that they had a greater understanding that “life is precious” because they had a pregnancy loss, premature twins, and were parents. Even when I pointed out that I had grieved our losses, they still didn’t in any way ask, show interest, or even any compassion. Because we don’t have kids, they think we don’t understand. Or that we are always going to agree with them.

They continually talked about legacy, meaning both biological legacy and other aspects of legacy. It struck me that it was all about recognition, about being remembered, rather than about their impact on other people. I think people without children are forced to focus on the second, on how we affect other people and what legacy we might leave with them, rather than whether we are recognised for it. Because for me, recognition is irrelevant, as within a few generations (or as few as one generation) we will be forgotten, just names on a family tree on a branch that ended. But maybe a kindness or some wisdom or role modelling will be passed on, and that is our legacy. It's a legacy that I hope I will have.

I heard a lot about how “sentimental” this parent was about their childhood, and maybe their parents. I think I should get a medal for NOT saying “you weren’t sentimental enough to come back more regularly!” Of course, they didn’t need to, and they used their children (as they still do, even though the children are grown) as an excuse.

I also heard a lot about how it is so very hard for a parent to see their child in pain. I don’t think I rolled my eyes, though the urge was strong. Not because I don’t believe them. Of course it is hard for a parent to see their child in pain. Any normal human finds it hard to see anyone vulnerable in pain, especially someone you love. I found it awfully hard to see my parents and parents-in-law in pain, both physical and medical. But really, were WE the right people to say those words to us, in that way?

We had to listen to an extended discussion of the birth of their children. (Over 20 years ago!) The children were premature, so it was scary, and I understand that. And I initially handled it well. But as they went into all the details, and expressed how wonderful it was to touch the babies and take them home, and as they talked about breastfeeding, etc, the scars of my wounds were being pressed over and over again, and it was harder and harder to take.

I restrained myself so often. You should be proud of me! I did not say that I knew exactly how old a niece was because she was three months old and visiting when I was losing my first pregnancy. I did not ask too much about someone we all know because I suspect (though I may be wrong) that IVF and donor egg may have been involved, and I don’t think it’s any of my business. I didn't equate our losses with theirs, or point out that we had also been through some of these things, or always put an opposing point of view. I, of course, found it easier to talk about old age than about the vulnerabilities of infertility and loss. Even though they know something about that. I often avoided wading into a compassionless quagmire simply to protect myself. And I gave myself permission to do that.

Sometimes, though, I very matter-of-factly pointed out our situation without children, and that some of their assumptions were wrong. I did it only when it seemed appropriate or there was an opportunity in the conversation, not aggressively, and tried to keep it open and honest, using our experience as the base example. But for the most part, I tolerated it all. I was in a marathon, and didn’t want to cause any more tension. And the worst thing is that I probably would not have made any difference if I had explained this.

I wasn’t expecting understanding, or even compassion. I usually don’t. Of course, I didn’t receive any either. So it all made me wonder if they honestly think we never felt, and don’t feel, any pain over what we have lost. That our lives aren't as important as theirs. Or if they don’t even see that we have lost anything, because (to quote another friend) “we never had anything to lose?” The answer is both, I think. It made me wonder too how many parents feel and think like this? Sure, this particular person may be especially lacking in compassion and self-awareness, and many other parents with kids don’t always make me feel like this. Some are wonderfully compassionate and open to learning about our experiences. But sadly, I suspect these views and discussions are very indicative of the majority of our fellow humans. As a result, I will admit to feeling rather bruised from this encounter.

Bamberlamb posted today/yesterday (depending where in the world you are) giving an update on her life. She's having a rough time. It's hard when we can't help because we're so far away. But we can all go over and give her some support! She mentioned the difference of getting cancer treatment when you don't have family/children to be at appointments/chemo sessions with you. This is an example of some of the things that parents don't think about when they say, "we know what it is like not to have children." 

Of course, they think they know what it is like not to have children. They were childless too, in their 20s and 30s, so of course they know what it's like! Right? Wrong! Being young means (often) having fun, making mistakes, starting out, beginning careers, finding out what you're good at, how you want to live. Yes, you might not have children then, but it's not like most people then have even tried. It can be an exciting time. After all, your whole life is ahead of you. The possibilities seem endless.

