Baby Gap

I never had a child... until now

It’s been in the media a lot lately. Menopause. Celebrities are nailing their colours to the let’s-talk-about-it mast, you can tune into chatty, info-packed podcasts on the subject and recently, there was a public consultation as to whether one particular form of HRT should be available via a pharmacist.

A few years back when I was going through menopause, the conversation was nowhere near as newsy and loud, while in my mum’s day, the topic was hardly aired at all. Women would whisper about ‘the change’. Some even mouthed it like Miranda Hart’s sitcom namesake who used to give the silent treatment to the word ‘sex’.

It’s great we’re acknowledging it more openly because it’s a part of life, like reaching any other milestone, especially as for many, it isn’t always an easy journey physically or psychologically. Genuine support and understanding can only help. That said, it would be a mistake to throw a negative net over the entire experience. It can also usher in a sense of freedom. The start of a new chapter.

For me, the first symptom was that my face, without warning, would fire up as if powered by a portable furnace. However, the emotional consequence, although less visible, was every bit as unsettling and that was accepting nature was officially waving the chequered flag on having children. I’d already known as much way before that. In my early 40s, living alone, I’d largely come to terms with being childless. But still, the finality prompted a moment of reflection. Remembering what my younger self had already mourned. That I would never kiss a newborn’s head. Never sew ribbons into ballet shoes or name tags into rugby shirts, help conjugate French verbs or confiscate cheap sweets.

Not that I’d endured hope-crushing rounds of failed IVF. As I far as I knew, I had no fertility issues. My childless state was shaped entirely by circumstance. In my long-term relationships, I just wasn’t with anyone who wanted babies at the same time as me. And I certainly didn’t apply pressure. I got on with earning a living.

So when, at the time, fertility experts wrote in the BMJ that women, in attempting to have it all, were defying nature by delaying motherhood, I wrote an article in reply, acknowledging their valid points but explaining not all attempts to conceive later in life were the direct result of career-oriented deferral strategies. That if having a child is a major life event, often, so is not having one. And for me, my chance for a family had always felt like trying to grasp something underwater that in slow motion, had gradually eluded me before finally slipping away.

Vogue ran the piece, albeit without fanfare. No visuals. No PR push. But the press picked it up. Big time. Then Lorraine Kelly invited me onto her show, as did Sky News. I declined the latter because I had a ticket for the ballet that evening – and thank goodness I didn’t cancel because that’s the night I met my now-husband, who like me, had gone to the performance alone. Kind of poetic, really.

During my 40s, I remember when people asked if I had children and I said ‘no’, the frequent assumption was either my body had let me down or I preferred Prada to Pampers. Without meaning to I’m sure, some pretty unhelpful utterances were delivered, mostly about all the things ‘only a mother could understand’. The really wounding one was that you don’t really know what love is until you have children. On one level, I kind of understood, but again, crikey. Writing that piece for Vogue allowed me to explain my situation more honestly and sensitively. Which helped me and everyone concerned.

While I used to envy families with young children, now, I’m more likely to ponder what it would be like to have grownup children. To see them leave home or married. I sometimes lament to my husband that when we grow old, they’ll be no one, except perhaps a kindly nephew, to check we’re eating properly or getting to hospital appointments on time. The upside, though, is we can behave badly without being told off and lavish savings on our chosen charities, blowing the rest on expedition cruises (with the accent on ‘expedition’, not ‘cruises’).

Recently, however, I was overwhelmed to be asked by a beautiful friend to be her little girl’s godmother. I love to write my godchild rhymes, always incorporating her name. One about a happy, hoppy frog was a winner. The ‘gribbit’ thank you video was a joy to behold. I’ve decided to compose her poetry until I leave this wordly stage, changing the language and shaping the meaning as she matures. I hope it will express how being in her life has been one of the greatest honours of mine.