Having Children, Not Having Children, and Empty Nests

Recently, I read the following Hub by Hubber, "Green Lotus" "My Nest Has Always Been Empty":
http://hubpages.com/hub/my-nest-has-always-been-empty

The message in the above Hub was one I thought was well worth sharing. Rather than post a long comment on her Hub, I decided, instead, to write my comments in the form of a separate Hub. The subject of the Hub is not having children. The subject of this Hub is having children versus not having children, empty nests, full nests, and flying.

I don't know... Maybe I wanted Green Lotus and others who don't happen to have had children to know that we, mothers/parents, aren't always thinking people without children have "empty" lives.

I have three grown kids, and (with the exception of my "I-don't-think-I-ever-want-kids" phase, between my mid-teens and early twenties) always knew I wanted children. I didn't really plan to become a mother when I did, but I knew of an infant boy who needed a mother and decided to try to adopt him (and did). I figured, "I'll probably have children anyway. Why not be a mother to this beautiful baby who needs one." I discovered all kinds of "opinions" about adoption. When my first pregnancy failed at 20 weeks there were all kinds of "opinions" about what I should/shouldn't do with regard to trying to have another baby. When almost two years passed and no pregnancy showed up there were "opinions" about what I ought to do and not do then. (I'm putting "opinions" in quotes because they weren't professional opinions - just the plain, old, opinions of people who presumed to have one about what I did or didn't do and why.) I had another son who was born too early - more "opinions". When I was expecting my daughter there were "opinions", and after she turned out to be a girl - boy, there were even more "opinions". Some people even decided (apparently they thought they had a right) that my daughter "should be it" for me. In the meantime, there were "opinions" about how I should raise boys or raise my girl. It went on and on (as any parent will most likely tell you). Since I'd only had the two children myself (and the first one was a "bonus" in my eyes), I would have liked to have had a sister for my daughter; and I would have just liked to have one the one more child.

There were "opinions" when I talked about that. A divorce eliminated that option (and there were yet more "opinions" about whether I should be divorced at all, because, after all, I was a mother.). I thought about possibly adopting one more infant after being divorced, and there were lots of "opinions" about that. I always had that thing that I really wanted that one more child before I through. Eventually, legal matters had run on so long I reached an age when I didn't think it would be fair to a baby to adopt him/her - and so I was left feeling a certain amount of that longing for one more child for a few years. Of course, then there were "opinions" about the fact that I even wished I'd had/adopted one more child and "opinions" about what I should to at that point. Eventually, I settled into absolute satisfaction that I have the three (now grown) children I have (and, of course, there are "opinions" about what I should/not do when it comes my grown kids now). (Throw in, of course, the "opinions" about which mothers work or don't work

I have two points here: One is that we have or don't have whatever we planned on or didn't plan having for children, and most of us have some inner core of who we are, as people, and go with whatever choices we make or circumstances that are put on us. We build our lives as life unfolds, and I think any satisfaction or dissatisfaction we have is more about that inner core of who we are than about whatever circumstances we choose or find ourselves in. In other words, most of us are OK with whatever we do in our lives, when it comes to having children or not having children. It's that tendency in human nature to have "opinions" about what other people do that's pretty much the problem for everyone (mother or not).

My second point is that for those who us who become mothers (and do it right and have all the usual maternal instincts); even though I've never, ever, for a minute regretted this, we sign on for 20 or 30 "child-years" (depending on spacing of children) or being in a care-taking (or at least "active watcher") role. Even when those years are over, we'll always have that mother-part of us that decides what we will or won't do in our lives. The worry can sometimes be overwhelming on top of everything else. I don't "want a medal" for "what I've given up" as someone who has children; but there are a lot of positive things about life as a "non-mother". Not everyone wants to "sign away" a lot of the things mother sign away for the rest of their lives (even if they manage to patch together some version of focusing on their own life once children have grown). Even those who happily, and without resentment, sacrifice what they do over the course of a lifetime because of the rewards of being a mother are usually pretty aware that they've given up things that people who aren't mothers haven't given up. There are nests that empty, nests that have always been empty, and nests that weren't quite as full (or else were more full) than we had planned. How empty or full a nest is is one thing. How empty or whole a life is another.

When it comes to having or not having children, I've pretty much done it all (or at least "most of it") - become a mother without planning to, not become a mother (again) when I wanted to, adopted, miscarried, had a baby or two that was absolutely and carefully planned , and had one or two that arrived a lot (and a little) earlier than s/he was supposed to. Even though I was married before any of my children showed up, I raised them pretty much alone for quite awhile until a nasty and mishandled divorce meant I would be separated from them in acustody battle.

I've seen my nest empty out and partially "un-empty" a couple of times. Also, I spent a little time as the childless aunt to two for a few years.