Being childless post infertility is not like that. One of the major possibilities of our lives has been closed off. A huge part of the human experience - parenting our own children - has been closed off to us. We have come across one of the permanent "nevers" we have to deal with as we age. We have endured pain and loss. We have to negotiate a future we had not planned, and that we largely don't have any idea what it will bring. We may not have any role models. And we have to go through it all with our family and friends who - mostly - don't understand what we are going through. That's on a day-to-day level. It is so very different when we are going through some of life's most difficult challenges without children.

So my heart goes out to Bamberlamb, and Loribeth who is going through surgery today, and anyone who is reading this who is going through a hard time. It may not feel like it, but we're with you right now. Sending you all our love and courage and strength.

How do we cope when our friends or family or colleagues do nothing but talk about their children or grandchildren? Even if we discuss something else, is this always where their conversations end up? Can we deal with that or not? I mean, conversations ebb and flow naturally. Some topics might be more relevant to us, and others might not be. But what do we do when the conversations always turn to the subject that excludes us? Do we have to just grin and bear it?

I’m going to start by saying I am lucky with most of my friends. There might be brief conversations about their kids or grandkids (though in the last few years, it has been more about ageing parents than adult kids), but ultimately, when we get together, there are other topics that dominate. We’d all always rather talk about work or books or movies or plays or politics or food/restaurants or movies or, best of all, travel! Even when I’m the minority (I have one particular group of friends that comprises three other women – with kids and (for two of them) grandkids – and me, without either), the conversation never dwells on the kids/grandkid issue. Other friends, who get together less often, are the same. I think it is simply a result of the interesting people who are my friends, rather than the fact that they are being especially considerate of me! They know I’m happy to talk about their kids, and if they don’t mention them, I will usually ask after them. But they don’t want to sit their and only talk about their kids. None of them want to be defined only as mothers or grandmothers. My hope is that you can all find at least one or two friends like that.

However, whilst I’m happy to sit and talk to friends about their kids/grandkids, it isn’t always the same in reverse. One on one, I don’t have a problem with most of my friends. We talk about my life without kids from time to time. But in groups, I’ve found that my particular No Kidding point of view gets shut down. At the very least, it has stopped conversation, and obviously made people uncomfortable. I’m not complaining about my life, either. Even though they’re free to complain about having kids/not seeing grandkids, etc. I’m just mentioning the reality of my life sometimes. They know me. They know my life. Why should that make them uncomfortable? It’s frustrating. But thankfully it is rare.

I have a few rules for when I’m talking with others. I don't always stick to them. But they're my baseline.

1. If people are talking about kids, then I get to have an opinion too. I’m not going to criticise them as a parent (I don’t have a death wish! Lol), but I might have examples of other points of view, whether it is from observing friends and their kids, or experience with nieces and nephews, or my own experience as a child. Just because they’re talking about kids, doesn’t mean I have to sit the topic out. I’m there, I’m part of the group, I’m damn well going to be part of the conversation!
   
   
2. If my input is consistently ignored or not welcome, then maybe I need to say something, or ask for change or consideration. Perhaps I’d throw it in lightly, in a jokey tone, along the lines of, “okay, enough conversation about your kids, let’s talk about the big wide world that’s out there waiting for them.” Perhaps on a more serious note, I’d point out (to one individually or to them all as a group) that they’re isolating me by always talking about their kids, and that they don’t seem to be interested in my life, or my participation in the group. I’d do it only when I feel strong, and when I’m prepared for the consequences. I’d like to add that I’d do it when I feel safe, but if friends are behaving that way, maybe I would never feel safe with them? And I’d do it tactfully, and avoid being overly aggressive or passive-aggressive. Fading away, or continuing to seethe, wouldn’t really work for me.
   
   After all, maybe they don’t even realise what they are doing, and how that makes us feel. Maybe they’ll make more of an effort. It’s possible. So perhaps it is worth the risk. Because of course, I know that speaking up is risky. We could be further isolated. Friends might start getting together without us, so that they can talk freely about their kids. That doesn’t make them very good friends, if you ask me. But our friends are our friends, and it can be hard to risk that. Still, it can be just as hard being in a group of friends who ignore our situation, who isolate us by constantly choosing topics of discussion that exclude us, and who, as a result, do tremendous damage to our feelings of comfort, self-worth, and safety amongst people who are supposed to love us.
   
