Sari Armington
Sometimes something that you live with day in and day out, alarmingly stares you in the face and kind of shakes your core. It is an identity that is seen by others, but is not how you see yourself. This identity is the strange dichotomy of being childless not by choice.
I am talking about this in the third person because it is so much easier, but I know other women like me, who share my feelings. I know who I am, but I also know how I feel, and it often does not jibe. Is there something wrong with that? I can admit that I have moved on and even thrived in my childlessness. I can also say on certain days, no, I don't like it. Two things can be true at once.
Living with this duality is usually something you do not discuss in polite company. As you listen to friends, family or acquaintance talk about their children, I cannot say what I really feel - my truth - without expecting an uncomfortable aftermath. What I often want to say, is simply along the lines of I wanted to be a mother and people always said I would be a good one, but I have managed to go on without being one. No need to respond or feel sorry for me. Just hear me.
Since I’m talking about uncomfortable subjects for other people, I will interject this brief snapshot of me. I was pregnant once, for 8 weeks at 43 years old. I never tried to get pregnant. In fact, I "responsibly" delayed it until the sudden death of my husband ended the choice. At least I believed the choice had ended, until a few years later when I met my current husband and I did get pregnant…for a while. It is part of my story, but perhaps for another time.
Shortly after the horrid J.D. Vance comment about “childless cat ladies”, a friend sent me a YouTube video of Chelsea Handler. In her inimitable snarky way, she dressed down Vance and owned her child free life. For quite a while now, she has proudly declared this identity and put her comic stamp on it. The video was funny and empowering, but it wasn't me.
I think it was seeing Chelsea’s video that day, that gave me that jolt of realization that I live in a dual identity - a hard fought acceptance of being childless not by choice, by circumstances, and still seeing and feeling myself as a mother. Mother material, if you will.
Here is a not very psychologically acceptable thought... sometimes acceptance sucks - particularly when you expend so much energy trying to prove to yourself and others that you are fine the way you are.
The fact is, I am fine. I function pretty well most of the time, but is it because I am far enough away from the Event Horizon, realizing that I will never be a mother? Comfortably Numb. Would I really want to go back to those agonizing, soul searching days adrift in my loss, shame and yearning? Hell No! But, was I closer to my source, my truth, then where am I now, when I was deeply honest to myself about that very real part of me that is maternal?
In those moments of clarity, hearing my internal small voice, I push back and acknowledge a deep part of my identity that is not expressed. A mother.
Like fragile artifacts frozen forever in glass globes, I hold those comments dear, made by friends and acquaintances when they saw me interact with children. You will make a great mother.
I hold those memories of the particular children I knew, on whom I know that I made a lasting positive impression. As a babysitter, as a camp counselor. I hold those memories of the teen girl next door, at my summer cottage, who often floated quietly with me on a misty lake, as she struggled internally with difficult parents. She could have been my daughter in another life.
Somehow, however, these memories are not painful. They are momentary pangs of recognition to guide me forward. They pull me back to my source and my strength. Honestly, there is no confusion.
