Elena Sardella won the Family category in the Mamamia Women’s Network and HarperCollins Publishers inaugural Writers’ Competition. Chosen from more than 800 entrants, this is their first submitted story.
Truth bullet. I am scared shitless childless.
Here I am, 35, newly married, and still sitting on the ‘will we/won’t we’ procreation fence. It’s uncomfortable, and if I’m really honest I think I’m beginning to chafe.
On one side of this imaginary fence, I can see a hills hoist, toys strewn across the yard, a dog chasing small children and vice versa, and a very tired woman who bears a rather remarkable resemblance to me. On the other side, pristine outdoor furniture, fancy outdoor candles, a smug looking cat of indeterminable breed (looks expensive), and the cat’s sitter. Yes, the cat has a sitter because in Imagination Land, my husband and I have taken off to some fabulous, far-flung destination.
Scratch that. It’s not what I see … I embellished. However I do feel like we need to choose between two wildly different scenarios and soon. Despite feeling like a kid inside, I am 35 years old, nature’s a bitch and this fence really is getting rather uncomfortable.
I’m not going to sit here and be one of those women who, when pressed with the question “Are you planning on having children?” offers up the old cliched explanation “I just want to be free to up and travel at a moment’s notice!” Or smugly tell you about how much I love my newish pristine white leather couches. Oh god how I love the smell of those leather couches. The only damper on the whole experience of having bought those beautiful white couches was having guests come over and see their eyes dart noticeably between them and my seemingly empty womb. The correlations importance, although evident to them, was clearly and unapologetically dismissed by me.
Extensive travel is great. Leather lounges are divine. But those aren’t good enough reasons to not have children.
The reality is I’m just scared shitless. Or more to the point, childless.
You see, from what I can see, parenting and being a kid doesn’t look like it did when I was growing up. And my sentimental heart aches a little because of it.
When I was a kid, I could disappear into the garden or up to the local park for hours. I could graze my limbs and swallow questionable leaves and flower petals without being rushed to the nearest medical centre. I could sneak up onto the roof using my granddad’s ladder without being told to get down immediately for some ‘structured play’.
Countless hours were spent rummaging through the shed to try and find something interesting anything risking serious infection by something sharp and rusty. Once I tried fixing an electronic toy car using Pop’s soldering iron, and burnt my little fingers. I was 9 and having a ball.
I just don’t think you can replicate that kind of childhood in this day and age. And before the zealots feel it necessary to point out that I’m lucky to be alive due to all of the above, I’ll have you know I was well loved, well fed and well looked after. If anything, I believe my childhood has made me resilient and resourceful. Innovative even.
Childhood these days seems to be structured within inches of its precious and short lived existence. Ironically, it all looks and feels a bit 1984. The Orwellian sort that is.
These days I seem to notice children being carted from one activity to the next, barely having time to register what it is they are actually doing. A flute is grabbed from their tiny hands and replaced with a tennis racket faster than they can say “Mum can we go home now?”
Toys and books are chosen from long and tedious lists written by so called ‘experts’, play is structured and timed, and activities and tasks are plotted on colourful online calendars. I have watched these with some amusement and concern, their visible distress when pulled away from their tablets and phones and asked to have a nice chat with Aunty Shirley who has come for a visit. Aunty Who?
Exactly.
Don’t get me started on electronic devices. I can actually hear one of my dear (run ragged) friends in my head right now, asking me if I HAVE ANY IDEA how hard it is to keep a energised child preoccupied?
Actually yes, yes I do. I remember one conversation (I say conversation, but I was 4, so it was basically mum telling me how things were going to roll that evening) where mum explained to me that we were going to go to a ‘restaurant’ and I had to be good. Just sit and be good. The punishment at the time was brutal - like never seeing my Barbie or crayons ever again.
And you know freaking what? I was good. I sat and I behaved my bad ass all the way home, where I was safely reunited with Barbie and my crayons.
Recently I nearly coughed up my latte when I learnt how much a friend pays for childcare. “But it’s amazing value” she continued. “They have an onsite chef, structured playtime, and I get a complete written report on what Trix has done all week.”
A written report?! I die inside. I imagined Trix, who only recently started walking, stumbling through her childcare facility trying to escape a shadowy and much taller figure holding a clipboard just like in a distorted nightmare only without the scary soundtrack.
What I love about my own childhood, as it is in stark contrast with my adult life, is how gloriously ‘off the radar’ it was. Yes there were photo’s and family videos even some self consciously penned journals which I have recently rediscovered much to my amusement.
But I can rest safely in the knowledge I will never have to worry about a photo resurfacing of that time I stuck my fingers together with superglue when I was 11 and mum put it up on insta and with the hashtag #badparent and #sillyduffa. Or find a detailed written report about the time I tearfully threw the contents of my pink lunch box onto the ground in a huff (and on that, I still do not like tomato on sandwiches. It makes the bread soggy.)
Anyway, I ended up OK.
“We should decide soon.” my partner said to me last weekend as he refilled my wine glass. “You know, start planning either way.”
And he’s right. I just need to figure out how I can give my kids the kind of childhood that they will remember fondly as I do mine.
Challenge … most likely accepted.
Scared Childless is one of the winning pieces from the Mamamia Network Writing Competition.
DEBRIEF DAILY