The Mother of All Dilemmas: Dreams of Motherhood and the Internship That Changed Everything

By Kathleen G Woods

"You really should have kids." Hurtling toward 40-and still single and longing for children of her own-Kathleen doesn't need to be reminded that time is running out for her to turn her dreams for a family into reality. So she starts to consider a Plan B: becoming a single parent. But can she do it all on her own? And does she re

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steel Rose Press
• Release date: Jul 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9780578346663

Kathleen G Woods

Kathleen Guthrie Woods is a San Francisco-based freelance copywriter and editor. For eight years she wrote a weekly column for LifeWithoutBaby.com, a website and blog dedicated to giving a voice to women who are childfree by chance, choice, or circumstance. She currently runs her own blog, 52Nudges, in which she takes weekly "risks" to push her out of her sometimes-too-comfortable nest.With Lisa Manterfield, she co-authored "Life Without Baby: Holiday Companion," a compilation of humorous, healing, and thought-provoking posts designed to help other childless women get through the holidays and get closer to making peace with being childfree. "The Mother of All Dilemmas" is her second book.Kathleen's family of choice includes her husband and their dog, siblings and their spouses, nieces and nephews, godsons, and a wide circle of friends of all ages. She leads a full and interesting life, one that is anything but child-less. Find out about her latest creative endeavors at www.KathleenGuthrieWoods.com.

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THE MOTHER OF ALL DILEMMAS

DREAMS OF MOTHERHOOD AND THE INTERNSHIP THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING

KATHLEEN GUTHRIE WOODS

Steel Rose Press, Santa Rosa, CA Steel Rose Press, Santa Rosa, CA

CONTENTS

Prologue

1. To Be—or Not To Be—a (Single) Mommy

2. Best Not-Getting-Laid Plans

3. Milestones & Miracles

4. Perfect Vacation Plans

5. Big Girls Don’t Cry, They Melt Down

6. Meet Jake

7. A Crash Course in Responsible Parenting

8. Getting Into Our Groove Thang

9. Lessons & Signs

10. Tough Loving

11. All in a (Vacation Mommy’s) Day’s Work

12. Role Models

13. Correction: #1 on My Cons List

14. Dating…with Kid

15. Interdependence

16. Not on My Watch, Kid

17. For the Love of Shoes

18. I Won’t Mind

19. Passing the Baby Baton

20. (Maybe) Home Is Where Your Dog Is

21. All in the Family Expectations

22. Outside Sources & External Forces

Other Women’s Stories: Liz, Career Woman and Late-in-Life Mom

23. Interview Questions for the World’s Hardest Job

24. Damned If We Don’t, Damned If We Do

25. What’s God Got to Do with It?

26. Pros, Meet the Cons

Other Women’s Stories: Jill, Childless Stepmom

27. Dollars & Sense

28. Got Sperm?

29. Self-Pity, Party of One

Other Women’s Stories: Valerie, Single Mom of a Toddler

30. Getting Outside (& Inside) Advice

Other Women’s Stories: Chelsea, 33 and Still Deciding

31. Passport to Somewhere

Other Women’s Stories: Kim, 50, Single, and Moving On

32. Seasons of Love

33. The Sisterhood

Other Women’s Stories: Megan, Empty Nester

34. Embracing the Childfree Life

Epilogue

A Note to You, If You’re Still Wrestling with This Dilemma

Resources and References

Acknowledgments

About the Author

For Jake

Jake and Kathleen

PROLOGUE

"You really should have kids, you know."

I stood in the parking lot as my blood beat its way to the dangerous staccato that precedes a panic attack. I held my breath in a vice grip, afraid that if I let go, I’d unleash a primal scream. Regrets and frustrations, dreams deferred and lost, all that I’d been stuffing down for decades came roaring to the surface, while time and place froze around me. Everything I’d been denying about my not-quite-okay life came before me in a moment of excruciatingly painful clarity.

You really should have kids, you know, he said to me.

You. You—and you alone—really should have kids.

At 38, I wasn’t married, I wasn’t a mother, I wasn’t fully a woman. I was nothing, and nothing I would remain, because Mr. Not-Quite-Right—the man who knew me best, my on-again, off-again, charming and frustrating, fiercely supportive and emotionally distant boyfriend of two-plus years—was not going to help me realize my dreams for a family. There was no we in his pronouncement about my future.

