Thursday, August 25, 2011 10:12 PM
By RACHAEL LLOYD
Missing out on motherhood: Rachael Lloyd with her cousin's daughter
When I was younger, I always expected to become a mum. I even played with names over the years — Robert for a boy, and Caitlin or Daisy for a girl. As far as I was concerned, the day I became a mum was just out there waiting for me to reach out and embrace it.
But I’ve just turned 39. I’m fit, healthy, with lots of friends and an enjoyable job in the family firm. I own my own flat, albeit a humble one. I’m close to my extended family and I’m reasonably attractive on a good hair day.
Yet, at times, I feel like an utter failure. I have failed to do the one thing that even the most uneducated, unimaginative woman, sane or insane, can accomplish. I’ve failed to have a child.
Having a child is so easy, isn’t it? Anyone can do it. So how did I manage to miss the boat? How did I mess up so spectacularly?
During my 20s, I put in long days as an aspiring journalist, and at night I partied with the best of them. In my mid-30s I battled an addiction to alcohol but have come out the other side smiling and sober.
Like a lot of women my age, I’d thought 30 was probably an ideal age to settle down. But once I hit 30, it’s was if I hit an oil patch and the years just slipped away.
The men I dated either weren’t at the same life stage as me, or simply didn’t have the money to commit to a baby.
Having children is expensive, and I dreaded ending up broke and abandoned with a wailing newborn in my arms.
So to my dismay, like too many of my generation, I’ve become one of the ‘circumstantially infertile’ — a woman unable to have children because I don’t have a suitable partner with whom to conceive.
And I’m not alone. According to a recent study, 48 per cent of university educated women born in the late Sixties and early Seventies are childless.
Some friends have playfully suggested that I’m like one of the cast from Sex And The City — deliciously wicked, fashion-conscious and caring only for short-term flings. But where’s the fun in that?
My family can’t fully grasp why I’m still alone and childless. They, rather touchingly, feel I have so much to offer. And I’m almost as baffled as they are.
Of course, I have a lot in my life to be grateful for, and I realise this cri de coeur is essentially self-pity. But the pain of being childless throbs away in my chest, and sometimes it feels unbearable. There are evenings I go home and just lie in the dark waiting for the day to end and my disappointment to be wiped out by sleep.
There are also few people I can talk to about it. My deeply mourned infertility is somehow seen as my own fault — a badge of shame that I have to wear.
Meanwhile, those women who find that they can’t conceive for medical reasons are worthy of everyone’s compassion and pity. Family, friends and the medical establishment empathise with their predicament.
To my mind, both scenarios are deeply painful and I sympathise with anyone who can’t get pregnant for whatever reason. But at least if I couldn’t conceive for medical reasons, I’d know exactly where I stood: I could mourn the loss and move on.
American journalist Melanie Notkin, 42, recently described the pain she felt over her own ‘circumstantial infertility’. Her words have stayed with me.
‘The grief over not only not being a mother, but now also suffering from feeling “less than” because I just simply hadn’t found love (or mutual love) was at times overwhelming,’ she wrote in an online article.
‘As I saw couples younger than I getting sympathy for their biological infertility, I wondered why all I got were accusations of not doing enough, not trying hard enough. Trying too hard. Being too picky. Not being picky enough . . . And the hardest comment to defend: “You’d better hurry up!” (Hurry up with what? Falling in love?).’
Maternal wishes: Rachael always wanted to be a mum but is 'circumstantially infertile' (posed by model)
Although dramatic, I empathise with Melanie’s feelings because they echo my own. As each month passes and the tick of my biological clock gets ever more deafening, I have to face the fact that motherhood is highly unlikely to happen for me.
Like Melanie, I have no partner with whom to commiserate, no one to put their arms around me and tell me that it doesn’t matter, I’m still loved. I’m in this alone. Life can, at times, seem sterile and lonely.
