Mother's Day For Those Who Aren't Moms

This Mother's Day, I want to send out an embrace to those who aren't moms.  Because Mother's Day isn't always so great for them.

I struggled with infertility for 3+ years before I tried IVF and hit a one-round jackpot, becoming a twin mom.  This day reminds me of my luck.  But on this day, there are, no doubt, many moms-in-waiting who are experiencing that same struggle, and others who went through it and didn't wind up with a child, whether via assisted means, adoption, or just getting lucky.  I want to send out an embrace to all of you.

There are dear friends of mine who've wanted to become moms, but for one reason or another -- medical conditions that preclude it, or aging while still without a suitable partner and not wanting to handle the demands of single parenthood -- they haven't become moms.  Some friends of mine are in their mid or late thirties or forties, single, and still want a kid, but it hasn't happened yet.  I want to sent out an embrace to you too.

And there are those friends who've simply chosen not to have kids, and are happy with their choice.  You get a hug too, for putting up with listening to me talk about my kids and for reading my writing about my kids.  And for putting up with yet another Mother's Day, with all its lame Hallmark Card connotations, and the annoying cultural demands it places on everyone -- making those calls, sending those flowers.  Not to mention how it may make you feel different and singled out if you're not a mom, and never want to be one.  (For more on this, check out Anne Lamott's piece in Salon, here.)

As always, I feel empathy with anyone who's lost their mom, as someone who's been mom-less since 1992; there's no relationship quite like that one, and no one who'll ever love you quite the same way as the person who gave birth to you. 

I really truly want to hug you all today, whatever your relationship is to motherhood -- because even if you're not a mom, don't want to be one, still want to and haven't, whatever -- we all have this in common:  we had one.  So on a day that can be joyous for some, but hard to take for others, everybody deserves a hug.  I know it's true. 

Mom taught me.

Happy Birthday, In Vitro Baby

Louise Brown, the world's first in vitro baby, turned 30 today. According to New York Times journalist Peggy Orenstein, she's married, lives in Bristol, England, and has a naturally conceived toddler of her own (you can read Peggy's musings on I.V.F. here). She's living a normal, ordinary existence, having a life and a family, and that's as wonderful in its own way as her extraordinary conception was.

Before I say anything else to mark this occasion, first of all, to Louise: You go, girl.

For all those parents who have struggled with infertility, and those who aren't yet parents, but desperately want to be, I remind you today of Louise, who gave her parents a very happy ending.

I.V.F., for many, means hope.

It doesn't always work; in fact, it takes even those who are lucky enough to conceive with it an average of three tries -- tries that are costly financially, physically, and emotionally. But those parents are still the lucky ones compared to those who've tried and tried and had no luck with it.

Peggy Orenstein's article goes into various ethical questions swirling around how I.V.F. is currently administered in the U.S. I'm not going to address those.

But I do want to say thanks to I.V.F.'s pioneers and its current, compassionate practitioners for giving hope -- and putting thousands and thousands of lovingly welcomed bundles of joy -- into the hands of so many who wanted to give love so much they've been willing to try something that was brand-new just thirty years ago.

For later-in-life moms, I.V.F. can mean the difference between having a kid or having no kid. To a generation of women including many who put off having children for a long time, taking time to find themselves, make careers, or wander through years of unlucky relationships until they found the right partner, I.V.F. has made family life possible.

"In Vitro" translates as "in glass," because the eggs are fertilized by sperm and left to grow for a few days in a glass dish in the laboratory. I think there's something marvelous about this method: it allows us to see the miracle of the cells dividing, a process that would otherwise take place deep inside a woman, and lost from view. While you'd think letting it all happen out in the open would demystify the miracle of creation, in fact, if you've ever seen photos or film of cells dividing at this part of the process, the effect is the opposite. It invites you to marvel at the wonder that is human biology, in its elemental form.

To those who thought. 3o years ago, that the sky would fall in, thanks to what they thought a hubristic act of meddling with nature, I say, hey, look: all that happened was a bunch of very, very wanted kids were born ... and continue to be.

Ain't nuthin' wrong with that.
Happy Birthday, Louise.

Hard Happiness

In the book THE ART OF PARENTING TWINS, co-author Patricia Malmstrom refers to twins as "hard happiness." As a mom of twins, I concur: having twins to raise is a great blessing and simultaneously a great challenge. But I think being a late blooming mom is hard happiness too, for very different reasons.

It took me a long, hard, three-year-plus road from saying to my husband, "Let's try to have a baby," to actually giving birth. Having a successful pregnancy was a challenge for me because of my "advanced maternal age." Not that many of my eggs were still good. And after the devastating lows of suffering several miscarriages, giving birth to a healthy baby -- let alone two -- was an incredible high. The joy we experienced after so many years of struggle, longing, emotional and physical wear and tear, was immeasurable.

I think it's the same for a lot of late blooming moms. Many of us have had a long, hard road to get to become moms, so we appreciate the very fact of our kids' existence in a different way than moms who had a smooth ride from easy conception to an uncomplicated birth.

The happiness is hard because it was hard to achieve.

But it's also hard because having kids later in life means, for some of us, that all the grandparents aren't around to share in the happiness. Both my parents were long gone before I even got married, let alone brought my kids into the world. I'm very happy to have my in-laws, who are super grandparents, willing to travel great distances to see us several times a year. But I do wish my parents could know my kids, and vice versa. I get very wistful sometimes about this, knowing the only way my kids will know my parents is through me -- telling them stories, showing them pictures, and exhibiting the traits, attitudes and values that were passed on to me.

The happiness of later in life parenthood is also hard because let's face it, we older moms and dads don't have the same energy level as our younger counterparts. I swear I'd be enjoying motherhood oh so much more if I weren't so exhausted all the time. And I know I wasn't this tired ten years ago.

Having lived a bit longer before having kids than is the norm, I also have a more acute sense of the fragility of life and the tenuousness of every day existence. When I hold my son's little hand as he falls asleep next to me, or when I look in the rear view mirror and catch my daughter's face in the midst of a gigglefest, I am aware of how I'm savoring the moment. I know too well that moments are fleeting.

Confession: I worry about not being around long enough to see my own kids married and having kids. Truth is, I worry about not being around to see them through high school. I'm healthy and fit (when I'm not battling the colds the kids bring home), but knowing my own mom only made it to 58 nags in the back of my mind. I want to do everything possible to be sure I'm here longer -- much longer.

My infertility ended happily, in twin fertility -- but it was a happiness hard-earned. My later-in-life momhood is largely happy too, but comes with all the exhaustions of middle age combined with the typical parental frustrations of handling that fearsome creature known as the toddler -- in my case, times two. So I'm no stranger to hard happiness. My guess is, a lot of you aren't either.