“Do you have kids?”

It’s a simple enough question, one asked occasionally and innocuously.  But my answer is not so simple.

The answer is yes and no.

Yes, I became a parent the day I got married, but no, I’m not a mom.  I wasn’t able to have kids of my own because I didn’t get married until I was nearly 35 – the critical number that marks a decline in fertility – and once married, I was diagnosed with cancer.  And my husband didn’t want adoption.    

So, my response when asked this question is to smile and nod and give the most straightforward answer I can: “I have a teenage stepson.”

But that’s the end of that sentence.  I don’t elaborate by listing other kids.  No other names are mentioned.  My answer is short and to the painful point.  But the obvious omission is there.

I always feel bad for the other person.  In these conversations, I’m always more focused on their feelings than on mine.  I don’t want them to feel bad about what they had no way of knowing.  I don’t want them to feel like they’re pouring lemon juice on the wound of infertility. 

And I always feel an explanation is warranted, but I never know how much to share.  They were just making conversation, not asking for my life story!  But I can just see the wheels turning, the unspoken question in their eyes when my answer ends abruptly at one.  And I want to preempt the dreaded “well, there’s still time,” a wholly inaccurate assessment in my case.  Even though people tend to think I’m a good ten years younger than I am, my biological clock knows the truth: there is not still time.

The motherhood ship has sailed, and I’m not on board.  I’m on the shore watching it from a distance as it gets farther and farther away.

I watch happy mothers all around me without being one myself.  I listen to the constant stories of, “When I was pregnant with…” without being able to contribute my own.  And sometimes I can’t help but feel like the odd one out, like I did recently when I volunteered with my church’s Vacation Bible School. 

It seemed like a good idea.  We just joined this church, and I wanted to get to know people.  They needed help, and I had the time.

So, I decided to take a chance even though this was the exact situation I have carefully avoided for the past few years.  Once I realized motherhood was not going to happen for me, I took a break from volunteering in nursery and Children’s Church, a place I’ve served for years.  And I’ve quietly opted out of going to church on Mother’s Day. 

This was my first time doing something like this after taking time to grieve and to heal.  This was my first time rubbing up against motherhood so closely. 

And it was… okay.  The sight of the mom with the infant strapped to her chest didn’t send me to the bathroom in tears, like it would have a few years ago.  The sight of a mom wheeling in her stroller dropping off her toddler didn’t make me wince.

Instead, I just handled it.  I was able to do it, and I got through the week in one piece.   

What was challenging were the conversations with the other volunteers, all of whom were moms.  Being asked if I have kids and not being able to answer as I would have liked.  Being in a room full of moms and not being one myself. Feeling a spotlight on my situation, feeling like I must stick out like a sore thumb.

But somehow I managed. I prayed and processed it in the car driving home, and I showed up the next day.  I got through those conversations, and I got through the week.  Overall, I was glad I signed up, and I enjoyed talking with the other volunteers.  They were all great!  But the week was not without its moments.

This showed me two things:

1. I’ve come a long way in the process of healing.  Having a toddler sit in my lap didn’t make me ache for the toddler I never had.  Things that used to be triggers for me are no longer an issue.  I can handle them now. 
2. Infertility’s effects are long reaching.  I shouldn’t be surprised if it hits me differently in different seasons, if new triggers arise.  This doesn’t necessarily mean I’m not processing it well or that I’m not as far along as I should be.  It just means that the situation is hard.  It just means I’m human. 

“Do you have kids?”

In my answer, the words not spoken speak volumes.  They speak of a fierce, lifelong desire for children, a desire that did not come to fruition as I had hoped.  They speak of a miscarriage, of fertility expired.  They speak of pain.  But they also speak of healing.  They speak of the faithfulness of the God who comforts me, provides for me, loves me.  The words not spoken are as much a part of my story as the ones that are.

I will continue to be asked this question, and I will get better at it.  And the next time I’m surrounded by moms, I will be ready.  I will be okay.  I can watch motherhood as a supportive spectator and not an active participant.  I can cheer my new friends on, and during next summer’s VBS, I can watch their kids again.

I will be okay.  Because healing happens.  It may be slow and incremental, it may be messy – but it does happen.    

I’m living proof.