I've never regretted my decision to not have children. I made that decision quite young, and possibly for the wrong reasons; but it was the right decision for me nonetheless. The problem is not some grief for an imaginary child, but rather, for real children.

The problem with other people's children is that they move, or I do; or the relationship with their parent(s) cools, or fractures, or catches fire; or, just in the normal course of living, we drift apart; and that once-fierce attachment to the child is torn away. This is true even for children in the family, nieces, nephews, second and third and removed cousins, held as babies, read to as toddlers, and then off with their parents to new lives. Or me off to mine.

And these attachments, sometimes brief, have often been fierce. I know that the love I've felt for these children cannot compare to the love of a parent. It is not the same, not as deep in the body or the heart; but it is perhaps less ambivalent, since it's less consuming. Less time-consuming, less energy-consuming, less demanding all around. Still, fierce is the word.

Many of my most joyful moments have been in relationship with another person's child. The children of friends, neighbors, housemates, that I saw nearly daily. Jack spoke his first word ("Ja-a-a-a-k"), still an infant -- and he learned it from me, in babbling conversation with me. Robbie, and Bonnie, and Tim -- whom I 'sat' for, often, and happily. From whom I learned to not place blame on the obvious culprit, since, I'll be damned -- little Bonnie was the instigator more often than not, an accidental discovery. Tim, who was not supposed to live, but did; and because of the expectation, was given and filled up with delight.

Jake, and Emily -- two who felt nearly like mine; and their cousins, Rand and Zack. For a time, I lived with their mother, and Rand would come to my door in the middle of the night, woken from a bad dream, and I would wake enough to lift the covers for him to climb in and be comforted long enough to go back to his own bed. And Emily, so desperate; Jake, so held-in. All so small, so left-behind.

Nathan, Adam, Jessica, Mariah. Once, driving with them all in the car, I realized that they were all shouting, and I didn't mind; and that this was the pleasure of not being a parent. Watching Adam dance. Mariah's shyness. Jessica, bossy and sweet at once. And Nathan. Nathan.

Dana and Michael, so small when I knew them -- but I recognized the toddler before I saw his mother at the shopping center. Reading to Dana, her huge stuffed dog. Now, fewer children in my life, I tend to recognize dogs on the street before I notice their human companions.

Corey Jean, whom I expected to be near as she grew, but was not. Michael and Elena; Robert and Lennon; more children briefly seen, but cared for, because of care for their parents; because of all the potential surprises those little selves hold.

Elizabeth, a light and a joy that lifted me back into freedom, back into a childhood safe and giddy. Water fights, circle chases, book reading and card playing and general silliness. Lynsey and Andrea, their beauties and rebellions.

I used to believe -- projecting into my own past, my own deep losses -- that these children were wounded by the loss of me, that this was a guilt I must carry. But now I suspect that, however sad some may have been at our separations, sometimes sudden, sometimes only periodic, they were not as grieved as I still am. This grief is softened by those who come back, later, more or less grown; or who by some magic of luck stayed close through the years; and relieved by those who pass by, for some awkward, unexpected meeting -- Who is this old lady? Did I know her? Why does she look at me so fondly? And I am reminded that I was just a moment in their lives, nothing more. Me, trying to bite back the cliches: My, how you've grown; I knew you when you were just so high...

There is something special about knowing, watching, how this person has grown, what has remained, what has been added or removed or transformed. This, I imagine, is what families used to take for granted, this daily gift of seeing those children stretch up, and out; seeing how the corners of temperament have stuck, or been softened or hardened by experience. When the neighbor's grandchildren visit, whether on good behavior or bad, I envy them this, this continuity of relationship, one generation to the next.

I am thinking about this more than usual just now, partly because of renewed contact with the parents of these no-longer children; partly because of the now-grownups who are still in my life. And they remind me -- I have not forgotten how to love. Sometimes I fear this, and then a gesture or a laugh bring it all back.

 [Crossposted from Watermark]