His offhand editorial was a compliment, really, based on a scene he had witnessed minutes earlier, as well as similarly intimate and recurring scenes in our past. While he shopped for a gizmo for his computer, debating the pros and cons of various models with a clerk, I settled on a stool in the store’s showroom and fiddled with an online chess game. I sensed a presence, and out the corner of my eye spied a little boy, probably about six years old, observing me.

Do you know how to play chess? I asked.

He shook his head and a thick curtain of brown bangs fell before his eyes.

Would you like to learn with me?

Without making direct eye contact, he nodded, then with the back of his hand, nudged those soft bangs out of his face and stepped closer.

I talked to him about pawns and kings, sharing my limited knowledge of the game, while he eased in closer to the computer screen and to me. A hand on my knee, a lean against my outer thigh. The computer beat us without mercy, but we remained optimistic and hit Replay until…

Time to go, buddy! a dad called from the distance, and my little mate hopped off with a quiet Thank you! before I fully registered he had made his way into sitting on my lap.

Lately, and more and more frequently, children not unlike this sweet sprite cozied up to me in unexpected public places. There was the inconsolable infant who was passed around a group until she curled into my shoulder and fell into a peaceful sleep. An antsy toddler seemed determined to disrupt everyone with his pacing and chatter until I claimed his attention with a game I made up on the spot. I relished my roles as the fun aunt and the cool neighbor who was always up for a game of catch with the little kids in my life. My spirit quickened around children as I engaged with them, fascinated by their personalities, intellects, and unique observations.

I really should have kids.

And, oh sweet God, time was running out for me.

I’d been a good girl, I’d been playing by the rules; this wasn’t supposed to be my fate. I had been waiting for the right partner, while hoping Mr. Not-Quite-Right would change, hoping I could inspire him to change to fit the pretty pictures in my head of perfect family life and my perfectly outlined Plan A.

Mr. Not-Quite-Right had tried.

Let’s just go to Vegas, he’d said.

Let’s just have a baby. I know it’s what you want, he’d said.

I want to make you happy, he’d said.

No, I’d said. But thank you.

For I knew. I knew our relationship wasn’t right, and I knew I needed more. It didn’t feel right. I wanted more for him, too, more of what he wanted for himself, and though I couldn’t articulate what I thought he needed, I was certain I wasn’t it.

Still, I’d lacked the courage to break free to find my elusive it, to take the risk that I could find something—and someone—better. I was stuck in a killer cycle of this is good enough, that place where women find themselves marrying for security or companionship or money or babies or prestige, or the coveted Mrs. that confirms to outsiders She must be worth loving, then not much later finding themselves in divorce court wondering, What the hell was I thinking?!?

Meanwhile, everyone—my friends, family, doctors, celebrities—were telling me I should

BE A MOTHER!

Everything in society, my society in the early years of the 21st century, demonstrated to me

Womanhood means Motherhood.

No pressure.

My 40th birthday—with the irritating tick-tocking of my biological clock and an epic case of baby lust—was less than 24 months away, and time was not my ally. There was so much I wanted: the miracle of pregnancy and birth, the passing on of holiday traditions, sugar-fueled birthday parties, family road trips across our great state, handmade Halloween costumes and forts made out of pillows, back-to-school nights and beach bonfires, cuddles and kisses. I longed for the struggles and challenges of parenting that pay off like no other achievement when you realize you’ve contributed a good human to the world. It was no longer enough for me that I had succeeded in my career. I wanted a successful life experience. I wanted to be a whole person, a fully expressed woman. I wanted to be the recipient of real love and God’s blessings. I wanted to matter. And that, to me, meant having kids.

You really should have kids, you know.

I wanted to hate Mr. Not-Quite-Right, to blame him for everything that hadn’t worked out for me. But in that moment in the parking lot, when he slammed the car door shut and revved the engine to snap me out of my internal hell, I knew that he had given me a gift. He released me from my fog, my patience, my denial, and lit a fire of passion under me. He set me free to pursue my dreams, because…

I love kids. I would be a wonderful mother. I should be a mother.

That morning I slid out of the passenger seat of his car and into the driver’s seat of my own life, no longer okay with letting life happen to me. I turned my anger and angst into a fuel that would help me bravely face my fears, stare down any regrets, claim my power, and begin making some bold decisions about the life-altering choices I was finally confronting.