If I could go back and do it all again, I'd probably do it all the same as I did (except, of course, for the custody battle, premature birth thing, and 20-week miscarriage). I've loved, loved, loved, every second of every day of being a mother, right up to today. Sure, there were a lot of things in life gave up; but if I dropped dead tomorrow (other than, of course, being disappointed that my life couldn't have been longer) I'd be OK with never having had those things. Still, I live with something that I think most mothers (parents in general, but probably more mothers) live with, and it's something that I can't put into words because it's something mothers just have to stash way in the back of their mind and try not to think about. It has to do with the worry we have about each child from the day he's born (or handed to us, in some cases), and sometimes even before that; and that worry can range from relatively small things to worry about things so big and so awful we can't even allow ourselves to allow them to surface, let alone put them into words.

We learn to manage the worry. Some worries resolve themselves. Some we get used to. Some we never will. Most of the time we find ways to keep a lot of worries under control, but every so often something crops us that brings a whole new set of worries. I think when children are really young, we have those nights when they get croup but we kind of think there will be less worry when they grow up. I don't know about anyone else, but when my children were little I couldn't imagine ever loving them more than I loved them then.

It turns out that as they grow up we love them more, because we aren't just loving them because they're "ours" or because they're sweet - we begin to love them for the people they are becoming, or have become. We look as they absolutely treasured individuals and see both the baby they were and the fine grown-up they've become; and while we, in some ways, take for granted who they are now, we can (if we think about it) feel almost confused when it comes to understanding the kind of love we have for them - and the nature of worry that seems to have grown as they have.

To further add to the "confusion" (that isn't quite the right word, but it's as close as I can think of), we spend a lot of time torn between wanting our children to be independent and free (the good mother part of us), while also wishing they wouldn't do some things that fill us with yet more worry (the other good mother part of us). Sometimes these people we love in a way that nobody else would understand if they weren't in our situation don't understand why we are the way we are. In fact, sometimes they misinterpret what we do as parents and believe our motives are coming from something other than what they are. We can sometimes explain our internal struggles to our children, but sometimes, by virtue of trying to be a good mother, there are things we must never share with them if we hope to be what we need to be for them (whether that is supportive parent, role model, guide, or friend-who-can-never-really-be-just-a-friend).

What I've noticed about myself since I've become a mother has been that, in some ways, I've had to separate "a bunch of 'me's'" (or at least recognize them for what they are). There's the "me" that's "just me", the person. Then there's "me-the-mother", and "me-the-mother" has two sometimes conflicting people "going on". One is the person who knows what she needs to do as a mother. The other is the person who fights that first person because she's got all the emotions of a mother, and they don't always go with the one who knows what the right thing to do is.

Then there are "spin-off" "other people going on" within. There'sbeing a mother of all my children, but there are three "separate roles" as mother to each one, individually. So my "identities" include "person who happens to also be a mother,", "person who now is primarily a mother", "mother of three kids", and "mother to each, individual, son or daughter - always approaching my role as it relates to them based on their individual personalities, needs, and relationship with me."

So, for the last 30 or so years my life and "self" have become increasingly complicated, and always matters of sorting out, figuring out, separating, and factoring in all the different sides of myself (not to mention factoring in our family in general, as well as each individual son or daughter).

Their heartaches are their own, but also mine. Then, too, my heartache is also knowing they have heartache at all. In fact, since becoming a mother, I've learned that even my biggest heartaches will always take a backseat to the heartaches of my children; but then, too, some of my biggest heartaches involve not being able to fix theirs. This means, of course, that between my own, personal, heartaches, the heartaches as a mother, and the heartaches of three different individuals; there's quite a bit of heartache that go on over the course of a lifetime.

Most mothers wouldn't trade it all for an almost-heartache-free (or at least by comparison) life. It's just that sometimes it might seem a lot of easier if our heartaches could be limited to those that are only our own, and kept within the size of any heartache that doesn't involve a mother's sense of heartache when her children suffer. Just as I'm not looking for "a medal" for any of those sacrifices mothers make, I'm not looking for "a medal" or sympathy for all those worries and heartaches that I took on (without, by the way, really even having any clue about how burdensome they can be or how "big" they could be).

My life IS full because I have my three children, but life has also (again, in ways most of us who love the way mothers love are too afraid to even try to put into words) been a matter of feeling pretty scared over the last 30 years (and multiply that times 3), and I've come to realize that as worry-free and "scared-free" as my life will ever again be will be those times when there's the luxury of not having something crop up and make all that worry and fear flair up to seemingly unbearable proportions.

My mother died when my kids were still fairly young, so there were things she did or said that I didn't understand about being a mother to grown kids or being a grandmother. As my kids have grown, I've started to see, more and more, why she did or said some things. (I still don't know what it feels like to be a grandmother, so I imagine I'll be picking up some more "enlightenment" in the future at some point). My aunt, who died at 89, lived to see her daughters pass their 60th birthday. I think of how strange it must be to be a mother to people in their 60's. It seems so clear to me that for mothers, as the worries and fears change, so, too, must the "issues".

