Browsing Tag

Childless

Gratitude, Guest Posts

Perspective

November 13, 2020
think

By Erica Hoffmeister

Don’t think about how much you hate parenting. Not being a mother, not mothering, not your children—you love those, you do, really, you do—you just hate parenthood. The menial, daily, repetitive tasks that send you into a spiral. So, tell yourself it’s natural to hate sweeping the floors six times a day. Tell yourself no one enjoys doing other people’s dishes for zero wages or applause. Tell yourself hating these things does not make you a bad mother, does not make you love your children less. Don’t think about how much you often hate breastfeeding, the constant tug and pull and smothering of your skin and parts. Don’t think about how much you’ve actually always hated the company of children, even as a child, how you find them overall insufferable and annoying. Tell yourself your own children are excluded from this blanket opinion. Tell yourself you will do crafts with them tomorrow, like your mother did with you, like your husband’s mother does with them. Tell yourself you’ll build a fort with them, play dress up, teach them their letters and numbers by singing to them, banging on a ukulele. Remind yourself these things are supposed to be fun, not annoying. Not a chore. Look on Pinterest for ideas, plan a social media post to keep yourself accountable. Don’t check that friend of yours that became an “affirmation coach” and don’t think about how stupid you think all of that garbage is. Don’t think about lighting a candle and doing it yourself. Tell yourself you don’t need positive thinking. Tell yourself you’re a realist.

Don’t think about how much you miss not having children. Not being someone’s wife or mother. Not belonging to anything but the earth. Not being anyone’s every or any need. Don’t separate those feelings by dividing memory by before and after so you miss yourself before. Don’t think about how wonderful it would be to see a movie alone, whatever movie you want at whatever time of day. Don’t think about all the times you’ve cried cathartic in the back row of a movie theater because you didn’t have to share the popcorn or the drink or wave little toys around a child’s face or walk a toddler back and forth from the bathroom twenty-seven times, distracted through every important scene. Don’t think about how much you want to get in your car like you did when you were twenty-three and drive down the highway until your gas bleeds half dry, then drive back just for the hell of it. Don’t think about the fact you no longer own a car, how you traded your first in for your husband’s city bike and drive a family car now that only gets 10mpg so you can’t afford spontaneous highway drives, anyway. Don’t think about the hours you’d spend as a teenager locked in your bedroom staring at the ceiling, how much you loved silence, no one touching you, or speaking to you, even before you understood the value of boredom. Don’t think about the unread stack of books in your nightstand. About your chewed finger-beds that bleed into rounded stubs, years from your last manicure.

Don’t think about the guilt imbedded in all these fantasies. Tell yourself this guilt is proof you love your children. Don’t try to pinpoint the guilt’s genesis, when it starts in your life along the timeline of regret. Don’t think about regret. Don’t think about the hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt you are. Don’t think about your useless degrees, your nonexistent career. Tell yourself you’re taking this time to raise your children. Tell yourself this is your choice, that you chose this. You chose this. You chose this. You chose this. Don’t think about countries that have paid maternity leave or affordable childcare. Don’t think about your credit card debt you lived off of because you are not a citizen of one of those countries. Don’t think about how it’s really not the country’s fault you drank and snorted your way out of grad school and then didn’t write a single thing for six years. Don’t think about the karma you earned in that fruitless interim. Tell yourself it wasn’t fruitless, that no experience means nothing as a writer. That it was all for the greater good. Don’t think about how you made all the same mistakes the second time around. Don’t consider choosing your husband over everything else a mistake, think about how you should have prioritized yourself and your career and your future over him when you met instead of falling in love instantly, and rearranged everything to be with him. Don’t remind yourself how many times you’ve done that in your lifetime. Don’t think about how you aren’t published yet. Or at least not enough. How much you hate yourself for wasting your kid-free years not banging out fourteen novels, or something, because now you write in the lost corners of some morning hours,  lucky to get even ten uninterrupted minutes and you really think that whole story about how Stephenie Meyer wrote the Twilight series by the pool while watching her kids swim is a goddamn lie. Remind yourself that you have, in fact, published a lot, and that not it’s not profit, but the act writing that makes you a writer. Don’t think about how you are going to stretch fifty-four dollars for a week’s worth of groceries because being a low-level technically-published writer means still working in a bar. Don’t think about the men that hit on you while you serve tables. Don’t think about how you are still, after seventeen years, still serving tables. Don’t think about why. Tell yourself it’s nice to get out of the house. Tell yourself it’s nice to talk to adults. Tell yourself anything while you do it so no one can see the pain and regret and annoyance and hatred on your face so that you still make at least 20% in tips a night.

Don’t think about the guilt or the shame or regret. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t make new friends and don’t maintain old friendships so you won’t risk spilling it all out over coffee, or a more likely, few drinks.

