There’s something that’s been bothering me for a while now. A stigma forced upon me by society’s expectations, crushing my self worth and causing my heart to drop to the bottom of my stomach, while I nervously force back tears.  For what seems to come so naturally for the majority of people, has passed me by.

Without divulging my medical history, or corresponding unfortunate circumstances, I have come to peace with it.  No doubt it helps I have an incredibly loving husband.  So let’s just stop and think about it, before you go opening your patronizing big mouth.  There is obviously a reason why

I am now in my 40’s. Stop asking when I’m going to have children.

Yes.  I’m always the first one to offer to hold the baby.  Yes. Aunty Ange remembers all her nieces’ and nephews’ birthdays.  And just to add salt to the wounds, of course I am painfully aware of how children are magnetically drawn to my husband.  I agree, he is great with kids.

I am content feeding off other people’s happiness.  I definitely don’t begrudge my friends or family when they excitedly announce their big news.  To the contrary I delight in the fact that I can indulge in being an Aunt again.  I suck up the sting of yet another baby shower.  I swallow the hurt of attending endless birthday parties of my friend’s and relative’s offspring, childless.  But the pain is raw.

There will still be those relatives, perfectly aware of my age, who insist on asking.  Almost like an accusation, waiting for an answer, oblivious to my awkward silence.  Or those condescending friends, so wrapped up in their own delights in becoming a parent, that suddenly it gives them the authority to demand why aren’t I.  (Like I would actually choose to deny myself one of the greatest bonds of love life can offer us).

Then there’s the “Keep trying, your turn will come.”  Back up Sherlock.  I’m not trialing for the soccer team, or learning to ride a bike.  Practice does not make perfect.  We ain’t getting any younger.  Go figure!

Or what about the complete stranger who feels entitled to some kind of explanation, on discovering you don’t have any children.  Hey, I was making polite conversation.  That doesn’t require you to judge me.  Nor does it mean I am suddenly obliged to bare my soul to you.  Guess what? Not having kids doesn’t make me a bad person.

Now I know there are other options available, but my scars cut many ways. Not only have they robbed me of my natural right to carry life inside of me, they have shaped & defined some of the most significant decisions in my life. They have also caused me to be judged by my medical challenges, instead of my ability to love & nurture. They have robbed me of time & forced me to make decisions for my own wellbeing, But this is not a sob story about why I haven’t had my own child.  You see this time, it’s not about me – it’s all about YOU. Your attitude. Your expectations!. Stop asking me like I’m already a terrible Mother, for not having a child.

Instead have a little compassion, and bite your tongue.  I have patiently (& painfully) already told you.  I have learned to come to peace with it.  So why can’t you?