As Mother’s Day approaches, I find myself acutely aware of my childless status. While browsing for the perfect card for my mom, I encounter sentiments like, “Because of you, I’m a better parent” or “Now that I’m a parent, I understand your sacrifices.” These words tug at my heart, and I can’t help but wonder if this ache will ever fade. Will I still feel this way at 45 or 50? I’m currently 42, and I feel like time is slipping away.
Like many people, my life hasn’t unfolded as I once envisioned. I’ve always dreamed of becoming a mother. Back in my teenage years, I spent countless hours babysitting for a neighbor’s three young children, who became like family. I relished those summer days filled with laughter and pretend play, envisioning myself as their mother, with a charming husband walking through the door. Their baby powder scent, soft skin, and tiny fingers felt magical.
I won’t sugarcoat it—there were days juggling those three kids left me utterly drained, leading me to vow I would never have children. Despite my romanticized view of motherhood, I’ve learned that babysitting young kids as a teen is the best deterrent for having your own.
My first foray into the publishing world was with the Golden Books Adult Division—not what it sounds; we published books for parents of kids who adored our beloved children’s tales. My editor specialized in self-help, psychology, and parenting books, which naturally influenced my journey as I became an acquisitions editor. When authors would ask, “Do you have kids?” I’d cheerfully reply, “No…not yet. I’m not married, but I’ll be well-prepared after working on these parenting books!”
I wed my husband at 36, and we intentionally delayed starting a family to stabilize our finances. We wanted to be responsible. I was in publishing, not earning much, and my husband had traded his music career for a steady lawn-care job. With debt piling up, the question resurfaced frequently: “Do you have kids?” My response, “No…not yet. We just got married,” felt heavy with unspoken longing.
When we finally decided to try for a baby, our marriage faced challenges. Baby-making efforts stalled, leaving me in a whirlwind of denial and desperation. I was acutely aware of my age, and though we lacked the funds for fertility treatments or adoption, societal pressure loomed large. I was adamant about not bringing a child into the world until the timing felt right. With age and experience, I’ve come to appreciate how monumental the decision to raise a child is.
As my husband and I worked through our marital struggles, we revisited our family planning. I meticulously tracked my cycles, trying to be that methodical person I am, even in conception. Yet with each negative pregnancy test, I sank deeper into despair, feeling increasingly inadequate. The excitement turned into dread, and I began to question whether I’d always be answering, “No…not yet,” or if the answer would soon become a definitive “No.”
Meanwhile, most of my friends were having multiple children, and it felt like every corner I turned revealed yet another pregnancy announcement. Although I was genuinely happy for them, it hurt to see so many pregnant bellies. I drove myself mad, convincing myself I had symptoms: nausea, fatigue, breast tenderness—all common signs of PMS. One month, I was certain I was pregnant, only to be crushed when my period arrived, coinciding with one of my best friends sharing her joyful news. I broke down in tears on my husband’s shoulder that evening.
At a certain point in life, it feels like you’re either part of the “mommy club” or you’re not. Much of our identity as women seems tied to motherhood. I lack the experiences of pregnancy, childbirth, or breastfeeding, and I wonder if I’ll ever be part of that conversation.
As each holiday season rolls around, my husband and I ponder whether we’ll finally receive the greatest gift—a child. We dream of festive traditions, from Santa Claus visits to baking cookies. But we also grapple with the reality of aging parents and the fear of loneliness. We want to ensure that if one of us passes, the other won’t be left alone. I yearn for my husband to have someone to love and lean on, especially as we grow older.
After trying to conceive for about a year, we paused our efforts. I worried about job security; my workplace was unstable, and I feared that getting pregnant would jeopardize my employment. Having invested seven years into my company, I was hesitant to start over somewhere new and face potential backlash for maternity leave. I felt frustration knowing that men don’t face the same hurdles. All these thoughts left me feeling paralyzed.
Nine months later, I lost my job, and the world didn’t collapse. I sometimes wish I hadn’t spent that time in fear, but regrets are hard to shake. Over the past months, I’ve focused on job hunting, building a freelance career, and yes, we finally decided to stop holding back on starting our family. I’ve realized that life is rarely perfect, and sometimes you must embrace the fear and take the leap. I’m tired of worrying about societal expectations; this is my life, and I refuse to let “No…not yet” become just “No.”
As Mother’s Day approaches, I brace myself for well-meaning wishes for a happy Mother’s Day. I’ll flash a polite smile, thank them, and move on. For now, I appreciate that I still have my mom to celebrate on this special day—an extraordinary gift. Perhaps next year, my answer to those parenting questions will finally change. Maybe, just maybe, it will be “Yes.”
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Summary
Navigating the emotional landscape of motherhood can be complex, especially when faced with the question of whether or not to have children. As the author reflects on their own journey, they grapple with societal expectations, personal desires, and the realities of aging, all while holding onto hope for the future.
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