Few things could surpass the swell in my heart when I feel the warmth of my grandchildren’s tiny hands clasped in mine; the look of wonder on their faces as we gaze at stars in the night sky; their newly bathed smell as we snuggle in our pyjamas at bedtime.
My grandchildren are my world. Or at least, they are in my imagination.
Because although I’m now 61 and surrounded by friends who are basking in the rosy glow of early grandparenthood, my own two daughters – one 34, the other 32 – have both declared with absolute certainty that they never want children of their own.
Put simply, I will never be a granny. Six little words that consume me with sadness.
Britain now has the lowest birth rate ever recorded, with an average of 1.44 children per women of childbearing age as of 2023
It’s a feeling I can only describe as intense grief – and I should know, as my darling husband Mike died from cancer 15 years ago. Though I’m learning to deal with this latest sense of loss, I doubt there’ll ever be a day when it lifts completely.
Until recently, it had never occurred to me that either of my daughters, who both live with their long-term boyfriends, would seriously contemplate not having children.
Rather, I assumed they’d simply follow in my footsteps, chasing down successful careers while also aspiring to be devoted mothers, gifting me gorgeous grandkids in the process.
Instead, there will be no nurseries in their respective homes, no prams by the front door, no babies with arms outstretched for kisses and cuddles from me. It’s heartbreaking.
Yet it seems my girls are not alone in rejecting motherhood. This week it was revealed that Britain now has the lowest birth rate ever recorded, with an average of 1.44 children per women of childbearing age as of 2023.
But away from the headlines about population rates and consequential workforce shortages, I’m left to contemplate that one consequence of this societal shift is a generation of older women like me, left devastated that we will never be grannies.
My eldest, Amelia, was the first to drop the baby bombshell. Forthright, feminist and vocal with her opinions, she studied politics and economics at university, while her younger sister Maddie, who’s a little more prone to people-pleasing, studied English literature, prompting lively dinner table discussions at our home in Warwickshire when their degree courses delved into feminism and the expectations on women past and present.
‘Why would I want to bring a child into this world?’ Amelia announced during one such debate. Yet she was only 20 at the time, so I brushed it off as being the words of a naïve, headstrong student. Of course she didn’t want kids then; she was having the time of her life at university. But I told myself that one day she’d meet a lovely man, fall in love and change her mind.
After all, as little girls both Amelia and Maddie loved to play with dolls and prams, and to mother the babies and toddlers of family friends. I interpreted this as an inbuilt maternal instinct.
How wrong – or deluded – I was. For not only has Amelia remained resolute in her decision, her younger sister now feels exactly the same.
It was during a family break this summer that Amelia, who has been with her partner Lewis for eight years now, reaffirmed that parenthood very much isn’t for her and that Lewis is on the same page, more interested in pursuing his career in finance than in procreating. We were eating a roast dinner we’d cooked together in the large cottage we were renting in the Cotswolds when the conversation turned to one of Amelia’s friends, who’s recently had a baby.
‘Having children really isn’t for me,’ Amelia remarked. ‘It never has been, and I’m more certain than ever of that now.’
Then Maddie and her partner of six years, Rory, chipped in that they feel the same (‘I’m just not maternal, Mum’) and cannot entertain the thought of bringing a child into the world – citing everything from the soaring costs of childcare to the state of the planet.
Shocked, heartbroken, desperately disappointed. There are so many bleak words to capture the emotions I felt that day. I adore children and had secretly longed to do motherhood all over again as a granny, never thinking for a second that I wouldn’t have that opportunity.
Despite feeling shattered inside, I reminded myself that it’s not about me, but what they want.
Yet I still can’t shake the simple fact that, despite all my own successes as a company director in the publishing industry and the lifestyle that’s afforded me, being a mum has, hands down, brought me the greatest happiness.
Forget the corporate titles and handsome pay cheques. To have raised two gorgeous, compassionate, caring, outspoken, ballsy and intelligent daughters, who are now the most incredible companions, will always be my greatest joy and achievement. I’d love more than anything for them to experience the feelings of happiness that having them has brought me by becoming mothers themselves.
I also admit that I’ve long thought that if they had children, then sharing this magical and monumental life change would bring us even closer.
Since that conversation, I’ve given a lot of thought to the decisions that Amelia and Maddie have made, while resisting the urge to think they may yet change their minds. If they were younger or single that chance would exist. But now that they’re both in their 30s and in settled relationships that have consumed what my generation would consider to be their ‘childbearing years’, I can’t help but think if it was going to happen, it would have by now.
It seems to me that my girls are part of a generation for whom a woman’s worth or role isn’t dependent on having a family, as it was for countless previous generations, mine included. Neither are their decisions around having a family (or not) subject to the same considerations.