   
3. We ALL get to talk about our lives. If they get to talk about being parents, then I get to talk about being a non-parent. It is not a taboo subject! It’s also not a tit-for-tat situation. I won’t respond immediately to a story about their kids with my opposite situation. That’s not necessary. It just means that if I find I want to join a conversation, and my perspective includes a comment on not having kids – maybe I’m thinking about preparing for my old age, for example, or my environmental footprint – I can and will raise it as an issue. As I said above, I don’t need or want pity, and I’m not complaining. I’m just talking about my life.
   
   
4.  I choose what I want to say. I’m not going to be shamed for my decisions, or goaded into saying more than I want to, just as I shouldn’t be shamed into silence. I therefore feel free to change the subject, or to let them see that invasive questions might be inappropriate.

Do you have any No Kidding conversational rules?

 

I've been grappling all week with the question of whether to post on Mother's Day (yes, I know that I named the day that shall not be named), as I wasn't sure what to say. But in case there are readers finding the day difficult, I wanted to acknowledge it here. I want to acknowledge those women in the UK too, who are having to relive this all over again by reading stuff from the rest of the world who recognise the day in May, not March.

I have no mother or mother-in-law anymore, and I have no children. It feels as if the day is happening elsewhere, and to others, and I'm fine with that. So we are treating today as any other Sunday. I've worked out, and done some cleaning. My husband has done some house maintenance. We're had a cup of tea and done a crossword together. Simple stuff! And tomorrow is another day. We deliberately choose not to go out for brunch on this day, to stay away from movie theatres, or pretty much do anything out in public. That's fine. It makes for a quiet day, but doesn't bother me. I can curl up on the couch with a book soon. That's nice! 

It's only when I open social media or newspapers (online) that I see reference to it. I know for NZers and Australians that this will continue into Monday too, as our US and Canadian friends pass through the day almost 16-20 hours later too. It can be hard to deal with. Or at the very least, eye-roll inducing. So if you have US/Canadian friends, maybe avoid social media tomorrow too.

There have been a lot of posts on blogs, podcasts, and articles about the day this year, and more than ever mentioning those who might find the day difficult. I find that a really positive new trend. It started on Friday, when I was listening to my favourite National Radio programme, and the announcer finished by wishing everyone a happy mother's day, but then acknowledged that it can be a challenging or sad day for many, and added her wishes that those people who don't enjoy it find the day passes peacefully. I was delighted to hear that. There needs to be recognition that days that celebrate one group of people can, as a result, inevitably be very painful to others.

In case you want some support or just to know you're not alone, here are some of my previous Day that shall not be Named posts:

2011
2012 
2013 and another one Spoke too soon 
2014  
2015  
2016  
2017  
2018
2019   
2020 
2021  

Meanwhile, see you tomorrow for my regular Monday post. (That's the plan, anyway!)

Further to my post last week, this week I want to talk about the perspective of parents, both in asking this question, and their reactions to it.

From the perspective of the majority, the people who have children, the question* “do you have children?” seems perfectly reasonable. For them, it is an easy topic of conversation, an easy way for them to find things in common to talk about, with lots of follow-up questions (how old, what schools, etc). It breaks the ice, and allows people to bond quickly when they don’t know anything about each other. “What’s wrong with that?” they think, not allowing themselves to answer their own question. So I'll answer it for them.

When we do have a conversation with strangers, rather than ask the question bluntly, some throw in a casual comment or comments about their children that are often a seemingly natural part of conversation. This is perfectly natural – we talk about what we know. But it also might be that these comments are in fact a fishing expedition, a call-and-response process. Those making them might mention something as an aside, but they are also often testing the waters to see if there is a response that tells them whether they can continue to this line of discussion. It tells them whether they can delve further into the world of parenting and kids or not. I’m actually fine with this approach. It allows parents to choose whether or not they want to volunteer information about their children. And it is a much more subtle way of asking “the question,” and one which doesn’t require a direct response. It is more sensitive, and less intrusive, and allows me to show interest in their lives, without throwing myself into a whole “I have kids too” type of conversation.