Therapist Stephanie Baffone, whose infertility is biological, says the circumstantially infertile go through ‘disenfranchised grief’ because their suffering is not recognised. Instead, the onus is on the sufferer to fix the problem — and fix it quickly.
Meanwhile, the pressure comes in waves from parents, friends and the media. They are either embarrassed, or wholly unsympathetic to our moaning.
But can we really blame them? I certainly haven’t been honest about the depth of my feelings. In fact, a year ago, I wrote in this very newspaper about how I liked being ‘sassy and single’ and felt no significant yearning to have children. Yet after spending time with my cousin’s adorable little girls this summer, I realised I’d been putting on a brave face. In hindsight, even as I wrote that article, I knew deep down I was making the best of a bad situation.
The fact is that as a childless woman of a certain age, I fear I might be missing out on something magical and all- fulfilling.
We are designed, as human beings, to reproduce. Our instincts are primed for parenthood, our bodies built to carry and give birth to babies. To my mind, to fail at this is to fail at being a woman.
I’ve realised that children give the most mundane day focus, structure and love. They can light up like beacons as you walk into a room — as my beautiful five-year-old niece did last weekend.
But as I approach 40, the landscape is not promising. Yes I date, and I’ve had some deliciously romantic experiences, but I feel this reccurring panic. Instead of getting to know someone slowly, I find myself sizing them up. Would they make a good father? Are they solvent enough? Could I wake up next to them each morning without wanting to strangle them?
If so, would they be willing to just get a move on and impregnate me?
Of course, I rarely share these sentiments because they’re guaranteed to send most sane men running. The whole dating game is unbearably gruelling because of this invisible yet enormous pressure.
My mother suggests I freeze my eggs. But what a bleak prospect: potentially having children when I’m post-menopausal.
So it’s back to the drawing board for me. Like many women of my generation who’ve apparently ‘left it too late’, I’m just going to have to try to make the best of the life I’ve got and capitalise on the good things.
But I know it’s not going to be easy.
source:dailymail
Missing out on motherhood: Rachael Lloyd with her cousin's daughter
When I was younger, I always expected to become a mum. I even played with names over the years — Robert for a boy, and Caitlin or Daisy for a girl. As far as I was concerned, the day I became a mum was just out there waiting for me to reach out and embrace it.
But I’ve just turned 39. I’m fit, healthy, with lots of friends and an enjoyable job in the family firm. I own my own flat, albeit a humble one. I’m close to my extended family and I’m reasonably attractive on a good hair day.
Yet, at times, I feel like an utter failure. I have failed to do the one thing that even the most uneducated, unimaginative woman, sane or insane, can accomplish. I’ve failed to have a child.
Having a child is so easy, isn’t it? Anyone can do it. So how did I manage to miss the boat? How did I mess up so spectacularly?
During my 20s, I put in long days as an aspiring journalist, and at night I partied with the best of them. In my mid-30s I battled an addiction to alcohol but have come out the other side smiling and sober.
Like a lot of women my age, I’d thought 30 was probably an ideal age to settle down. But once I hit 30, it’s was if I hit an oil patch and the years just slipped away.
The men I dated either weren’t at the same life stage as me, or simply didn’t have the money to commit to a baby.
Having children is expensive, and I dreaded ending up broke and abandoned with a wailing newborn in my arms.
So to my dismay, like too many of my generation, I’ve become one of the ‘circumstantially infertile’ — a woman unable to have children because I don’t have a suitable partner with whom to conceive.
And I’m not alone. According to a recent study, 48 per cent of university educated women born in the late Sixties and early Seventies are childless.
Some friends have playfully suggested that I’m like one of the cast from Sex And The City — deliciously wicked, fashion-conscious and caring only for short-term flings. But where’s the fun in that?
My family can’t fully grasp why I’m still alone and childless. They, rather touchingly, feel I have so much to offer. And I’m almost as baffled as they are.