Don’t think about how the world is ending anyway—stop reminding people of this in person in general. They know. We all know. Stop feeling guilty for having children and helping the world end faster. Stop trying to de-age in general. Stop thinking about all the things other people your age have done in comparison. Don’t think about your empty passport pages, your children’s hand-me-downs, your WIC card. Don’t think about your mom, and how she’ll never retire, or how she takes out credit cards to pay for Christmas presents. Don’t think about how poverty is a cycle, is insidious. Don’t think about how you may have escaped it, but now how everything tastes like Shit on a Shingle.

Think about this instead:

Wrap yourself in the memory of how the sun felt pouring through an open window while driving down Highway 1, feel this sensation when your baby snuggles beside you, her big eyes swallowing the sky whole. Or, the first time you witnessed your toddler perform on stage, exuding more confidence than you’ve had in your entire lifetime, how she unabashedly shares her mind, and how you think of her when you’re scared to tell the truth in public spaces.

Think fondly of before:

The lowlight of city sidewalks on an October afternoon as you hazily held the hand of a new lover and made him your whole life. How you repave entire cities and worlds to find your own path, how unapologetically courageous it is to head into things straight-on, even in the hard times, when you crave stillness. Seek for stillness in the long nights, the tufts of the baby’s hair between your fingertips, your husband’s toes between the arches of your feet to keep them warm. Imagine how your spaghetti sauce tastes only to your daughter, how she’ll spend the better part of her college years missing it with such fierceness, she’ll visit you twice as often—don’t tell her your secret, that it’s canned tomatoes and jarred garlic—so that she’ll keep coming home to ask for it.

Think about your smallness, your bigness, of the impossibility it is to have known it all before, just to have it all then.

Think about Paris in wintertime, the streets slack with moisture, the sound of your heels clicking across cobblestone the night you turned thirty. Think about how that memory will never fade, never disappear into the disintegrated soapy sponge, worn from overuse, how your sense of self has not really been suckled dry by breastfeeding your children, how your abs are still there, below the torn muscle from giving life. That your skin still glows between stress wrinkles, and by God, that your talent for cooking dinner is unmatched, and how no one does that for their families every night anymore but you.

Think of your own mother, the way she looked so tired and faraway, and yet, still held your hand in a gentle squeeze, still rubbed the back of your hand when you were sick, still loved you before and after all her past lives gelled together into yours.

Think of the universe, and stardust, and blackholes, all the shades of green that grass blades can be, how Montana’s horizon looks like a curved earth when it swallows sunset at 10p.m., or the skin of a ripe plum off your childhood tree. How nothing, and everything is just as hard as it always was—how nothing and everything is still inside you, no matter how many times you’ve swept or neglected to sweep the kitchen floors on any given day.

Erica Hoffmeister teaches college writing across the Denver Metro area and holds an MFA in Creative Writing and an MA in English from Chapman University. She is the author of two poetry collections: Lived in Bars (Stubborn Mule Press, 2019), and the prize-winning chapbook, Roots Grew Wild (Kingdoms in the Wild Press, 2019), but considers herself a cross-genre writer. She has had a variety of short fiction, creative nonfiction, poetry, and essays published in several journals and magazines, earning several accolades. She’s obsessed with pop culture, horror films, cross country road trips, and her two daughters, Scout and Lux. You can learn more about her at: http://www.ericahoffmeister.com/

Anti-racist resources, because silence is not an option.

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Child Birth, Choice, Guest Posts

No Kids, No Regrets

December 27, 2019
zoe

By Lisa Mae DeMasi

“Children are not a zoo of entertainingly exotic creatures, but an array of mirrors in which the human predicament leaps out at us.” John Updike

Until a little princess, right out of a storybook, toddles into the seating area of our gate. She is unhurried, functions in her own dimension, immune to the chaos, the germfest, the push to get to point A to B.

Her presence casts a tiny spell on me. My book collapses into my lap. I’m drinking her sweetness in: a beautiful, clean-faced, bright-eyed little girl—a gene pool homerun.

What would my path have looked like with children in it?

Rarely do I question my decision to forgo becoming a vessel of reproduction. My goal in life was to become CEO of a wildly growing company, not wiping little beasties’ noses. I even left my husband when he wanted them. But as sometimes happens, this delightful girl seems to be showcasing my poor decision. She looks like what I imagine my little girl would have looked like had I not married my dark-haired husband of 5’7” with a 27-inch waistline, but Bob Redford.

Not to mention that I never did become the CEO of wildly growing company, and the jobs I have had have been sort of wildly unsatisfying.

