It's not easy to admit in today's world that you don't want children

I’m 45 years old. I don’t have children and I can’t have children, though the former was true before the latter. As I approached my late thirties still single, it appeared increasingly unlikely that I would become a mother, and a hysterectomy at 40 to treat cervical cancer sealed the deal.

I’m one of the lucky ones (I think). Even when I was in a serious relationship, I never (yet) felt that desperate urge to have children that drives many women to put their bodies through hell or take various other difficult routes to motherhood.

Not that I didn’t consider such options myself – as various relationships didn’t work out, and the dreaded biological clock kept ticking, I did ask myself seriously if I wanted a child, and in today’s world, being single is no barrier to motherhood.

I’m a relatively high achiever by any standards, and yet I know that there are many people who think of me with something approaching pity because I’m single and have no children

My cancer diagnosis served to sharply focus my mind on this, as doctors debated the importance of “preserving my fertility”, and I realised that preserving my life (and peace of mind) was my priority. I reasoned that single motherhood was horrendously difficult, that I didn’t want to raise a child alone, that I couldn’t afford it and so on, but as many other women regularly overcome such obstacles, it’s obvious to me now that I just didn’t want a child badly enough.

This is not something that’s easy to admit to in today’s world. I’m a relatively high achiever by any standards, and yet I know that there are many people who think of me with something approaching pity because I’m single and have no children.

No matter what I achieve, I can never claim I’ve done it all

I don’t want to pretend that I have absolutely no regrets, as that would be dishonest. I still know what I would have called my children (Gráinne or Aoife for a girl; Diarmuid or Fiachra for a boy – I loved my Irish legends) and I’ve often felt a twinge when I’ve witnessed that pure love that flows between parents and their children. Less honourably, it also galls my competitive nature that there is a major life experience that I’ve missed out on. No matter what I achieve, I can never claim I’ve done it all, because I haven’t and I have the utmost respect for women who juggle careers at any level with the demands of family life.

The arrival of Hugo

What really prompted these reflections was the arrival of my wonderful nephew, Hugo. Hugo has lived in another country for most of his short life, but COVID-19 brought him home to us for a few months longer than the usual summer visit, and at 17 months, he is a ball of energy. He walked (or rather, ran – I don’t think I’ve ever seen him just walk) at 11 months, and now he runs, falls, climbs and generally destroys – parents reading this will know what I mean. If you don’t want him to find something, you can be certain that he won’t just find it – he’ll find it and eat it and you’ll be none the wiser until he gets sick.

When I let him loose in my garden, he goes straight for either the septic tank or the electric fence that runs between my garden and the next field. All doors have to be locked, stairs blocked and a complete sweep of the accessible areas of the house are performed before he comes to visit, to ensure that all dangerous objects have been removed. Any slip-up will be punished, like the day I forgot to remove the toilet brush from the downstairs bathroom and found him taking it apart and about to put the brush head in his mouth.

The only thing he ever demands is my full, undivided attention

He is wonderful though, and I cherish the time I can spend with him. He’s a sweet-natured, happy child who rarely cries, even when tired, and is almost never grumpy. He loves music, has the cutest little giggle and the funniest laugh, adores horses and all animals, learns quickly and, just like his auntie, is fascinated by books. All too soon, his summer with us will be over, he’ll be gone again and the next time we see him, we’ll just have to hope that he remembers us.

However, much as I love his visits, they are tiring. The only thing he ever demands is my full, undivided attention – even if he didn’t follow me around the house until I play with him or read a book, just keeping an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t fall/trip over wires/get into the fireplace/eat uncooked pasta and so on requires my full attention.

the more time I spend with him, the more certain I am that I could never be a parent

So while he’s welcome to come visit every single day, or for days at a time if I’m ever lucky enough, I will never be sorry to hand him back to his parents at the end of those visits. Yes, a few hours later, I’ll be missing him and wondering when I’ll see him again, but the more time I spend with him, the more certain I am that I could never be a parent.

It hurts my vanity to admit that I am not cut out for parenting, but it is a fact. I am too selfish, too attached to my own independence, too introverted to give enough of myself to a child. I cannot fathom how working parents manage to get themselves and their children out the door every morning, then give all their energy to their jobs, and return home again to the chaos every evening.

Society can be insensitive

Admitting this is something of a relief as it mitigates any regrets I might have about not being a mother. However, I am acutely aware that not all women are as lucky as I am. Many suffer hugely as a result of not being able to have children or not being in a position to do so, and society’s insensitivity to this can be immense. No woman should ever be asked whether or not she has children, and no-one should ever be judged on whether or not they are a parent. Some people make a choice not to have children, some don’t have that choice, and some of those are devastated.

Maybe such women don’t actually exist – I really hope they don’t

While my heart goes out to all of those women who would love to have children and can’t, I’ve recently found myself deeply disturbed by the realisation that there may be women out there like me in their lack of desire to be mothers but who, for whatever reason, do have children and struggle every day with the difficulties that I know I’d face in that role. I can’t imagine how hard it must be to feel constantly drained and exhausted, to worry that you can never satisfy all that is required of you in your many roles and perhaps, even, to wish you had never had children. Maybe such women don’t actually exist – I really hope they don’t. Maybe everyone can adapt to motherhood – maybe I would have. But if not, I hope you can admit your difficulties in a supportive environment and most importantly, forgive yourself for them.

However hard you find it, you are the best mother your children could possibly have.

But what do I know? I have no concept whatsoever of what motherhood is really like, and I never will.