When I was in my late 20s, their father and I were married with a mortgage on a house that my parents had helped us to buy, and having children was at the forefront of our minds. Yet the first rung of the property ladder continues to elude my girls, who both rent with their partners.
Despite them both having well-paid careers in the political and economic sectors, it will be years before they feel the financial security that I had at their age. And both have cited the soaring cost of living and crippling childcare fees among their long list of reasons for not wanting children.
In their eyes, in today’s economic climate there is no way they could afford to have children even if they wanted to.
Then again, I’ve never thought that money is a reason not to have children. It didn’t stop Mike and me. We managed, we saved and simply got on with it. But money is just one of their reasons.
There’s the inevitable, unavoidable impact of motherhood on their career progression and job security. They’ve worked hard, enduring low-paid positions early on to get where they are now, and they’re far more aware than I was at their age of the dismal figures on how mums miss out on higher pay, promotions and top jobs.
Having been frustrated with my own mother for, in the days before I had children, telling me to stop pursuing my ‘silly career’ and get on with baby-making, I can understand their views.
Ironically, I can now empathise with my mum more and see her point of view, but I wouldn’t ever make my daughters feel that they were disappointing me – or risk sparking resentment – by replicating her stance.
Health concerns are another, particularly sensitive factor, as they’ve both suffered with anxiety as a result of their beloved father dying when they were 19 and 16 respectively. Symptoms of acute grief and trauma can resurface at times of heightened emotion, and my daughters are very aware of how many mums suffer from post-natal emotional health problems. For them the prospect of experiencing this is alarming.
‘The world’s a scary place, Mum, with different dangers since we were born,’ Amelia also told me when she saw my face drop during that summer conversation, going on to mention the likes of wars, nuclear threats and, at a day to day level, social media and smartphones.
While I can think of retorts to all their concerns, ultimately they both stand by their mantra: ‘Motherhood just isn’t for me’.
Privately, there are other reasons I feel bereft at the thought of never being a grandmother. Aged 19 I fell pregnant after a short fling and had a termination. Though it was the right decision in the circumstances, for years I convinced myself that I would be punished for it one day, imagining meeting the right man, only to discover we couldn’t have children.
Years later, after Mike and I found out I was expecting Amelia, during the 12-week scan medics told us they thought the baby growing inside me didn’t have a heartbeat. I thought it was retribution.
Thankfully they were mistaken, and six months later I held my beautiful baby girl in my arms. But when you’re faced with the prospect of losing or not being able to have a child, it makes you want them even more. Perhaps that’s why I’ve felt so desperate for grandchildren too.
The girls and I don’t talk about it much – I feel it would be selfish to tell them they’re wrong when they’re intelligent young women who know their own minds, just as I raised them to be – but they do know that I’m disappointed.
Staring at a future without grandchildren has triggered all manner of emotions.
Jealousy is one of them. Numerous friends and acquaintances now have grandchildren and, my goodness, how I envy them. My heart aches when they proudly show me photos on their phones of their growing broods and regale me with tales of having their little ones for sleepovers and days out.
They tell me that being a grandparent is like feeling that all-consuming, joyful, intense love of motherhood all over again, minus the daily grind of parenting.
It sounds utterly wonderful.
Everywhere I look – the supermarket, the park or the doctor’s waiting room – there are beaming grandparents with youngsters in tow. And it hurts.
Wistfully, I often think back to the precious, happy times when Amelia and Maddie were growing up, our home and garden always busy with their friends, our calendars full of Sunday morning bike rides, teddy bears’ picnics and memory-filled holidays to Cornwall where I’d see wonder through their eyes… What I’d give to experience the same things again with grandchildren.
How do I imagine I’d be as a grandparent? Mischievous and a bit naughty, spoiling them with love and allowing them to do those things that their mummies would forbid, such as eating chocolate cake for supper and going to bed an hour later. But I’d also be the wise one they could turn to for advice and solace when they were worried or sad or facing big decisions.
This is just what my own mother, now in her late 80s, was always like with my girls, showering them with love and forging the most wonderful and enduring bond with both of them.
Between losing my husband, and now losing the possibility of grandchildren, my future looks very different to the idyllic old age I once imagined for myself. While I know there’s no chance of Amelia changing her mind, I can’t deny that I do cling on to a distant hope that Maddie, who has a softer side, might one day reconsider. But recently she did look at me and say, very gently: ‘I can’t ever see it happening, Mum.’
And so, with an aching heart, the only way I can experience the simple pleasures I once considered a certainty – baking cakes with my grandchildren, preparing picnics together, snuggling up for stories at bedtime – is in my daydreams.
- Names have been changed
- AS TOLD TO SADIE NICHOLASÂ