We all follow this “fishing” technique in multiple ways – talking about work, or seeing if there is an interest in travel or sport or even politics or reading or gardening or any other topics of conversation – without directly broaching the issue which might cause conflict or make someone feel awkward. I, for example, am careful about talking about travel with people I don’t know (and people I do know) … though not so much on my blogs! I’m conscious that there are people who would love to travel, but can’t because of financial issues, fear of flying, child or parental care issues, health issues, work issues, partners who refuse to travel, nervousness, those who can’t travel because they don’t want to travel alone, or those who just aren’t interested! And so I take my cues from others. Just as anyone, casting out small comments about an issue to see if anyone takes a bite, needs to watch for those bites or their absence. Their absence is just as informative as a confirmation. People who are fishing like this need to read* the room, as do the others in the conversation. We all need to be aware.

To state the obvious, in a conversation amongst adults who have just met each other, if someone does not respond to a comment or several separate comments about children, or responds referring to their niece(s) or nephew(s), there is probably a very good reason for it. If anyone is not volunteering information about their children or nonchildren, then they are clearly not wanting to bring up the issue in that group. At that point, a tactful conversation can easily and gently continue in other directions, without making anyone feel awkward. It doesn’t even have to go as far as making anyone feel very awkward.

I’ve heard it suggested that asking "the question" allows shy parents to join in on the conversation, when otherwise they might feel excluded. In my observations, however, parents don’t generally hang back from mentioning their children, unless they don’t want to, and it is common for parents (even shy ones) to say, “mine too” or offer some other anecdote about their children, simply to establish a mutuality of experience, show that they understand, or that they are part of the club too, or to invite other conversation about kids. It’s an issue of where is the most or least harm. Parents who are shy about joining a conversation are rarely going to feel as excluded as those of us without children when asked a pointed question.

But those of us who are childless or childfree are not the only ones who might bristle at being asked this question, or feel excluded in a conversation. 

• Perhaps they are trying to have them and struggling? 
• Perhaps they have lost a child or pregnancy
  
• Perhaps they just don't want to talk about their kids that particular day
  
• Maybe they have special needs kids and so can’t join in on parts of the conversation and don't want to go through the explanation yet again
• Maybe they have a difficult relationship with their children. 
• Or perhaps they've just had a terrible day and need a break 
• What if their children are really struggling at the time?
• What if their kids have behavioural difficulties?
• What if their kids are diabolical teenagers at the moment/the last two years? 
• Let's not even touch on the conversations amongst women about vaginal births, breastfeeding etc which can isolate those with C-sections, adoptive parents, those who used surrogates, couldn’t breastfeed, etc.
• Maybe parents don't feel comfortable sharing anything about their children to strangers
• Some parents just don’t always want to talk about their kids all the time.
• Maybe a mother is sick of being categorised as a mother before everything else. 
• Maybe they want to be seen as a person in their own right at a particular event or in a business context
• Maybe they're my SIL, who told me how a colleague used to discuss business or clients with her when they were on the same train commuting home, until she had her first child. Then she was only asked about her child, even though she was a new partner at their law firm. She was put in a box, and was not treated as an equal. It infuriated her.
  
• Maybe parents go out to meet new people as an escape or break from parenting?
• Maybe not every parent is ecstatic about their parenthood
• Perhaps they don't want to be identified as a parent
• Perhaps they lost custody of their children
  

It’s a question, then, that people ask from a place of privilege. Not just the privilege of being parents, but of being parents who are happy to talk about their kids, to share with others the fun stories, or the details of where they go to school, or play sports, or how well they’re doing at university or in their chosen careers. I really wish parents would think about that. After all, they might be more compassionate to their fellow parents than they are to the No Kidding!

