The Children I Never Had

The idea of parenting alone felt impossible.

When I was younger I always assumed that I would have children. It was a given. No, “Would I?” or “Wouldn’t I?” In the 1960s and 1970s, even with the Women’s Liberation movement on the rise, there was still an expectation that girls grow up to be women who have kids. We get married, we get pregnant, and we raise children. Or we adopt, or marry into a family that already has kids, and we raise them as if they were our own.

I always loved kids. I started babysitting when I was ten years old. People trusted me with their infants. When my brother was a baby, I’d watched and learned so I knew how to change a diaper. I was in love with Mary Poppins and Maria von Trapp (a possible clue to my future?), picturing myself as a lovely blend of the two characters. I couldn’t decide whether being able to sing as well as Julie Andrews was more important than being able to pull a hat stand out of a carpet bag. It was a close contest. While the magic was tempting, I think the singing won out…at least in my fantasy…It’s hard for me to carry a tune, though I try, I really try!

As a teenager, I started to discover things about myself that made my original premise––that I’d be a parent one day––a bit iffy. When I was about 15, it became clear to me that while I was somewhat interested in boys, I was much more interested in girls, and I declared myself. I was gay. Ooooh, now I get it. Julie Andrews! The love I felt for her suddenly made more sense. I was a feminist, and saw all kinds of possible scenarios for a life I might build. Kids didn’t have to be off the table. Though I still dabbled in boys, they just weren’t as much fun as girls.

I worked as a camp counselor, offered storytelling times in my backyard for the neighborhood kids, and performed as a clown and mime. Being around children was fun. I loved the smell of the top of a baby’s head, that indescribable, unreproducible scent that only babies possess. Even mentioning it evokes feelings of joy and calm in my body. And those little hands and feet, so lovely and soft, so unstressed and new. Unblemished by time and walking the hard road of life.

In my late teens and early 20s I was a nanny. I helped other people raise their kids. It satisfied something in me, until it didn’t anymore. I was too emotionally invested in the kids, but I had no authority. I judged the parents for their faults, for the ways I perceived their neglect. I wanted at least one kid of my own. I thought I would do a much better job.

My body craved pregnancy. It wasn’t just a longing in my heart, it felt physical as well. It was a profound experience that I describe as my nesting phase. I felt a fullness in my body, the yearning perhaps, and an emptiness (a desire to be filled with life?) at the same time. I’ve never felt such a strong connection to sensations in my body. I walked around feeling like there should be a child growing inside me, but I knew I had to be careful. Aware that I wasn’t ready to be a parent, I needed to wait.

In my twenties, I was living a single life, and loving many aspects of my freedom. At the same time, I was always on the lookout for my special person, a partner who’d love me as much as I loved them. I lived in New York City, and had an apartment of my own. I could do whatever I wanted whenever I wanted, and I did. I switched back and forth between men and women. It went something like this: I’d meet a woman I was crazy about. I’d throw myself in completely, even though I really didn’t know her. Inevitably, things wouldn’t work out and my heart would get broken, and I’d swear off ALL WOMEN FOREVER, and swing over to men.

I had very strict rules about sex with men. It was mostly due to my terror of getting pregnant before I was ready to be a mother. It was clear to me that I would never choose to do it as a single person. The idea of parenting alone felt impossible, it was unimaginable to me. Some people seemed to do it successfully, but I didn’t think I was one of those people. That self-knowledge was reinforced as my life became more complicated. When I had male sexual partners, I’d suit up in all kinds of birth control. True, I didn’t go as far as a medieval chastity belt, and I didn’t take the Pill, because I didn’t have sex with men often enough to warrant it. But I had a diaphragm, spermicidal jelly, and a supply of contraceptive sponges at the ready. The other precaution I took involved an utter devotion to condom use. Donning a condom was absolutely non-negotiable, and was accompanied by the other tools in my armory.

Every time I would mention my rule about condoms, there’d be pushback. The guy could never get away with “Well, I don’t have one with me” because I always had a variety of condoms on hand, in different sizes, textures, and colors. I had a tendency to go overboard, and I liked to think of myself as an excellent host. Every man I ever considered having sex with would do that old song and dance: “They’re so uncomfortable. I’ll pull out before I come, I promise. I can’t feeeeeel enough with a rubber on, blah, blah, blah, whine, whine, whine…” I’d state my case clearly. “No condom, no sex. Your choice. There’s the door.”

