Article below:
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I have had freedom to do what I want, whenever I want – but the one thing I can’t ever have is a child to call me mummy
As I stood in the middle of the room, I felt a gaping sense of loss. I was not at the funeral of a loved one, but at my nephew’s 21st birthday party, and I was the only person there without an army of fun-loving kids to call my own.
My sisters Sarah and Louise both have two children each. As much as I love and adore my nephews and niece, as we laughed around and swapped in-jokes about fun escapades of our youth, my laughter was hollow, a well-rehearsed way to cover up the sadness that I was the only sister without children.
As a childless woman of 63 it is difficult to admit how after all these years, the feeling of loss is still raw and painful.
Yes, I may have avoided years of sleep deprivation, nappy changing and standing on a rugby pitch in the freezing rain.
Yes, I have had unparalleled freedom to do what I want, whenever I want – but as pleasurable as all this may be, the one thing I can’t ever have is a child to call me mummy.
Like so many NOMOs (not mothers), it is not as if I planned on a life without offspring. When I walk in the park and see the young mothers with their little gaggle of toddlers holding their hands I wonder where it all went wrong.
Looking back at my mid-20s, I lived a glamorous life. I had a great job, went to constant parties in Chelsea and had a dating diary full of eligible bachelors. I was young, pretty and about as ready for the chains of matrimony as I was for joining the Women’s Institute. Ditto the never-ending drudgery of having children (so I believed). I wanted adventure, the novelty of new experiences.
Yet as the landscape changed in my late-30s, so did my feelings. That broody yearning to smell the top of a baby’s head, holding the little bundle in my arms, started to make itself felt.
But I had left it all too late. By the time I was 41 I had suffered two miscarriages.
Not having children is not only my biggest regret, it broke me. If I went outside the flat I would burst into tears. Going to the shop felt like walking through treacle and the ground would undulate beneath me. At other times, I felt detached from things around me.
The doctor diagnosed me with depression and maladaptive grief (also known as complicated grief or prolonged grief disorder). I don’t think any grief is maladaptive, but it was so bad I used to avoid contact with anybody who had children, including my sisters.
When the doctor told me, in his no-nonsense unemotional manner, I felt unlistened to and judged. I felt like a weirdo. As a male doctor I don’t think he realised the fundamental pain of miscarriage – the grief is also hormonal but I was mourning the end of my chance to be a mother.
When my nephew Myles was five I popped into Gap for a present, came out empty handed and burst into uncountable sobs.
That was the point at which I realised I had to do something or risk missing my nephews growing up. Through therapy I slowly learnt to confront my pain and was able to throw myself into the role of Super Auntie. This not only gave my sisters much needed respite, it changed my life.
I have cleaned up spilled drinks, broken up fights, got up bleary-eyed at 3am to soothe nightmares, mopped up tears from scraped knees, and cancelled plans with boyfriends to babysit. The work that young me saw as drudgery felt meaningful and rewarding. Watching Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, everyone cuddled on the sofa, and bags of popcorn and jelly snakes strewn over the floor was pure bliss.
I feel honoured to have had the children in my life, but fast forward to today and the pain has never left me. That said, through those years I have come to an acceptance and built my life around the pain, which now resides somewhere tucked away in my subconscious, rearing its head on occasions like my nephew’s party, or times when parents are sharing in-jokes about their beloved offspring. I will never belong to the “Swim Mums” WhatsApp group or have the proud mum photo on the mantelpiece when they graduate from uni.
When my father died in January 2022, his loss was marked by a feeling of such devastation, I felt as if I had been hit in the stomach. Later that month, when my sisters left the funeral, bundling their adult children into the cars, I went back to the empty flat I had shared with him when my mother died. I fell apart. My sisters had busy home lives to return to, but “home” and “family” for me meant him.
I am not bitter, and I certainly don’t think of myself as sad and pathetic. Nevertheless it is hard to admit how unloved and alone I feel. The silence in the flat hangs heavy in the air, and without Netflix plugging the existential hole, I would go mad.
The truth is whilst I respect the decision of the purposely child-free, it is not finger-wagging to say that a lot of women don’t realise they want children until it’s too late. It is simply because I have learnt the hard way.
When I was young and fancy-free, the future was a distant land. It is only as I have got older that I worry about what lies ahead.
What about when I get old and infirm? The silent commitment of children looking after parents who devoted their years to us, does not factor in NOMOs like me. I find it devastating to imagine ending my days alone or worse going ga-ga and incontinent in a care home.
While my nephews and niece are still happy to see their auntie Kate as I regale them with my disastrous dates and fun anecdotes, in 15 years with maybe families of their own, a trip to mad auntie Kate’s may not be on their to-do list. But then you never know. I think it’s time to buy presents for the children.
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Thoughts?
