I can't have children. Well I can, my husband can't. We will not be doing any type of fertilization treatment and adoption has not been expedient or optimistic. When my husband's infertility was confirmed, and I accepted I would never give birth, I began to notice that the world seemed to award mothers and pregnant women with unfair favoritism. My observation began when I stood in the checkout lines at the grocery store and eyeballed the tabloids. Every celebrity, it seemed, was pregnant. Magazine after magazine reported pregnant celebrities, their protruding bellies profiled in calm artistic photographs, and nearly each headline reading "We couldn't be happier!!!!" These women were being celebrated because they were about to become mothers and their delight wounded me.
I then noticed the TV airing commercials that catered to mothers. Are you a mom? Get ideas for recipes, or coupons for groceries here. I like cooking, and groceries are expensive for me, too. Am I unworthy simply because have no children? Even the grocery store itself segregated me one dark and stormy night. I arrived at the store and was fortunate to find a spot close the entrance. This was perfect as I just needed to grab a couple things and I'd be in and out within a minute. I wouldn't have to take a long walk under the pouring rain in the cold night. However, when I rounded the turn, my headlights shone upon a sign stating the parking space was reserved for women with children. I could walk in the rain? I could stand being in the cold longer? It was safer for me to walk in the dark because I was childless? NO! I could have parked in that space but I chose not to. Although it offered equal convenience to me as it did to a mother of a dozen children, I knew a mother responsible for a child would be more inconvenienced than I'd be if parked in a space further away. Damn my empathy.
When I joined Facebook I quickly observed my friends and family updating their statuses quipping phrases such as "Being a mom is the best job in the world". Oh, all the esoteric experiences to which I'd never be privy. Profile pictures consist of their children or ultrasounds. New photographs are posted daily of my loved one's children as they advance into different stages of development or as they embark on an exciting family adventure. Although I enjoy hearing about these exciting events, a part of me is embittered because I will never be able to share in that joy with my husband.
I blog on the website of a local news station. Many of those leaving comments often include the phrase "as a mother..." as though this fact alone will further validate her opinion. She could write the dumbest response to a reported story, but because she is "a mother" she suddenly becomes insightful and other bloggers will agree with her. If I post something on the contrary, and offer facts to back up my opinion, my comments might get disregarded by other bloggers because I'm not a mother and I couldn't possibly understand. This isn't the only place I hear: "You obviously don't have any children." It's an absurd knee-jerk response to my ordinary opinions and routines. If I say my house is always clean I "obviously don't have any children." This is asinine; plenty of parents can keep a clean house and raise children. In fact, parents should keep their house clean. I'll admit, it's got to be tough to keep up with it after all the cooking, laundry, feeding, burping, diaper changing, but on the other hand, how hard is it to put stuff away or clean house for an hour or two when the baby is napping? If the child is too old for napping, then he or she will be old enough to be given "big helper" chores. Blaming a dirty house on having children simply encourages laziness.
When we are born we're all given certain expectations. One of those expectations is that we will have children. All my life I imagined what it would be like to be pregnant. I bought children's books with the anticipation I'd be able to read them to my children. I met the man of my dreams, and we shared our views on child rearing and knew we would be good, consistent parents. I look at my present life and mentally juxtapose it against how I imagined my life would be at 30 years old. Sadly, it's a little disappointing. The house my husband and I bought seems as hollow as me. Children will not run down its halls. Children will not play in the yard. Children will not help decorate the Christmas tree. Children will not host sleep-overs or birthday parties in their bedrooms. I will never experience watching my children as they excitedly open presents. I will never receive hand-made cards that say: "I love you Mom". I'll never even be called mom. Never, never, never. My visions have become ghosts and this breaks my heart.
I don't care that you have kids. It doesn't make you any more special in my book. Although my husband and I are childless we can still have rewarding and enriching lives. In fact, we are determined to be the couple who will strike envy in the hearts of our childbearing friends. The couple who, at a whim, can just get up and leave for an adventure. The couple who can be up late or spend money a little more loosely because we don't have children. We want people to say to us "I wish I could do that, but you know, we've got the kids."
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