I watch her, feeling that regret wash over me. She stands on sea legs between her mother’s thighs, crunching Cape Cod potato chips with less than perfect execution, savoring what makes it into her mouth. She babbles, a form of self-engagement, and randomly feeds “Kit-Tee,” a wide-eyed cat peering out from a crate on the floor.

Women of all ages watch her, heads cocked, wearing expressions of maternal yearning, remembrances, maybe regret, like my own.

I bet she still has that baby smell thing going on. You know, like puppies.

I surmise, too, that Zoe’s recently graduated from applesauce and whipped franks to adult food. And now, I think, and a disgruntled flatline my mother used to wear when I was in high school settles on my lips, her parents are giving her junk food, creating an unhealthy palate and a rhythmic type of oral indulgence.

I elbow Dennis. “If that sweetness were mine, I’d give her a hard cooked egg and fruit to eat, not crap food.”

He eyeballs Zoe for a nanosecond, nods and returns his gaze to his handheld.

I think of the other things I’d feed Zoe: Greek yogurt, kale crisps (much softer than potato chips), hummus, non-GMO whole grain crackers, organically grown vegetarian stuff.

And then, Zoe begins to choke.

When adults get something caught in their throat, we place a napkin to our mouth, cough, grumble it away. If that doesn’t work? We set into panic. We choke like hell to obtain clear passage. We don’t care how much attention we draw doing it. We want to live and we fight like hell to continue doing so.

Zoe, on the other hand, doesn’t understand the threat of death. Maternal instincts, ingrained in women’s DNA, alert three to their feet. Those not wearing headphones or enthralled with an electronic device, register a disturbance.

Zoe has one hand on her mother’s knee, stabilizing her squat before Kit-Tee’s crate. She brings herself upright and faces me. Her blue eyes have teared up, no sound comes from her windpipe. The fragments of crap food are lodged in her throat. She is the little girl I never had and wish was mine and she can’t breathe.

Someone, do something.

The book slides off my lap and crashes to the floor as Zoe’s mother scoops her up and lays her across her knees.

The little girl lies there flat as an ironing board.

Zoe?

Three deft pats on her back and Cape Cods chips in a variety of shapes project from Zoe’s mouth. Saliva spills over her lips. Oxygen returns to her lungs. She cries.

The maternal patrons lean in, ask if Zoe is okay. Her mother waves them off. “Yes, thank you,” she says.

My dream child is back on her feet; the waterworks have subsided. Her father strokes her cheeks dry. Her mood changes back to the state of pre-choking as if by a flick of a switch. I pick up my book from the floor.

She’s perfect again.

She asks for another chip.

This makes a number of bystanders chuckle.

I listen with the book covering my face, curious to learn if good ole mom is going to give her toddler just off Gerber Stage Four another chip.

“You can have some Goldfish,” she says.

Goldfish?!

In a Mickey Mouse voice, I say onto the open pages, “How ‘bout some yogurt?”

Dennis elbows me, a prompt to behave.

Over the P.A., a flight attendant announces the initial stages of boarding.

We gather our things. I impart a secret smile to Zoe, which she catches. Means nothing to her.

When we’re settling into our seats, an emaciated brown-haired woman with a Tom Petty overbite slides in. Her thighs are the same width as my forearms, and Zoe appears in the aisle. She’s screaming like a banshee. Ear piercing stuff. I barely get a glimpse of her because she passes by so swiftly—her father carries her like a surfboard. This must be a common position for her—flat and rigid.

Zoe’s mother follows behind, toting a handbag crammed with baby survival equipment and the crate containing Kit-Tee. She wears an expression indicative of the relief she’s feeling that her husband has finally stepped up to the plate, but also of deep embarrassment about her imperfect daughter.

Emaciated Woman and I snap together our respective seatbelts. By the sounds of it, Zoe has been strapped into a seat four or so rows behind us. Amid the chaos of the 737’s boarding, she has stopped crying and is sweetly introducing Kit-Tee to neighbors.

And now again, I wish she were mine, mine, mine.

The cabin is packed. There’s little clearance, cramming of luggage in overhead bins. Last minute phone calls are made. The air is stale. Actually there is no air. Tim is giving emergency landing instruction, his props old and yellowed. The teenager across the way is licking the remnants of a BK cheeseburger from his thumbs. Zoe’s voice pierces through all this clear as a bell. She has dismissed her affections for Kit-Tee and is dead set against keeping her seatbelt fastened.

“No, no, no, Mama!”

My dazzling opinion of this little girl, wanting to drown in the pools of her aquamarine eyes, having envisioned birthing her through my own womb and canal, flickers like a film noir played on an old projector. I don’t want it to. I want her to remain fresh, magical, novel, her presence filling me with regret about what I could have had.