Of course, I have a lot in my life to be grateful for, and I realise this cri de coeur is essentially self-pity. But the pain of being childless throbs away in my chest, and sometimes it feels unbearable. There are evenings I go home and just lie in the dark waiting for the day to end and my disappointment to be wiped out by sleep.
There are also few people I can talk to about it. My deeply mourned infertility is somehow seen as my own fault — a badge of shame that I have to wear.
Meanwhile, those women who find that they can’t conceive for medical reasons are worthy of everyone’s compassion and pity. Family, friends and the medical establishment empathise with their predicament.
To my mind, both scenarios are deeply painful and I sympathise with anyone who can’t get pregnant for whatever reason. But at least if I couldn’t conceive for medical reasons, I’d know exactly where I stood: I could mourn the loss and move on.
American journalist Melanie Notkin, 42, recently described the pain she felt over her own ‘circumstantial infertility’. Her words have stayed with me.
‘The grief over not only not being a mother, but now also suffering from feeling “less than” because I just simply hadn’t found love (or mutual love) was at times overwhelming,’ she wrote in an online article.
‘As I saw couples younger than I getting sympathy for their biological infertility, I wondered why all I got were accusations of not doing enough, not trying hard enough. Trying too hard. Being too picky. Not being picky enough . . . And the hardest comment to defend: “You’d better hurry up!” (Hurry up with what? Falling in love?).’
Maternal wishes: Rachael always wanted to be a mum but is 'circumstantially infertile' (posed by model)
Although dramatic, I empathise with Melanie’s feelings because they echo my own. As each month passes and the tick of my biological clock gets ever more deafening, I have to face the fact that motherhood is highly unlikely to happen for me.
Like Melanie, I have no partner with whom to commiserate, no one to put their arms around me and tell me that it doesn’t matter, I’m still loved. I’m in this alone. Life can, at times, seem sterile and lonely.
Therapist Stephanie Baffone, whose infertility is biological, says the circumstantially infertile go through ‘disenfranchised grief’ because their suffering is not recognised. Instead, the onus is on the sufferer to fix the problem — and fix it quickly.
Meanwhile, the pressure comes in waves from parents, friends and the media. They are either embarrassed, or wholly unsympathetic to our moaning.
But can we really blame them? I certainly haven’t been honest about the depth of my feelings. In fact, a year ago, I wrote in this very newspaper about how I liked being ‘sassy and single’ and felt no significant yearning to have children. Yet after spending time with my cousin’s adorable little girls this summer, I realised I’d been putting on a brave face. In hindsight, even as I wrote that article, I knew deep down I was making the best of a bad situation.
The fact is that as a childless woman of a certain age, I fear I might be missing out on something magical and all- fulfilling.
We are designed, as human beings, to reproduce. Our instincts are primed for parenthood, our bodies built to carry and give birth to babies. To my mind, to fail at this is to fail at being a woman.
I’ve realised that children give the most mundane day focus, structure and love. They can light up like beacons as you walk into a room — as my beautiful five-year-old niece did last weekend.
But as I approach 40, the landscape is not promising. Yes I date, and I’ve had some deliciously romantic experiences, but I feel this reccurring panic. Instead of getting to know someone slowly, I find myself sizing them up. Would they make a good father? Are they solvent enough? Could I wake up next to them each morning without wanting to strangle them?
If so, would they be willing to just get a move on and impregnate me?
Of course, I rarely share these sentiments because they’re guaranteed to send most sane men running. The whole dating game is unbearably gruelling because of this invisible yet enormous pressure.
My mother suggests I freeze my eggs. But what a bleak prospect: potentially having children when I’m post-menopausal.
So it’s back to the drawing board for me. Like many women of my generation who’ve apparently ‘left it too late’, I’m just going to have to try to make the best of the life I’ve got and capitalise on the good things.
But I know it’s not going to be easy.
source:dailymail
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