Would the men agree to a condom? Yup, every time, though grudgingly. I guess any orgasm was better than no orgasm. The sex was okay for me, but most of the time, I only slept with a guy once. That was enough to send me running back to women. I was still trying to figure it all out. I believed that when the time was right, and I had the person in my life I was supposed to be with, a child would happen.

Refusing to surrender my position, I stood my ground. I cared about my life, my health and well-being, and made a firm boundary. Getting pregnant or contracting an STI––HIV included––wasn’t part of my plan. No way. I’ve always been pro-choice, and yet I knew that if I got pregnant, having an abortion would not be the choice I would make. A potential life growing inside of me would be impossible for me to say no to. I was not going to raise a child by myself. I never did catch anything or hatch anything.

When I got to my late 20s, I began to experience bouts of severe depression. I resisted medication until I couldn’t anymore. Depression became an ongoing concern in my life, and I started to doubt that I would ever be a mom because of it. In therapy I was examining the operating system of the family I was raised in and I was afraid I wouldn’t have the necessary tools to do parenthood effectively.

As I aged into my 30s and was followed around by my diagnoses and scores of pills, I realized that my tendency toward depression was not just situational, and that’s what scared me the most. There is a genetic predisposition for serious mental illness in my family. There had been multiple suicides among my women cousins. A beloved great aunt was institutionalized for more than a decade. I didn’t want to pass that risk on to a child; the possibility of a life filled with pain when life is tough enough to begin with, even without mental illness. My other fear was that should I become incapacitated by depression or if I was having suicidal feelings while parenting, I’d be unable to care for my children properly. I could never do that to another human being.

With those realizations, I gave up the dream that being a parent would be a part of my life. It was an excruciating admission. To choose parenthood with all of my concerns felt irresponsible and selfish. Though regret lingers to this day, I’ve accepted the disappointment. I also never found the right partner during my childbearing years. Maybe I could have done it alone, but given my history I know I made a responsible choice.

Being a parent is the most important job a person can have. To be entrusted with another life is an enormous, precious commitment. I’ve always wondered how many people consider that seriously before taking a step toward parenthood. Do they stop to examine themselves fully, their strengths, their weaknesses? Do they work on issues before they proceed to make carbon copies of themselves? Do they understand why they want to have children? I want to believe that most people do the best they can with the tools they possess, though sadly that’s often untrue, and so many children get damaged in the process. The cycle of dysfunction continues.

Every once in a while, the thought crosses my mind that maybe I could be a foster parent, and then I let it go. I’m older now and I waited too long. I don’t have the energy I used to have. I’m tired and my resources are somewhat limited. I’m in a good place in my life. I’m productive and understand the rhythms of my moods better, and know how to ask for help when I need it.

I was lucky though. I got to love my friend’s kids and watch them grow up. Being there for them has made up for some of my feelings of loss. I know I’ve made a difference in their lives, as they’ve contributed to mine. I cherish that role and adore those kids. Many of them are adults now, and I’m still a part of their lives. I was the good “aunt,” big sister, or friend. I didn’t have to take on the full-time commitment, the never-ending worry, the lifelong responsibility and connection that comes with the job of parenting. Doing that would probably have been too much for me. These days, I don’t need help as much as I used to. I’ve found love––my dream woman––and I’ve gained an extended family. Who knows what might happen in the future? What I do know is that I’ve come to a peaceful place about opting out of parenting.

There is a part of me that sometimes whispers, “Come on, tell the truth. If you’d wanted kids badly enough, you would have found a way to make it work. Maybe you didn’t really want them as much as you claim.” When I have that thought, I can’t tell if I’m being hard on myself, or just honest. To have someone else’s life in my hands seemed impossible, when for so much of my own life I felt challenged to just take care of myself.

Maybe being that good aunt, big sister, or friend was the role I’ve always been meant to play. Maybe I was too scared. Maybe being a combination of Mary Poppins and Maria von Trapp is more than enough. A wonderful occupation even though, sadly, my rendition of “My Favorite Things” will never hold a candle to Julie’s.

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