A People Without Hope

On the Poverty of a Child-Free Life

Reminder: Today is the last day until November that you can place an order directly with me for signed copies of seven of my books. All the information you should need is here, but feel free to reach out if you have questions. As I explained on Instagram, in the Catholic publishing world, buying books directly from authors makes a huge difference for most of us, so Chris and I are deeply grateful for every one of you who is placing an order!

Yesterday, one of my toddlers pooped in his underpants. Twice.

Yesterday, my other toddler ran from me every time she needed a diaper change. Every single time.

Yesterday, all my children fought, all my children threw things, all my children asked for oatmeal and toast and yogurt and bananas and quesadillas, and then proceeded to eat none of what they asked for when it was given. None.

As I was picking up one mess, they made three more. As I was disciplining one child, the other two decorated the kitchen table with colored pencils. Nobody listened. Nobody sat still. And everybody yelled, including me.

It was a hard day.

“I’m no good at this,” I found myself thinking right before dinner. “Why did I ever think I would be.”

But later that night, as Toby and Ellie slept in their beds, and as I sat between them, rocking a still-awake-Becket, who was curled up against my chest, other memories came flooding back: of Ellie announcing her every entry into every room with a joyful shout of “Surprise!”; of Becket bounding off the sofa and chasing after his brother with the energy, speed, and determination of a soldier storming the beach at Normandy; of Toby wrapping his arms around my waist, looking up at me with his amber gold eyes and saying, “I love you, Mama.”

“Thank you, God, for this gift,” I whispered into the dark. “Thank you for letting me be their mother. Thank you for this life.”

This same shift in perspective has repeated itself day after day, year after year, ever since I became a mother. Hard moment follows hard moment. Failure seems to pile upon failure. And yet, at the end of the day, gratitude overwhelms me. My understanding of the day changes, ordering itself not around the difficult moments, but around the sum total of the moments, the whole of the time we spent together, the whole of who the children are and who I am and what we are doing together. And I know it’s all worth it. I know they’re worth it.

Going to Europe with small children was a lot like this. Almost exactly like this, actually. There were hard moments. There were tears and breakdowns and fights. There was whining and complaining and Toby developing a newfound ability to build weapons of war out of dinner utensils (including one quite impressive cross bow). There were absolutely moments when I thought, “This is insane. What was I thinking?”

But now, none of those memories occupy center stage in my mind. It’s work for me to remember what exactly was so hard about the trip. It is a struggle to come up with specific examples of difficulties. (Save for the cross bow. Pretty sure I’ll always remember that one.) It’s not a struggle in the least, however, to remember the beautiful moments. Ellie singing “Deliver Us,” (from the Prince of Egypt) at the top of her lungs, as we walked past the Jesu. All the children who could run playing a rousing game of Zombie tag on the sprawling piazza outside St. Mary of the Angels. Chris pushing the kids on a swing bathed in dappled sunlight in a hidden park atop Assisi. Becket walking around Sienna with a sword strapped to his waist. Toby leading a toddler army in some great battle on the steps of a twelfth century church near the Vatican. A long, hot lunch with new friends in Piazza Navona, where Toby and their daughter did science experiments with salt, while the adults sipped Aperol Spritzes. Children running through fountains that sprayed water high in the air. The boisterous toasts of little ones during our farewell dinner (toasts that I was sure would end in the display of glass bottles behind the children tumbling to the ground, but which thankfully did not). All the hugs and tears between the children when they had to say goodbye to their new friends. And a hundred memories more. Too many to write down here.

So now, when I talk about the trip, all I can say, with profound gratitude is, “It was so wonderful. It was such a joy. It was totally worth it.”

And it was. Not in spite of the children. But because of the children.

To some—probably to many—that sounds like crazy talk. Our culture doesn’t like children all that much. Our culture doesn’t understand children all that much either. Somehow, even though our comfort in old age (not to mention the continued existence of the human race) depends upon them, children are increasingly considered optional, with fertility rates in the U.S. now at the lowest point in recorded history. Children have become a choice, and‚ in many people’s eyes. not a very good one.

Even many who see children as a good choice, see them as a good that should be limited. One or two is generally thought to be enough; they are expensive and exhausting, after all. Almost as many of us, maybe more, prefer people to keep their choices out of sight until they can behave like adults. We don’t want them on our flights or in our restaurants, at our weddings or in our houses, and we certainly don’t want them on our vacations to Europe.

So, often, they’re not. Some people don’t take children to restaurants or on planes and vacations because they don’t have any to take; others because the prospect sounds too stressful or because they know their children’s presence will be seen as a burden to others.

And we are all poorer for that.