* * *

From my earliest days when I cuddled my favorite doll, Mary, I’d known that I wanted to bear and raise my own children, to follow in my mom’s footsteps as my own family’s Chief Nurturer. It was what I was supposed to do, it was expected of me, and I also yearned to experience the joys of parenting that my own mother and father modeled. As a single adult woman, I longed to express my gift for nurturing beyond the limitations of my circle of friends and Mr. Not-Quite-Right. I wanted to curl into a nest with flesh of my own making, not just that of the children of my friends and siblings. I wanted to be recognized as an adult, not just an old maid who couldn’t settle down, take responsibility, commit. For too long I had waited in the wings as my closest friends went through pregnancy and into motherhood. I lived vicariously, certain that I would get my membership card in the mommy club soon, that I would join their ranks as a contributing grownup. I wanted to please, for once, my parents by following their examples and living up to their expectations of a good daughter.

But having been through my share of not-great relationships in my 20s and 30s, I knew for sure that I didn’t want to get into co-parenting with someone who was not spouse-worthy, and my options were limited. And this wasn’t 1950, or even 1970. This was a new millennium when women were better positioned to make choices for themselves about career, family, and self-fulfillment. We were told we had the right and the abilities to create and realize self-empowerment; we could Have It All. What I wanted most was to decide my own path, to get everything I wanted and needed, to live a fully realized life in my time and society, to be recognized for my contributions.

You really should have kids, you know.

Yes, I know I should, dammit!

Mr. Not-Quite-Right was not The One, not My One. I was no longer going to wait around for a man to give me the keys to my future, to give me a magical kiss and make all my dreams come true. So, following an amicable parting, I hitched up my big-girl breeches, ditched Plan A, and started exploring an option that was unimaginable to my mom’s generation: becoming a single mother with the aid of donor sperm.

This would be my Plan B, and with an ounce of confidence, I felt ready(ish) to commit to seeing it through.

I embarked on a journey that day in the parking lot, one that would force me to deeply examine the expectations I’d long held about family, confront the realities of having and raising a child on my own, and wrestle with redefining my self-worth. Amidst embarrassing missteps, absurdly hilarious ah-hahs, and the heart-expanding and heart-crushing revelations that helped me evaluate what was the right path for me, I formulated plans, observed friends, listened to my heart, and struggled to decide for myself: Could I do this, all on my own? Did I really want to?

As I pooled my resources and set my mind to getting it done!, I found myself in a scary vacuum. How do I make a big life decision like this without knowing what it’s really like? How do I know if real life will give me the fulfillment I long for?

This is the story of how subsequent events and decisions formed my evolution from desperate, disempowered single woman to whole woman of my own design and definition. It wasn’t a straight or smooth path. I thought I knew the route and final destination, but I was in for many surprises. Some came from unexpected mentors, opportunities, chance encounters and conversations, challenges, cathartic meltdowns, and leaps of faith. Some came from friends who candidly shared their stories from different perspectives of the motherhood discussion, and others came from strangers who opened up to me and trusted me with their confessions. I had to have faith that my teachers and my answers would come.

I hoped and prayed I wouldn’t have regrets. I hoped to prove that my life was not an utter, shameful waste. Over time, I grew stronger, more conscious, and better able to make the choices that were and are right for me. I won’t promise that I have all the answers, but I hope that by sharing my story, I will empower you as you find the courage to face your own crises of faith and life-defining dilemmas.

You really should have kids, you know.

It was time to determine for myself if that was true.

Motherhood is as hard and as rewarding as everyone says. If it’s something you really want, spending time with your child will not be a burden at all.

—Valerie, Mara’s mom

I cannot imagine what life would be like without my son. If everything else comes crashing down, I know that the one significant thing I’ve done in my life is to be a mom to somebody.

—Liz, Dylan’s mom

1

TO BE—OR NOT TO BE—A (SINGLE) MOMMY

Although there are photographs of me gingerly holding each of my newborn siblings, I was too young (three years old when Carrie arrived, then four and a half for Kevin) to imprint the memories of my mother’s pregnancies or what it was like to welcome a baby into the house. My first truly cognizant understanding of the baby-making process happened when I was maybe eight, and a family friend, pregnant with her third child, came for a visit. It looked like she had stuffed a basketball in her very tight T-shirt. Would you like to touch it? she asked. Sure, okay. It felt taut and firm, kind of like how it would feel if she had an actual basketball under her shirt. But then that ball moved. Wowzer! I snatched my hand back and about jumped out of my sandals, much to the delight of my mother and her friend, who coaxed me back for more. It was electric, it was magic! And then something, a tiny elbow or foot, jabbed the smooth surface as if it wanted to tear its way out. No kidding: There was a person in there.

