by Emma Gannon
In the contact section there are also links to help lines that could help women who are child-free not by choice, explaining perhaps that this might not be the group for them and suggesting other groups that might be more appropriate.
My eyes light up reading something so resonant. A group for women who simply choose not to have children and are totally okay with it. As they should be!
I open up a new email from my personal email address.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: CFBC Query
Hello Iris,
I have been doing some late-night Googling, wondering if I am alone in my feelings of not wanting children. I can’t tell you how relieved I felt stumbling across the CFBC! I was wondering if you had any space for a newbie, and how I can sign up. I’d love to come along to the next event if you’ll have me!
Best wishes,
Olive
I throw back the last dregs of rosé and call it a night. I unplug my phone charger and put it into my tote bag, and swap my heeled boots for my old sneakers. I go to message the girls to see what they’re up to this weekend, and as I reach for my phone, I notice the ping sound of a new email:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: RE: CFBC Query
Hi Olive,
How are you? Lovely to hear from you. You caught me just at the right time, I only check my emails once a day!
Things are very busy for me at the moment—well they always seem to be these days! I’m doing all sorts of projects, a new yoga school, an art exhibition that needs finalizing and my new boyfriend is in town ;) Life has never been better!!!! ;-)
So glad you want to come along to a gathering. The Child-Free By Choice (CFBC) open-mic night is at the Book Club in Shoreditch. Please don’t share the address with anyone else—but of course feel free to bring a friend or plus-one. I know it can be quite nerve-racking coming to these sorts of things on your own, but I promise you everyone is super nice, and I will be there to make sure you are OK! We offer a nice safe space where we can all share our stories together, judgment-free. You could even do a reading if you want?
We only ask that attendees donate a small amount to our CFBC charity fund, at your discretion! Here’s the link to make your payment.
Let me know and I can confirm you, we’d love to have you there!
I x
Iris seems fun. I like that she is making it clear that she has a full-to-the-brim life that she loves. My first question when I meet her will be whether she feels any pressure to be seen to be “having it all” in a different way: traveling, sex, friendships, hobbies. Having to “make up for” not having kids, in some weird way. Ambition with a capital “A.” I feel like this with my friends sometimes. When they give updates about their families, partners, or babies, I seem to fill my silence with career news. I also wonder if she ever feels like she has to be seen as outwardly happy all the time, in case people think she’s made a huge mistake. Either way, it feels so inspiring to hear from a woman like Iris, who seemingly has no regrets about her life choices. You hear these stories of women over fifty who suddenly think, “Oh shit, I’m never going to be a grandmother, what have I done?” These are the stories I see a lot of. I’m not saying they aren’t valid, but they can be scaremongering. It feeds into the whole “it’s better to regret what you’ve done, rather than what you haven’t done!” theory. I worry then that some people might go into motherhood even if it’s not right for them. I am excited by getting to know Iris. Gill will be pleased that I’ve already secured a place at the CFBC club—sometimes these closed groups are hard to access. Journalistic brownie points to me! What about bringing a friend or two? I have no idea who the hell would want to come with me. Maybe I’ll ask Zeta. Or maybe Bea? Or, oh my god, Colin would be funny, plus he’s judgment-free. Bea could pretend and come as a child-free woman in disguise. Isla’s so vulnerable right now, it wouldn’t feel right to subject her to this—she might see it as a sort of betrayal.
I feel tight knots of excitement form in my belly—I am going to be around a hundred women who might feel exactly the same as I do.
17
That night I wake up in the dark, pouring with sweat. My entire back is drenched. Despite my growing excitement about the CFBC club, my troubled subconscious is rearing its head. I rub my eyes as the dream comes back to me.
I am carrying a huge, heavy baby car seat with a big handle. It’s important, this baby seat and its contents. I don’t know what my baby looks like inside this seat, but I need to protect it, and we need to reach our destination. I am carrying this big, bulky car seat down a busy street. My legs feel heavy, and I can hardly lift up each leg. It’s like they’re not my own, and they are made of something different, like metal or stone. The baby seat is perched on my arm like a handbag. But it’s so heavy. Everyone is walking slowly, and my arms are aching from the weight of it. I am pushing past, battling through the crowds, stressed, needing to get somewhere quickly, weighed down. My knees are buckling. Cracks appear in the pavement. The weight is getting worse, but I have to avoid falling down the cracks. The roads are ripping apart, and I am balancing on the edge. My stomach is lurching. I can hear a baby crying. There is gunge on my feet. Green slime. It’s sticky and it’s making it so much harder to walk. I feel an urgency.
When I look down, the thing is empty. There is no baby in the car seat. Why was it so heavy? Anxiety overwhelms me then; something is missing.
I look around me and familiarize myself with my room before face-planting back into my pillow. That was too real. I reach for my laptop and google “hot yoga class.” I book a hot yoga session at a “luxury hotel” for the next bank holiday weekend. In these anxiety-ridden witching hours I always feel a desperate need to book something to make me feel less alone and afraid. So this time: not just any old sweating—some luxury sweating.
“I have a difficult enough time getting motivated to take good care of myself. I cannot imagine having to always put a child first.”
