A Letter to my Child Free Friends

Will you wait for me?

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Dear Child Free Friend,

It's been a while, hasn’t it? I want you to know, I haven't forgotten you. I know I don't do well at keeping in touch. Sometimes I'm about to message, or call, but then there's a puddle of wee on the floor and I'm responsible for cleaning it up. I'm not saying that you're less important than a puddle of piss but, in those moments, you do take a back seat. I hope you understand.

I think of you a lot. I miss you. You remind me of a part of myself I've set aside. I guess it's the way it has to be for now.

What I do now is mother. It's desperately mundane to do it alone so I do it beside others when I can. We have stop/start conversations that are equal parts nourishing and frustrating and take all day. There are countless interruptions. There are meals to be prepared and nappies to change and non-edibles that must be removed from the floor before they're ingested. The emotional meltdowns of small children need to be deciphered and sometimes, there's the aforementioned puddles of wee.

Solidarity in the trenches is important and new connections grow. It's an honour to mother alongside these women but that doesn't mean they know me like you do. There’s another me, one they’ve never met.

She's still in here somewhere, the old me. The one you remember. Sometimes she asks me to dance and I think yes, why not? But as the beat counts me in, a bad smell wafts over and the baby has done a poo. I'm not saying dancing is worth less than shit but, you know, I'm responsible for cleaning it.

You probably remember back then, the way I judged those women who only ever talk about their children. I told my mum once that I was afraid to become like that. She reassured me that I wouldn't, but I don't know. I do talk about my kids an awful lot. I'd forgive you for thinking I'm boring. It doesn't scare me anymore.

I think this is all normal. It's not that I wish it were another way but, I have feelings. I miss you. That's all.

I want you to know, I remember you.

A teacher of mine, with no children of her own, once told me how she waited for years and years for her friends to return to her, from their children. I wonder if you'll wait for me? I wonder if I'll return.

Perhaps you might join me on this side one day. By happy coincidence, through meticulous planning, or unexpectedly, against your will. Perhaps you won't.

Or perhaps the children are nothing to do with it. Maybe we've grown apart in more ways than one. Maybe we’ve grown in different directions? Or maybe I simply change direction too much? Like a fish darting through water, fluid and flexible but too slippery to really hold on to.

Would it be different if I rooted?

Who can say? Either way, it seems we are on opposite banks of a river for now. This is me, waving and shouting, from over here. If you look across the water, you’ll see me.

With fond memories and good wishes from your friend,

A Woman Who Wanders