While I wasn’t all that keen on my inklings of how that little person would get out of there, I knew I wanted what our friend had. From that day forward, I had a desire and expectation for motherhood that imbued every fiber of my being. Evolution, natural selection, biological urge, maternal instinct…. I never thought to analyze what caused me to feel this way, it just…was. When I asked my closest girlfriends about it, they had felt the same way. I knew since I was five that I wanted to be a mom, Joanna said. Two kids—one boy, one girl—and a picket fence, Jill said, when I asked her to describe her dreams of adulthood.

Why did I want to be a mother? I honestly couldn’t answer that because I never thought to question the desire. I just did. It’s what women wanted. My own mother said her years of being home with us three as we were growing up were the happiest period and role of her life. It’s what my sister and friends wanted, so, of course, I wanted it too. I longed to experience the rites of passage that I was told to expect. Having someone fall in love with me, ask for my hand in marriage, the wedding and all its celebratory events. Then, when the time was right, oh, God, the quickening, the expanding belly, the first kicks, the changes that occur as the most magical of machines, my own body, created from a few cells a whole new being. I wanted to experience a deep connection with a child—my child—starting with the creating and giving of life, followed by that special love that mothers bragged about to us still-single and childless gals, all that I never knew love until I was a mother stuff. I wanted the answers to the mysteries implied when people said You’ll understand when you’re a parent, and I looked forward to bedtime stories, trips to Disneyland, Little League games, family picnics, board games, holidays, and the triumph of raising a good human. I imagined a mini-me with a unique personality, and I daydreamed how this fabulous creature would make me glow with pride whenever someone said to him or her, You’re just like your mother.

Along with any inborn biological inclinations and genetically wired baby lust, I also have to acknowledge that external pressures to conform played a role in my pursuit of motherhood. Everywhere I looked, I saw mommydom. News of a celebrity’s engagement ring was quickly followed by speculation of a baby bump. Actresses were photographed carrying their designer-clothed toddlers around town, as if they were the season’s hottest accessory. The reality TV lineup was packed with shows about families with multiples, families with many, and families trying to conceive more. Even news headlines led off with a mother of three… versus a woman was brutally murdered in her home…. I started to wonder…no, I began to fear that the only way I would have any value in society was by becoming a mother.

Was my life meaningless? I already felt I’d been on hold for my real life to begin, but geez. How was I going to fill this void?

You really should be a mom, said my friend Rachel.

Dammit. I was so tired of hearing this and experiencing the waves of stress, guilt, desire, and shame that came with it. I just wanted to get on with the life I was told I should have.

* * *

Having celebrated the births of my friends’ many children, I thought I was ready to embrace the changes to my family dynamics when my first niece arrived when I was 34. But as my sisters-in-law and sister, Carrie, joined the mommies club, I found myself quietly disappearing into the background as they—and a growing number of my girlfriends—closed ranks at get-togethers to discuss childcare stories. Teething, sleepless nights, vaccinations, preschool options—all were important conversations, in which they were each able to feel supported, understood, and appreciated.

And I was envious. I longed to join in, but I had nothing legitimate to contribute, and I certainly wasn’t so selfish that I would barge in and try to change the topic to something about my work or my busy schedule or my sometimes-entertaining adventures in dating. Still, behind my I’m okay! smile, it hurt to feel excluded, shunned, and silently branded as unworthy to participate at family events at church, in my community, in my own family. I was too much of a grownup to sit at the kids’ table, but not yet mature enough to have earned a place at the parents’ table. I spent holiday dinners in an awkward, yucky limbo.

One Christmas, I traveled from my home in Southern California to Northern California to be with my immediate family, with a reserved spot on Carrie’s futon. But shortly after my arrival, Carrie departed to drive a couple of hours away to be with her partner’s family. In my rental car, I drove about 30 minutes to join my brother, Kevin, his wife, Molly, and their guests for Christmas Eve dinner and festivities. After I helped Molly tuck their young girls into bed, Kevin pulled me aside and asked, Can you come late tomorrow morning? We want to have some family time.

I understood his request on an intellectual level. They had just hosted an elaborate holiday feast for a large group of family and friends, would host a similar gathering the next day, and just wanted a few hours of quiet time together, to discover the booty from Santa, to hang out in their pj’s and sip hot cocoa.

But family time?

What am I?

Of course, I said graciously, fighting to hold back the tears that were welling up inside me and stifle the scream that threatened to escape through my pores. My heart was breaking as the reality sunk in that I had outgrown my original nuclear family, that I was not a part of this family, that I was not a part of any family.