Maria, 26
18
There’s a plain-looking envelope on my doormat. I shuffle along my tiny hallway in my thick socks and grab it. I slice it open with a knife, and inside I find a letter from Transport for London and a “Baby on Board” badge. Huh? Oh. Crap. I suddenly have a flashback of myself searching on eBay for a secondhand badge on Friday night as I drank myself into the weekend with a massive glass of wine in hand. Looks like it’s arrived. Guess if you say you’re pregnant, anyone would just believe you, eh?
I put the badge on, clipping it to the outside of my jacket. I look in the mirror. It looks weird on me. Probably because you’re not pregnant, Olive! But I feel different. Like it’s a tiny piece of armor, a temporary shield against the real horrors of the world. A shortcut to feeling like I might have my shit together.
I call Mum on the way to the bus stop. Sometimes I feel guilty about how long we can go without speaking to each other. She bought me a fridge magnet last Christmas that says, “Call your mother,” and I have to admit it’s worked. Every time I look at it, I’m given a little nudge to make more of an effort with her.
“Hi, Olive!” She picks up after quite a few rings.
“Hi, Mum.”
“How are you doing, darling? Good week?”
“Okay, thanks. Just plodding along with work and seeing friends. You?”
“My friend Steph came ’round last night and showed me pictures of her daughter’s new baby. Then we did some gardening together. Was so exciting using my new gardening gloves!”
“Oh lovely.”
“What are you up to today?”
“Oh just work, Mum, and seeing my friend Col at the pub.”
“You’ve been doing some printing?”
“Printing?”
“When you make the magazines
.”
“Mum, I write for the magazine and the website. I don’t physically print them.”
“Sorry, darling, I still don’t 100 percent understand your job.”
“It’s not that hard to understand, Mum.” I sound huffy now.
“All I know is that you are doing very well. I’ll have to show you pics of Steph’s grandchild soon; she’s got the smallest, cutest ears! Reminds me of when you were little, actually.”
“Okay, Mum. I don’t really know Steph, so I don’t need to see her baby photos. Speak to you soon, though.”
My heart sinks. My achievements never seem good enough.
I reach the bus stop. I always get the same one into Soho, but this time it’s like I’m in an episode of Black Mirror—everyone is smiling at me. It’s so weird. A woman with a stroller grins at me; a young guy collecting money for charity, who normally hassles me, just nods warmly in my direction; a man waiting at the bus stop gets up quickly and offers me a seat.
“Congratulations!” a man with a toupee and briefcase whispers, looking me up and down.
Creepy.
Congratulations on what?
Then I realize. Oh shit: the badge.
I take it off before I see someone I know—that would be a very hard lie to wriggle out of—and I feel instantly invisible again.
I’m half an hour early for my drink with Col. My phone beeps; I assume it’s Col running late, but it’s actually a new WhatsApp message from Cec. It hits me that it’s been awhile since I heard from her. She hasn’t replied to any of my latest messages asking her how she is. I mean, I completely get it; she’s busy with a new baby and all. But I realize I’ve totally stopped expecting any replies from her.
Cecily: Hi guys—I wondered if you were up for organizing my baby shower! Well, I’m calling it a “baby party” because it’s not really a baby shower as Oscar is already here. Wanna do it next weekend. YES I KNOW IT’S THREE MONTHS AFTER I’VE ACTUALLY GIVEN BIRTH but I’d always had it in my head to do it this way. I wanted Oscar to be there, celebrating with us!!! It can be my baby shower slash his sort-of three-month birthday? Anyway, nothing major, just bringing people together (I’ll send you a list) and help with some of the decorations.
Bea: That sounds like a lovely idea, Cecy. I’ll make a cake!
Isla: Sure x
Cec: Ah fantastic, thanks guys! I thought we could plan it together tomorrow when you all come over! Are we still on for the little rendezvous at mine? Oscar is excited to see you all!
Me: Cool—looking forward to seeing old OAP.
Cec:
Bea: Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Can’t wait.
Isla: I’ll be there x
I don’t mind helping, neither does Bea, but to ask Isla, while she is struggling with IVF appointments and other stuff? Not cool, Cec. Not cool at all. I understand that Cec might be in an awkward position, not wanting to leave Isla out and all. But it feels like a bit of salt in the wound.
I give Isla a call to check how she is. It rings and rings, but no answer.
When I arrive at Cecily’s house the next evening, Bea and Isla are already there. Bea is busying herself in the kitchen, opening cardboard boxes and unwrapping wineglasses from bubble wrap. I walk into Cec’s giant living room, and she’s put the fire on, which is making crackling noises. I can immediately feel the warmth on my face. Cec is kneeling in the middle of the room on a gray fluffy rug, gesturing and muttering something about “the plan of attack.” She has lots of folders spread out, highlighters, stickers, and Post-it notes.
“Hello, love!” she says, acknowledging my arrival and then continuing to hastily cross things off her to-do list. “Right. Decorations, tick. Color scheme is nailed. Just need to follow up with the caterers—the woman there is being very vague about the canapé sizes—and then I need the addresses written out in my special gold pen and then stuck onto these envelopes.”