It seems to me that although life is never certain, unchanging, or a learning experience for anyone; people who aren't mothers may at least get to reach some point in adulthood when they feel their feet are mostly on the ground, and they have their lives and selves as much under control as any life or self can ever be. As a mother, there's that thing where it pretty much permanently feels as if I must have my feed concrete-solid on the ground at the same time I'm standing on shifting sands. Sometimes, I guess, I move my feet. Other times, I dig in my ten toes. Still other times, I've been known to lose my balance just a little bit. Still, once you're a mother you pretty much know you can't fall - ever.

I think of people who have no children and how they never need to worry about those sands shifting quite so dramatically as they do when you're someone's mother. I think about how, even if sands shift, people without children don't have to feel it's absolutely, vitally, important they find some way never, ever, to fall once in awhile.

For the last 30 years of my life I don't think there hasn't been an hour or day that goes by without my trying to make sure, not only that I don't fall, but that I do what I can to keep three other people from falling. Heck, it's second-nature to me to always have that kind of thinking running parallel with whatever other thoughts I have at any time. It's also second-nature to live with a kind of non-stop, radar-scanning, kind of thing with regard to the well-being of those three special individuals. Yes, how much a mother has to be thinking about, or "radar-scanning" her kids and their situations changes as their ages change, but I'm seeing that while it's actually been quite natural and automatic to "let go" and "re-think" as each child reached an older age, with each child and each birthday has come the discovery that as the matters of having younger children dissolve, what emerges from underneath is a well established, rock-sold, deeply-rooted, kind of love that seems to highlight, precisely, how powerful the bond is between us and our children.

There are trade-offs we all make in life. If we like living in the city we have to give up the advantages of living the suburbs or on a farm. If we like living in the suburbs we have to give up the advantages of living in the city. I can't live in two places at the same time. We may be able to go back and forth between the two, but if we try to call both places "home" neither will ever really be what home should be.

It's the same with being a mother versus not being a mother. There are advantages and disadvantages to both. Sometimes we get to choose "where we live". Sometimes we don't.

Sometimes we're not even aware of whatever it is we may be missing by living our lives "where" we do. Sometimes we're painfully aware of it. Then again, there are those times when we simply keep it all in perspective and go on about the business of living the lives we've built. The important thing, I think, is seldom what we don't have in our lives, but what we do. Equally important is whether we make the absolute most of the wonderful parts of our lives (and not everyone, mother or not, is always very good at doing that).

Maybe, for mothers, it can seem as if the world sometimes forgets that they're an individual person, rather than "someone's mother". From what I've heard, the world can sometimes forget that when someone is not someone else's mother she can still be a whole, individual, person quite nicely. We live in a world full of people who forget things or never knew things, and then who form opinions based on what they forget or never knew.

What I think I've figured out about nests is this: Nests aren't about the four walls that that separate the inside of a house from the outside. They're about the bits, pieces, scraps, and treasures we find and carefully weave together to build a life, define it, and define ourselves. Whether we're sending a child off to kindergarten or off to college, nests don't empty just because someone's world has grown larger or even because someone doesn't sleep under the same roof as we do. They don't empty just because we're no longer looking for a lost sneaker each morning, or because there's no real reason to leave the porch light on when we go to sleep. We - those of us with children - will always be looking for some version of a sneaker whose partner won't be complete without our finding it. There will always be some that must be found before we can be on our way. There will always be some reason not to sleep unless we know some light remains on, welcoming someone home in the dark of night.

The thing is, the kind of nests we, humans, build aren't about hatching eggs, protecting them against predators, watching baby birds fly, and starting the whole process again each Spring. We, humans, build our nests forever. Those of us with children will watch our baby birds fly over and over again, in any number of ways, over the course of a lifetime. We'll always be looking out for predators and often have some reason we, ourselves, can't fly free as we may have once imagined we would. As far as those of us without children go; when it comes down to it, no nest is empty when the person who built it still calls it, "home".

Human lives are what we make of them, and what we make of them is usually made partly from what we've chosen for ourselves and partly from what life has chosen for us. When it comes down to it, there's something very misguided about the term, "Empty Nest Syndrome", because nests are, as they say, for the birds.

Some people soar through life in a way we might describe as "free as a bird". Others soar because children can so often be the wind beneath our wings. Whether we get to soar in this life and who or what is the wind beneath our wings doesn't really matter.''

I love being a mother, myself. I'd don't pretend I'd want my life any other way. That doesn't mean, though, that I'm not aware that there is such a thing as "life any other way". When it comes to wanting to have children and not having the ones we want, most of us (if we're well adjusted and whole individuals) adjust and live in our full, whole, lives in spite of things not being the way we may have preferred. People who have chosen not to have children have their reasons and have made a choice that's every bit as valid (and sometimes more so) as having children. Some of the least fulfilled people in the world may be those for whom the price of being a mother is a higher price than than they're willing or able to happily, and without resentment, pay. For some of us, being a mother is an absolutely wonderful way to live a life. It's not, however, the only way to live a life.

Whether someone has no children (by choice or not) or has children, what we (and the rest of the world) sometimes forget is that we are first and foremost individual human beings in our own right, making our way through life, building our own identity and life, and (if we know how to do things right) finding fulfillment our own way.