I drove back to an empty house, where I was a guest. I occupied the remaining hours that night watching TV and trying to read a book, and resisted the temptation to drink myself to sleep on cheap red wine. I finally depressed myself to sleep.

On Christmas morning, I bundled up and went for a two-hour walk around the unfamiliar neighborhood. I breathed in the scents of fires burning in hearths. I caught glimpses of family members starting breakfast and feast preparations in softly lit kitchens. I listened to the quiet of the street as I wandered the blocks alone, separated from all the activity going on inside each home, and longed to be part of some family holiday tradition of togetherness. It killed the time. It killed a part of me.

Never again, I vowed to myself. Never again would I allow myself to be so alone and so horribly vulnerable to heartbreak. I felt compelled to create my own solution by creating my own family, and I was starting to sense it wouldn’t look anything like the dreams I had carried for so long.

* * *

Funny things started to happen to me as I zoomed through my 30s toward 40. Suddenly, all the time I thought I had to manifest Plan A—find a great guy, fall in love, and plan a life—disappeared in a poof. The biological clock I never heard ticking before was pointed out by…

Friends: My mom said to tell you to hurry up because pretty doesn’t last. What?

My mother: I want to set you up with the nephew of my tennis partner’s dentist’s wife. Me: Okaaaay. What’s he like? Mom: You’re both single. Sigh….

My gynecologist: You really should have had children sooner. Me, as I hopped off the exam table: Well, let me go home and fire up my time machine and I’ll get back to you. Really? Not helpful!

I told myself I wasn’t desperate, that I was instead merely eager to get on with creating my own family and living the life I’d been programmed to expect. But when I did manage to meet an interesting guy with potential, I caught myself doing new math in my head: If we date for 6 months, get engaged at Christmas, hold a June wedding and get pregnant on the honeymoon, I’ll have my first baby before I’m 40 and can cram in a second child while I’m still 42. What the fruitcake?! This was so backwards! Mother Nature was forcing me to find a fertile daddy before I could fully evaluate whether or not I was ready for the long haul of matrimony with a particular individual, or if we were even compatible. I found myself thinking about whether or not a guy was daddy material—stable career, from a close family, wants to settle down and raise offspring—versus who would make the best partner for me, that great guy I wanted. Perfect Dating Guy might be the one who loves to travel, likes to take risks, is creative and a tad dangerous. Not the best attributes for the role of Perfect Daddy I was trying to cast. Besides, I still thought of myself (for the most part) as a savvy woman who was willing to wait for the right Mr. Right, not just a uterus that was shopping for complementary DNA. I wanted the full package of relationship, partnership, and true, passionate companion.

I told myself I had to face my fears and allow myself to envision my future as a continuation of my present: single, childfree. I knew I had to start exploring the possibility that if I decided not to become a mom, I would somehow be okay going through life without ever experiencing the unique bond of unconditional love a mother shares with her child. That I wouldn’t have regrets even though I’d miss things I’d looked forward to experiencing, like that sweet moment when a baby looks up, recognizes his mother, and breaks into a wiggly, room-filling grin. I needed to explore the possibility that I had wasted most of my childhood and all of my adult life waiting, longing, and planning for something I ultimately couldn’t have. Brutal! I had to search within myself to determine if I would be content with being the favorite aunt, and I had to strengthen my emotional armor so that I didn’t seethe with resentment and jealousy every time Mother’s Day rolled around. I needed to redefine my identity, reinvent my future, and refuse the label of lonely and bitter spinster. Therefore, I had to find meaning in my life, to create value in and for myself, so that I did not become more invisible and insignificant over time.

Denial was so much easier.

Instead of bravely counteracting my fears, I embarked on a new course of action. There had to be a way to get my dream, even part of my dream. I had been 38 when Mr. Not-Quite-Right steered me toward my new course. Since that day when I had gritted my teeth and begrudgingly accepted that the window for Plan A (going the traditional route of getting married and making babies the old-fashioned way) had closed, I steeled myself to look beyond the limitations of my fantasy world and embrace a new goal I could break down into clearly defined steps and bring to fruition. Plan B: I could become a mother on my own…with a donor daddy.

Whew! Deep breath. Shake off that weight of doubt. This was good. Progress! I was in a good place. Not frantic yet, but I was motivated to charge forward. I knew if I waited much longer, I risked being a medical experiment. I didn’t want to endure fertility treatments, nor did I want to be the woman my kid’s friends mistook for his grandmother. It was