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R/£ When he says he never, ever wants children
July 11, 2005
Tess Cunningham
Rachel's version:
The day my world fell apart should have been one of the happiest days of my life. I was on a skiing holiday with my new husband, Douglas, and was feeling on top of the world.
Getting changed for dinner, I made an idle remark about not being able to enjoy extravagant holidays for much longer as we'd soon be starting a family. I looked up to see Douglas' grave expression.
"I don't ever want children," he said. I couldn't have felt more sick if he'd kicked me in the stomach. Until that moment, my life had been
utterly charmed. I had a husband I adored, a £1-million (about
R12-million) house, a stimulating career as director of my own market research consultancy with a six-figure salary. But in that split second, it all seemed utterly worthless.
I've always wanted children. I was brought up in a comfortable middle-class family - my father was a chartered accountant and my mother a physiotherapist. When I was a child myself, I helped my mother to bathe my baby brother, I always thought I'd become a mother as well as having a career. I was privately educated
before going on to Warwick University to study law.
Although I threw myself into a job - first as a lawyer and then as
director of a management consultancy - I always knew I'd have a family. It was just a case of finding the right man.
In my 20s and early 30s I was engaged twice but called off the weddings at the last minute because they just didn't feel right. When I met Douglas in 1988, I was 35, I'd been single for two years and I'd almost given up hope.
I walked into a bar and there he was, laughing and joking with a group of friends. Hugely intelligent, confident and wickedly funny, he was wonderful and we got on instantly. I gave him my business card and was delighted when he got in touch.
Six months later he proposed. We married. On honeymoon in Barbados, I lay on the beach, daydreaming about our children who I was certain would have my cheekbones and Douglas' sense of fun.
We started househunting. My priority was a nursery. Douglas seemed interested only in wine cellars and darkrooms for his photography. When I mentioned children, he gently changed the subject and, naively, I thought he was only postponing the inevitable. After all, he was only 29, six years younger than me.
I had no clue about his real feelings until that dreadful evening on holiday. I don't know how I got through the next few days. I tried to pretend nothing had happened but all I wanted to do was scream.
The next four months were also torture. I was consumed by a maelstrom of emotions. The man I adored was causing me the most unimaginable pain. I loved and loathed him all at once. Just looking at him made me feel sick.
And yet I needed him to help me through the pain. One day I'd decide to divorce him: the next I wanted to stay. There were days I couldn't bear to look at him, let alone touch him. If he'd told me earlier, there's no way I'd have married him.
But our romance had been such a whirlwind, we'd never discussed children. We shared the same views on everything else so I'd never suspected that our views on parenthood were diametrically opposed.
I never tried to change his mind. There was no point. It's one of the things I love him for and I'm sensible enough to realise it's wrong to have a baby just to please someone else.
It took four months of agonising before I finally made up my mind to stick with the marriage. I loved Douglas too much to lose him but I admit that living with the consequences has been traumatic.
The first five years were the worst. For most of the time, I was a sobbing mess. Wanting a baby is a primeval urge; it goes to the very root of your femininity.
I felt rejected and undesirable. I stopped wearing skirts and dresses in favour of business suits. Our sex life collapsed.
Some of the few friends I confided in suggested I should force Douglas' hand with an "accidental" pregnancy as they had with their
unwilling husbands. I was tempted but I knew it would be the most
unbearable betrayal of trust that would destroy us both.
Instead, I punished Douglas by refusing to have sex. It seemed pointless when I couldn't become pregnant. Then I read that the contraceptive coil - which I was using - has a 2% failure rate. To Douglas' amazement, I became totally insatiable, hoping to increase my chances with super sex marathons.
In the meantime, I threw myself into work, where I felt successful and in control. But the pain nagged at me. Sundays were the worst.
Walking in Hyde Park, the sight of all the happy families pushing prams was unbearable.
Finally I got so low I rang The Samaritans. That's when I realised I needed professional help. My doctor referred me to a counsellor in 1994 and it proved the turning point.
At that first therapy session, venom and sorrow flooded out of me. I found myself telling the counsellor that I viewed Douglas as a mass murderer because he'd killed all our unborn babies. I was shocked by my rage.
Back home I told Douglas every word. It was painful for him but,
afterwards, there was nothing we couldn't share. That's when I saw clearly that I had to fight for my marriage. I'd made a conscious decision to sacrifice children. I had to make it worth it. After three months of counselling I came up with a survival plan.