The flight gets underway. The minutes slip into hours, it’s horrendous. Not because of turbulence, the crew, Emaciated Woman, or lack of turkey, sprouts and avocado sandwiches. It’s because Zoe’s steady stream of “no!” is now followed by parental correction with an edge and curmudgeon-type shushing. My iPod is packed away in cargo below; I have no way of tuning out the racket, which would have kept Zoe magical to me. Instead, I watch the display that shows the plane’s elevation, speed, and the long ass Midwest state we’re hovering over.

We’re practically standing still at 500 MPH.

Dennis types away on his laptop, the time flies by for him. I listen to little Zoe carry on; tearing apart her magicalness. She was so perfect before.

When descent at last begins from 40,000 feet, cabin air pressure intensifies. Zoe begins wailing with a set of lungs worthy of crossing the English Channel.

I know this: if I stayed married, I couldn’t have had all the daring affairs with executives my father’s age. I wouldn’t have experienced the freedom of telling off Gloria Steinem and discovering the rugged beauty of the West, proving myself and doing “boys’ chores” where my leg “got broke.”

So what’s the seduction of remorse, regret?

Even if we are self-actualized, accomplished people who have had good lives, why do we actually like that deep longing for what we could have had? And that’s when I discover something really genius about not doing things.

It makes us heroes in our own minds. It buoys us up. We can’t do everything, there will always be paths we could have taken. And the brilliance of that is we get to imagine doing it all and being perfect at it. I know I know we’re supposed to stay in the moment, but most of us don’t because the moment can be as boring as a…well, a long-ass plane ride.

So, thinking of all those unlived lives can be a way to boost self-confidence for one happy soaring moment.

If we’d written the novel, we would have written a bestseller. Not going to Hollywood to audition for all those bit parts and staying back east, we get to imagine our lives as movies stars. Not going to law school means we can tell ourselves we would have been kick-ass prosecutors, killing it in the courtroom. People tell us not to regret what could have been, but actually it’s sort of fun. Not becoming a mother is so much better than actually becoming a mother because I can imagine I would have had the perfect child. Never mind the choking, the quick-switch moods, the screaming like a banshee. I would have nourished my daughter perfectly, and she would have been absolutely flawless.

Zoe snaps me out of my reverie. She’s back to her ear-piercing screaming. Somewhere around 15,000 feet the display shows the aircraft has overshot SFO. The plane’s nose is sticking into the Pacific.

I see around me that people are glimpsing in Zoe’s direction—even Emaciated Woman—and shrugging their shoulders in a way that suggests they wish they could envelope their ears with them.

Land is drawing ever closer out Emaciated Woman’s window, but we’re back on track, the pilot tells us the 737’s nose is destined for the runway. We drop elevation in big chunks until at last the wheels skid. Only minutes remain before we get off this tin bus and little Zoe will disappear from my life forever.

When she and her parents file out before us, I catch those beautiful aquamarines, her body is horizontal and at waist-height again. In my mind I make peace with her, thank her for giving me the chance to be a perfect mother to a perfect child.

She has returned to lightheartedness and answering the saint-of-a-lady behind her about what color Kit-Tee is.

“He’s pink and purple,” she says.

Lisa has been publishing essays for five years on the writing life, sex and relationships, and her love for horses, dogs and cowboy country. One of her essays appeared in the IPPY-award-winning anthology Unmasked: Women Write About Sex and Intimacy After Fifty, published in 2017. She lives near Boston, where she rides horses and commutes by bike to her job writing and editing technology blogs for Dell Technologies. She is currently pitching her memoir Calamity Becomes Her to literary agents and is at work on two sequels. You can contact her at lisa dot demasi at gmail dot com.

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Guest Posts, motherhood

The Hardest Choice

October 27, 2018
mothers

By Moira Sennett

Tethys, they say, is the mother of multitudes: rivers, lakes, streams, all the fresh waters. But look closely, and she tells a different story. As she passes by you, her arms are empty. The only child she was ever given to hold was not her own. She protects her dear ones with a fierce mother love. She will lie and rage and move entire seas to protect them. But when you really look at her, you will see that the goddess of childbirth trails her like a shadow, a whispering voice: “Mother of none.”

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The ultrasound pictures set side by side are proof of a dream realized. In the first, he is tiny. His head and body seem squished together, bearing a striking resemblance to a gummy bear. In the second, his baby shape is more clearly identifiable. In the third, his perfectly defined little features—nose, mouth, and reaching hands—belie the fact that anything is wrong.

My fear for him is a tangible pain in my chest, as real as the joy I felt from the first moment I knew of his existence. I would lie and rage and move entire seas to protect him. I love him with a love that is fierce and true and bittersweet. Bittersweet because he is not mine. Continue Reading…