Matriarchs I Have (& Have Not) Known
My mother’s history is my history
Childless by Choice.
I didn’t have that child gene, I guess. Besides, I was told any child I would have would have mental disabilities like my sister. I had my own problems, thank you very much.
Now, as we enter the post-Roe world, I count myself lucky that I lived in a time where women were valued, and we understood that there was a difference between an embryo, a fetus, and a child. We trusted women with agency over their bodies without having to defy laws.
I was never made to have a child. So I never did. I never felt the pull to have a child, probably much to my parents’ dismay. I never talked about it with them, but they never really mentioned it outright. It was always my plan to adopt a Deaf child when I was 40, if I had no other children.
I was a sign language interpreter (certification lapsed), and I had heard that these children are hard to place because of the language barrier. I don’t know the truth to this claim, but I honestly never researched it beyond the hearsay.
In any case, this never came to pass. I have stepchildren now, but didn’t when I reached 40. I was at tail end of an extremely toxic, abusive relationship. I wanted nothing more than to be free. I counted myself lucky that I did not have a child with him, as I never have had to have anything to do with him or his family since I left.
Now, sitting on the other side of menopause, I look back at what shaped my decision to never have children. Not that my desire to not procreate is ‘bad,’ but I just wanted clarity. I have found some answers in my mother’s history. In my history.
My Mother’s History — the Childhood Years
My mother was born in 1932. Her mother died nine days after she was born, a victim of sepsis. The small hospital she gave birth in was not prepared for her difficulties, and she perished. Dorothy was only 20 when she died giving birth to her only child — my mother.
My mother, through no fault of her own, was the pariah of the family because her birth caused her mother’s death. Her maternal grandparents blamed my grandfather for moving her from a wealthy family to a little Podunk town that didn’t even had decent healthcare.
They largely cut ties with my mother; their first grandchild, after her 12th birthday because one day she was wrestling with her uncle who was only two years older than her. It wasn’t sexual — but that was not the way a girl should act in the ’40s. She was a hick who was not welcome in their social circles.
My mother told me that this was a common problem with her ‘Victorian bitch’ of a grandmother, who even was estranged from a few of her own children.
My mother’s father was not the most loving man. Intimacy made him uncomfortable. He eventually remarried. My mother has two younger stepsiblings. At 10 years old, my mother was sent to live with her aunt and uncle, who agreed to raise her. She graduated high school and went to dental school. She became a dental hygienist. She didn’t date a lot.
My Mother’s History — the Young Married Years
She met my father in Bennington, Vermont in 1957, where she worked for a dentist just off of Main Street. They got married later than most of her peers. My father recently died just shy of their 50th anniversary.
She got pregnant with her first child. Then a horrible thing happened. She learnt that the baby is dead, strangled by its own umbilical cord. Yet, this being 1960, she cannot have an abortion and they do not offer her the option. She carries her dead fetus for another month before she is induced. She named it after her mother for its death certificate.
The whole thing just seems cruel. Imagine the tenacity to try again.
My sister was born with Velocardiofacial syndrome. I was told (erroneously, it turns out), that it was genetic. It actually is a spontaneous mutation in a gene, as recent research shows. Or is it? There is no family history. Or is there? The issue isn’t solved, and is a moot point at this stage since I am menopausal.
My History
But then there’s me, with a predisposition to depression and Alzheimer’s syndrome. I also had a raging eating disorder in my 20's. I will forever have to work on my relationship with food and body image.
Children scared me — they still do a bit, if I am honest. Besides, I did not think I could want to raise a child like my older sister.
My mother’s relationship with family has, until recently, been fraught. She was angry at her treatment — and rightly so. It didn’t make it any easier for me to entertain the idea of being a mother, though. It brought her a lot of pain, so why would I want that?
I remember a few times when my mother left the house on Chimney Point crying, and walked for a few hours. My grandfather lived there as caretaker of the historic inn back in the 1970’s when no one really cared about preservation, though they knew that they should.
My family had a strange relationship with her father and stepmother. I made friends with my step-grandmother by sharing her love of baking, and with my grandfather by being a tomboy — ice fishing, climbing trees, shooting a shotgun towards the gophers stealing from his garden.
It was more to try to build a bond than the love of baking or ice fishing, and gophers were very safe from my aim. Her father — well, my sister and I had to call him and our step grandmother by their first names. We were forbidden to call them ‘Grandpa” and “Gramma” or any variations of the familial name.
It was a weird situation.
Other things have happened in my adult life to make me glad that I never had children. Some were mentioned earlier, some are just for me to know.
All of this conspired against me. I was afraid to have a child for so many reasons. But this history surely contributed to my desire to never be a mother, fear aside.
There’s stigma around that. I get it. I wish I had that mommy gene, but I don’t. I have always felt guilt at that. But it is what it is.
Our History
Although our relationship is solid now, this hasn’t always been the case. We have worked through some things, and some things are set to the side. No relationship is perfect. I always felt being a mother had to be.
I was afraid of the gulf of perception between me being a good or bad mother. It’s so easy to screw a kid up, isn’t it? I’ve since taken a much more nuanced understanding of motherhood.
Mom was a good mother. Everyone has a learning curve. She was dealt a hell of a hand, but she persevered. We both have, and now our relationship has flourished. I am proud to call her Mom. I am in awe of my mother, to be honest.
Strong women. May we know them, may we be them.
