… the overwhelming majority disliked [“childless” and “childfree”], with one being seen as stigmatising and the other gleeful and nasty in its implication that parents somehow need “liberating”.
… that’s one reason why – when absolutely necessarily – “doesn’t have children” is the kindest, most neutral descriptor we can hope for. Though we can also hope to be moving away from one’s parenting status needing to be defined at all, especially for women, who still face this question far more frequently than men. Language matters, and as ever it often says more about us and our assumptions than we realise.
read more here.
these stories, they come to me in dreams the first time I fell asleep since they told me you’ve fallen into flatline
I dream you
sometimes in colours, green and oranges, purples and blues, and not bleak nor dark, we are not in the shadows
in these dreams, our children they’re born. they’re not sucked to death, they’re not stillborn nor bled away
they live and we give
names to their innocent loving faces
the eldest has my eyes, her brother has your smile
in these dreams we’re not bitter
we’re not numb from pain
in these dreams you are standing tall
little daughter dances on your devoted steadfast feet
her brother clung to your arms, his head rests on your secure and sturdy shoulder.
he’s falling into another dream.
in these dreams, I dance with you under the chuppah
and you recite a long vow, a song we used to hum
before we went to sleep
On birthdays that are wiser,
On Letters to Lovers Lost.
It was when I looked into your eyes, I realised I came from a long journey across time, before yours nor mine. I knew this from recurring dreams. They were so vivid that when I woke up, my arms my feet my body were sore and tired. These dreams were more than just a realm in my subconscious, they were real.
In my dreams, I have your eyes, your smile, and everything’s new under the sun. In my dreams I was lost looking for something, anything felt like a mother. In my dreams, I too was abandoned, unwanted. In my dreams, I was you.
You were to me my long lost son. I see you, and I see him too, in you. I wanted him to be: something you. One and the same, exactly like you, just as if he came out of copying machine. I named him after you. Now you never again have to look for something, anything like a mother.
I am here for you.
When I, My Own Daughter coming soon.
Let me tell you about time: it doesn’t heal, it goes on. It changes you into different people and when you are in a different place, you see different things -and if you’re lucky enough, you see things differently (you might write about it too).
And that is it. There’s nothing about healing has anything to do with how time stretches between you and your wounds. They will always be there to remind you where you’re coming from.
My book went live few hours ago and everytime it always come down to this feeling of helplessness in letting go. And that is the only healing I could ever get from writing it.
Life always, always, gets you caught off guard and I am spent.