I am genuinely taken aback by the scene in front of me. Cec was never this manic an organizer before—we used to laugh together about how seriously people take these sorts of things. She was my laid-back friend who rolled her eyes with me at the endless Instagram posts of cheesy engagement shots and baby reveal parties. Where has her cynicism gone?
“Okay, Amelia and I can help with that bit, can’t we?” Bea says, as Amelia licks a sugar-free Chupa Chups and nods along.
“Great, thank you—here are the envelopes.” She hands a stack of paper to Bea. “The list of names is on my laptop, over there,” she says, pointing to a shelf next to the TV.
“Cec, give Olive something to do,” Bea says, gesturing at me while I stand there aghast at Cec, who has turned into a micromanager overnight.
While Bea and her kids are writing out invitations, I start ringing up a catering company about a vegan option for the charcuterie boards. I suddenly notice that Isla is nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s Isla?”
“She’s in the kitchen making decorations,” Cec says, frowning at her clipboard.
I find Isla sitting at the large kitchen island, crying quietly, with a glue-stick in hand. She sobs gently as she pulls the stick across the paper decorations.
“Isla! What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Cec just asked me to glue these decorations together,” she continues, pulling the stubborn stick against the grain of the paper, sniffing. I yank it from her.
“It’s fine,” she says, picking up another baby-shaped blue paper cutting and gluing its bottom, wiping her snot with her sleeve.
“It’s clearly not—look at you, you’re crying.”
“Ugh, I am surrounded by all this baby stuff, and it’s so bloody hard.”
“Oh, babe. It’s not fair for you to be doing this. I’m booking you an Uber home right now. Stay in here. I’ll deal with Cecily.”
“Please don’t make a fuss, Ol,” Isla calls after me.
I march back into the living room. My cheeks feel hot and red.
“Cec. I’m booking Isla a car home. It’s really not okay to ask her to do all this baby shower stuff with what she’s going through. It was a bad idea.”
Cec looks up from her baby shower folder and stands up. “Well, that’s fine, obviously. Why didn’t you say anything before? I don’t want to upset anyone,” Cec says, tucking her bob behind her ears awkwardly, and then putting her hands in her back pockets.
“Yeah, well. I’ll get Isla home, and you can give me another task to do.”
“I’m sorry, guys. I just want everything to be perfect,” Cec says innocently.
“Just a bit of sensitivity, maybe, Cec.”
Isla mopes into the room.
“Is that true, Isla?”
“Cec, just leave it,” I say.
“I don’t know. I’m just finding this baby overload a bit much right now.” Isla looks down at the floor.
“I understand. Sorry . . .” Cec pauses and looks down. “Oh god, I’ve been really self-obsessed.”
“No you haven’t, Cec,” Bea pipes up. “You’ve just had a baby. You’re allowed to be centering everything around that right now. Isla, I’m very sorry you’re finding things so hard right now, but this day is also really important to Cec.”
“Of course you would side with Cecily, Bea,” I say irritably.
“I’m not siding with anyone, Olive.”
“I’m just saying: there are more important things than this baby shower,” I say.
Cec’s mouth drops to the floor. “You can go home now, Olive,” she says in a monotone, not looking at me.
“Oh, Cec, don’t be like that, darling,” says Bea.
Then the baby monitor goes off, and Oscar starts screeching.
I feel as though some sort of invisible battle line has been drawn.
19
I’m in the bath with avocado-scented shampoo
in my hair. My laptop is balancing on a towel on top of the toilet, and the soothing voice of a mental health-themed podcast where famous authors discuss their lowest moments is playing in the background. My phone pings. It’s our WhatsApp group again. What now? Usually I crave hearing from them, but I’ve been stewing on the fallout at Cecily’s all week, getting the fear about whether or not I was too outspoken, and now I’m terrified of the situation getting worse.
Cec: Hi guys
Cec: So I’m going to be organizing the baby shower myself now.
(10 minutes pass)
Cec: Guys? That OK??
Me: Fine by me
Isla: me too
Bea: OK, love! xx
I sink further into the water. Really, she should have just done it all herself from the start. She was micromanaging us anyway. It looks like she’s been curating a Pinterest board of pastel-colored inspiration for this party (room dressings, food, decor, and invitations) for months. Her bachelorette party was a slap-up meal for ten people in a sticky pub, for god’s sake. Where has my friend gone?
By the time the big baby shower day arrives, I can feel my nerves jangling in my belly, a sense of impending doom. I’m wrapping some presents in my kitchen, and Zeta is sitting at my kitchen counter, drying some plates. I accidentally get some very sticky tape stuck to a small blister on my hand and shout expletives.
“Big day today then,” Zeta says.
“Yep, I’m still a bit annoyed with Cecily, to be honest.”
“Has she been bossing you all about?”
“Yeah—well, it’s her bossing Isla about that bothered me. Imagine getting your mate who’s struggling with IVF to spend all day glue-sticking your ‘It’s a Boy’ bunting for you. I don’t know, I just thought it was quite cruel, and so not like Cec.”