Douglas had to let me air my feelings whenever I chose - even if it was once an hour. I couldn't cope with the issue of our childlessness being taboo. I wanted the right to tell friends and acquaintances the truth.
I was sick of people pitying me because they thought I couldn't have children or criticising me because they imagined I was too career-minded to want any. When conversations turned to children, I wanted to be able to say: "We don't have children because my husband doesn't want any."
Hardest of all for Douglas, I demanded he have a vasectomy. He loathes operations, but I wanted him to pay a price: the thought of him suffering with something linked to reproduction was incredibly comforting. Plus, I wanted to be sure that, if we ever did separate, no other woman would ever have what I'd given up.
Douglas agreed to them all. Since then, the grief has gradually faded but it will never disappear.
Being near children is bittersweet. For years I've turned down every invitation to be a godparent. I didn't want the pain of getting close to a child who wasn't mine. I still won't go into toy shops and I find
excuses not to buy baby presents. Just touching baby clothes reminds me of all I'm missing.
Instead I give pregnant friends champagne or chocolates. I look the other way when I see pregnant women proudly cradling their bumps. It's simply too painful to watch.
Our relationship has come at a very high price but we have a brilliant marriage.
Two years ago I decided to write a book, Beyond Childlessness, with a childless friend. Although Douglas knew he would come in for criticism, he supported me.
Talking to other women has helped me see childlessness not just as a loss but as an opportunity to have a truly deep and enriching marriage.
We're passionate and romantic. We make a point of enjoying things that would be impossible with children - exotic holidays and entire days in bed. My marriage has come with a huge price tag. But I have learnt to live with it.
Douglas' version:
Some men are mad about trainspotting. Others are fanatical golfers. Personally I find their passions a total waste of time and money.
But I don't try to change them.
For me, having children is every bit as pointless and unattractive.
Rachel and I have the most wonderful lifestyle, which would be impossible if we had children. We love the adventure holidays most people can only dream about.
We can indulge other passions, too. I own a Bentley, a Jaguar XJ220 and a Triumph Daytona 1200 motorbike. I look at men with children and see their envy.
I know some people will think these compensations are frivolous, but I think they're fundamental. Taking into account school fees, a child costs £25 000 (about R300 000) a year.
But it's not all about money. It's about lifestyle choices. I love the freedom to do what I want when I want and the thrill of being totally irresponsible. If I want to sleep until lunchtime on Saturday, I don't feel guilty because I've got to take little Rupert to a football match or Jessica to ballet class. The mindless drudgery of being a parent would drive me nuts.
We're spared the tyranny of routine. If we don't feel like cooking we head off to a restaurant. Some weeks our fridge contains nothing more than a few bottles of sparkling water and some lemons. But who's complaining?
I relish my privacy. I go to the gym three mornings a week. When I come home I like to take a shower and wander around the house naked. I couldn't do that with a nine-year-old daughter eating her cornflakes.
From the moment I met Rachel, I was captivated. I loved her gutsy ambition, her energy and her generosity of spirit. Within months I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.
I didn't deliberately hide my views on children. In fact I remember one conversation where we agreed we'd shelve thinking about a family for at least two years. Maybe it was cowardly, but I guess I hoped the conversation would never arise again.
I honestly didn't realise just how passionate Rachel was about children. And I didn't realise just how adamant I was until the crunch came.
Telling her we'd never have children was horrible. I've had to sack many people over the years and the feelings were similar. But I never felt guilty - because I knew it was the right decision for the business.
I adore Rachel. But even though I feared she'd leave me, there's never been any room for negotiation.
I know it's been hard for Rachel. It's not been easy for me either. In those first few years we were both so miserable, I didn't expect our
marriage to survive.
But even the fear of losing Rachel didn't alter my views. If we had children, I'd resent her and them. A child would have known that.
I suspect that many men end up being fathers unwillingly. They make sure they're busy in the office during the week and play golf or tennis on Saturday.
On Sundays they spare their children a few hours and then tell themselves they're good fathers. That's no way to raise a child.
Parenthood is too important to be taken lightly.
I've made the big decision over children. In turn, I do everything in my power to please Rachel. I've always supported her career 100%. It's the least I can do.
My father is dead but my mother is still alive and totally mystified by my decision. She'd love grandchildren and thinks I'm being unfair to Rachel. But I don't live my life for my mother.
Some people may argue that it's every woman's right to have a child. I believe that it's every man's right to remain childless if he chooses.
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