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I have had freedom to do what I want, whenever I want – but the one thing I can’t ever have is a child to call me mummy
As I stood in the middle of the room, I felt a gaping sense of loss. I was not at the funeral of a loved one, but at my nephew’s 21st birthday party, and I was the only person there without an army of fun-loving kids to call my own.
My sisters Sarah and Louise both have two children each. As much as I love and adore my nephews and niece, as we laughed around and swapped in-jokes about fun escapades of our youth, my laughter was hollow, a well-rehearsed way to cover up the sadness that I was the only sister without children.
As a childless woman of 63 it is difficult to admit how after all these years, the feeling of loss is still raw and painful.
Yes, I may have avoided years of sleep deprivation, nappy changing and standing on a rugby pitch in the freezing rain.
Yes, I have had unparalleled freedom to do what I want, whenever I want – but as pleasurable as all this may be, the one thing I can’t ever have is a child to call me mummy.
Like so many NOMOs (not mothers), it is not as if I planned on a life without offspring. When I walk in the park and see the young mothers with their little gaggle of toddlers holding their hands I wonder where it all went wrong.
Looking back at my mid-20s, I lived a glamorous life. I had a great job, went to constant parties in Chelsea and had a dating diary full of eligible bachelors. I was young, pretty and about as ready for the chains of matrimony as I was for joining the Women’s Institute. Ditto the never-ending drudgery of having children (so I believed). I wanted adventure, the novelty of new experiences.
Yet as the landscape changed in my late-30s, so did my feelings. That broody yearning to smell the top of a baby’s head, holding the little bundle in my arms, started to make itself felt.
But I had left it all too late. By the time I was 41 I had suffered two miscarriages.
Not having children is not only my biggest regret, it broke me. If I went outside the flat I would burst into tears. Going to the shop felt like walking through treacle and the ground would undulate beneath me. At other times, I felt detached from things around me.
The doctor diagnosed me with depression and maladaptive grief (also known as complicated grief or prolonged grief disorder). I don’t think any grief is maladaptive, but it was so bad I used to avoid contact with anybody who had children, including my sisters.
When the doctor told me, in his no-nonsense unemotional manner, I felt unlistened to and judged. I felt like a weirdo. As a male doctor I don’t think he realised the fundamental pain of miscarriage – the grief is also hormonal but I was mourning the end of my chance to be a mother.
When my nephew Myles was five I popped into Gap for a present, came out empty handed and burst into uncountable sobs.
That was the point at which I realised I had to do something or risk missing my nephews growing up. Through therapy I slowly learnt to confront my pain and was able to throw myself into the role of Super Auntie. This not only gave my sisters much needed respite, it changed my life.
I have cleaned up spilled drinks, broken up fights, got up bleary-eyed at 3am to soothe nightmares, mopped up tears from scraped knees, and cancelled plans with boyfriends to babysit. The work that young me saw as drudgery felt meaningful and rewarding. Watching Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, everyone cuddled on the sofa, and bags of popcorn and jelly snakes strewn over the floor was pure bliss.
I feel honoured to have had the children in my life, but fast forward to today and the pain has never left me. That said, through those years I have come to an acceptance and built my life around the pain, which now resides somewhere tucked away in my subconscious, rearing its head on occasions like my nephew’s party, or times when parents are sharing in-jokes about their beloved offspring. I will never belong to the “Swim Mums” WhatsApp group or have the proud mum photo on the mantelpiece when they graduate from uni.
When my father died in January 2022, his loss was marked by a feeling of such devastation, I felt as if I had been hit in the stomach. Later that month, when my sisters left the funeral, bundling their adult children into the cars, I went back to the empty flat I had shared with him when my mother died. I fell apart. My sisters had busy home lives to return to, but “home” and “family” for me meant him.
I am not bitter, and I certainly don’t think of myself as sad and pathetic. Nevertheless it is hard to admit how unloved and alone I feel. The silence in the flat hangs heavy in the air, and without Netflix plugging the existential hole, I would go mad.
The truth is whilst I respect the decision of the purposely child-free, it is not finger-wagging to say that a lot of women don’t realise they want children until it’s too late. It is simply because I have learnt the hard way.
When I was young and fancy-free, the future was a distant land. It is only as I have got older that I worry about what lies ahead.
What about when I get old and infirm? The silent commitment of children looking after parents who devoted their years to us, does not factor in NOMOs like me. I find it devastating to imagine ending my days alone or worse going ga-ga and incontinent in a care home.
While my nephews and niece are still happy to see their auntie Kate as I regale them with my disastrous dates and fun anecdotes, in 15 years with maybe families of their own, a trip to mad auntie Kate’s may not be on their to-do list. But then you never know. I think it’s time to buy presents for the children.
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Thoughts?