Of course, having said that, I do have to acknowledge that parents might be so busy parenting that there is little else that they think about, or even have the capacity to think about. When parenting is so all-encompassing, they may feel uncomfortable in discussions about other issues - they don't have time or energy to travel, or read the latest news or listen to music or watch the latest Netflix shows or see plays or play sports or eat out. Maybe they don't work, or work is just a means to an end. I understand that. And I could talk about that with them, or even about what they wished they had time to do/see/read etc. It's not as if I am totally against discussions about children. Of course, although I'm especially interested in my friends' children, I'm happy to hear about other people's kids. But not to the exclusion of all else.

So my point is that it should never be a one-sided conversation, ignoring those who can't or who are uncomfortable participating. Conversations should be an exploration of experiences, views, commonalities, information. They should invite people in rather than leave people out.  Some questions don't do that. "Do you have children?" might be one of them.

* Yes, I know, I’m in danger of mixing metaphors, and I hope this is not too obscure for my English as a Second Language readers. 

I have been thinking about “the question” again after some recent events. I’m going to write another post, a follow-up to this, as I’ve been forced to split a long post into two! And I’m starting with what I had thought would be the end of this post. I'm starting with my how it makes me feel, and the thought process I go through as I answer it. I’ll be interested to know if you feel the same way, and go through the same thoughts. Please share your experiences with me, so I know I’m not the only one.

The problem with the question “do you have children?” is that it, and the answer which I am then forced to give, singles me out as “other” in a way most other questions do not. Whenever I am asked this question, I tense, internally at least, but probably physically too. My mind races. In a split second, I have all these thoughts:

• What do I say?
• Do I make a joke? 
• Do I answer rudely? 
• Do I have to tell them? 
• Why?
• Do I go into any detail? 
• If so, how much? 
• Do I look sad, or happy? 
• How are they going to react? 
• Are they going to be like some people who have literally turned their backs on me when they hear my answer? 
• Will they still want to talk to me?
  
• Or are they going to show that they have no interest in taking a conversation or budding relationship any further? 
• Are they judging me?
  
• Are they going to say “as a mother” or “you wouldn’t understand” or “why didn’t you adopt?” or any of the other tiresome, inaccurate, and sometimes offensive clichés? 
• Do I need to prepare myself for that? 
• Do I have any smart answers for them? 
• If not, why not?
  
• And, isn’t it time I got some?! 
• Am I going to find myself in a group of people who then go on to ignore me? 
• Will I need to find a tactful way to remove myself from the conversation and find some other people to talk to? 
• Will that even be possible? 
• Do I look obviously surprised?
• Am I doing an impersonation of a stunned mullet?
  
• Have I been thinking these things for too long? 
• What am I going to I say again?

But however I respond, I'm always truthful, and my answer almost always marks me as “other.” So I always, always brace myself when I’m asked this question (or when I am wished Happy Mother’s Day, etc).

I don’t think it is a case of me being oversensitive. 20 years on, the answer is no longer raw, and it is not going to spark tears, or ruin my day. I can brush off the question (although very obviously I analyse my reactions and the motivations behind the question itself later) and continue a pleasant conversation with otherwise interesting people. (If the question is followed up with “Why not?” then that complicates matters. There’s a whole different string of thoughts when I am asked that question.) But when I tense myself on hearing the question, and go through all those options for replying, what I am really doing is remembering previous, difficult moments, and hoping to avoid them this time. Inevitably, I also worry if I am being cowardly in my answers, if I’m going to say too much or too little, and wonder if I am adequately representing the valued No Kidding community. It's never a simple question, with a simple answer.

Unfortunately, we rarely get to explain this to interested friends or family. Sometimes, even the best struggle to understand. They don’t really want to listen to my discomfort over the question. They might become defensive about their own situation, or maybe they want to defend others who are also in the parent club. It becomes about their discomfort, thinking about how they have talked about their children. They forget that this started when we tried to explain how the question makes me or other No Kidding people feel, and make it about them. They make excuses, give reasons.* They try to convince us that it is our problem, without really listening. 

Sadly, the feelings and position of those of us without children (for whatever reason) are often made secondary. We're used to that, of course. The fact that the majority so easily ignores us seems to be accepted, or excused, by that same majority. Might is right. Or not, in this case.

* In my next post, I'll talk about the excuses and reasons given by parents for why "the question" is perfectly reasonable, and my thoughts about them.