I Don’t Have Kids but I’m Not Childless

I can only imagine the looks of bemusement and perhaps annoyance I was getting on the crowded beach on a Saturday afternoon, but I was having too much fun to care. I turned up the Spotify app on my phone, loud enough for us to hear, but also trying not to bother the people whose beach towels and lounge chairs were just a few inches from ours. Then, with Miley Cyrus encouraging us to “Party in the USA,” I followed along as five-year-old Eleanor took me through the steps of the dance routine she had learned for her camp talent show. By the second run-through, I was swinging my arms in the air, nodding my head, twirling my hips and singing, completely off-key, “Yea-ah-ah. Party in the USA”. 

Unabashedly, Eleanor and I have had similar dance parties in Central Park, gone skipping down Park Avenue and made a mess of several kitchens as members of our two-person Bad Bakers Club. Whenever we are out to dinner with a large group of people, and you ask Eleanor where she would like to sit, ten out of ten times, she will say, “Ilene.” If she is in a room full of adults she doesn’t know, I’ll often feel her tiny hand slide into mine as she leans against me and buries her face in my side.

Eleanor and I do not share a single drop of common blood. She is the granddaughter of one of my best friends. Eleanor’s mom, Katie, and I were similarly close, and while we never had dance parties, Katie has been my favourite shopping companion since she was five years old. I love them both with all my heart and know they love me just the same. I don’t have biological children, but with that kind of love in my life, who could ever say that I’m childless? 

I always wanted to have children. I wanted them above all else. But for me, the idea of having a child was inextricably intertwined with having a partner to share it with. As I approached my late thirties, my biological clock was ticking, and I had the annoying beep of a device quickly running out of battery. I mulled over the solo options. 

I fantasized that I could be like Madonna in the movie The Next Best Thing, asking my devilishly handsome gay best friend, the spitting image of Rupert Everett, to father my child and share parenting duties without the burdensome strings of a romantic relationship. There were two problems with that fantasy: one, there was no devilishly handsome gay best friend in my life at the time and two, as the movie showed, things could get messy. 

I also weighed the idea of single-parent adoption. I had a distant cousin who adopted on her own when she was in her late forties – long before single adoption became more commonplace. She confessed to me once that she did not realize how challenging it would be to raise the little girl on her own, and she felt drained financially, emotionally, and socially. 

Selfishly or not, I wanted to give a child everything that my friends in dual-parent households could give their children. I had finally established myself in a career and was earning a good living, but I certainly couldn’t support a child and the childcare help I would need so that I could keep working.

I started my transformation from being a woman who hadn’t had children yet to a woman who would never have kids when I was forty-four. I had spent the afternoon in the Central Park Zoo with another of my best friends, Judy, and her two-year-old son, Michael. As someone who exercised daily, I was confident I could keep up with the energetic toddler. But, after doing Olympic-level sprints around the Zoo, the playground, and the boat pond, I realized what I really needed was triathlete-level training. I couldn’t imagine doing that on an ongoing basis, much less without a co-parent. 

I came home, flung myself on the couch, and thought a lot about what it would mean to ignore the beeping on that biological clock. I thought about the joy I got from seeing Michael covered head to toe in chocolate ice cream, not minding a bit as he dripped it on my white couch. I thought about how much my heart swelled every time I attended one of Katie and her brother Harry’s piano recitals, a cappella concerts, and graduations. Unashamed to call myself a dog mom, I looked down at the little sleeping dog beside me, who also gave me his unconditional love and who definitely had mine. Maybe, I thought, I don’t need to have my own children after all.

When I was about to undergo breast cancer treatment three years later, my doctor asked the friends and family who had been in his office with me to leave the room. He closed the door gently behind him.

“I didn’t want to ask this in front of everyone, but do you still want to have children? If so, we need to talk about options before you start chemo and radiation.”

I responded more quickly than I would have expected. “No, I’ve come to terms with that.”

And with that, the doctor and I had both closed the door on the subject.  

Instead, not having a child of my own meant I had much more to give to the other children in my life. Today, Katie is still my favourite shopping companion, even if we mostly shop from our phones while out having coffee. Harry and I share our love of wine, attending classes, tastings, and swapping notes on our favourite bottles. Michael and I have lunch whenever he’s home from college. My cousin’s 12-year-old daughter Charlotte regularly texts me with photos of her Sephora hauls, latest nail art, and bags she buys on vacation. I give them the friendship, guidance, and perspective of someone who isn’t their mother, and they give me an opportunity to see the world through their young eyes. Most of all, we give each other love.

Does not being a parent mean I don’t worry about the future of our world? I may not be able to blame the gray hair at my temples on nights tending to a sick child or worrying whether a teenager with a newly issued driver’s license arrived at their destination. But, I worry every single day about what the future holds for Eleanor, her baby brother Mac, Charlotte, and her brothers Sammy and Henry. I hope the world brightens just a bit more for them every day and continues to do so for their children. I hope the girls have choices about their bodies, and that both the boys and girls live in a peaceful world.

Would a parent ask for anything more?

Ilene Smith is a former journalist turned public relations turned writer.