My mum left me too terrified to become a parent

When friends and family would ask my wife and I if we were going to have children, our response was always the same.

‘No, sorry. Motherhood is not for us.’ We’d say with a wry smile and a shrug.

Inevitably, we’d then be met with the same six word sentence: ‘But you’d make such good parents!’

I’d always understood where their initial question had come from – after marriage, children were assumed to be the next natural step in our relationship, and for a few years, we really considered it.

As a same-sex couple, our journey would take a little more forethought and planning than most, but the option was always there.

However, the fact that we had to think, and I mean really think, about the prospect of procreating made me dig a little deeper both into my own feelings about motherhood and the impact my upbringing had on my maternal instincts. 

Growing up, I had a difficult relationship with my mother. 

She was an oppressive force in our home who seemed to resent my presence – which is, I suppose, the polite way of saying she was an abusive narcissist who, alongside having a smattering of OCD and low self-esteem, was clinically depressed for most of my childhood.

Many of my early memories are of Mum breaking down in tears or erupting into fits of violence for any minor contravention of her rules.

I lived within a system of checks and balances where every kindness had to be repaid somehow. For example, a lift to a friend’s house or new school shoes would require me to do housework as payment and the favour would be held against me indefinitely. 

In her eyes, I was in constant debt for the mere fact of having been born, fed and having a roof over my head. 

As such it quickly became clear to me that her love was anything but unconditional. 

I couldn’t imagine what that feeling of companionship, love and trust with their parents must feel like

But then, she could also be affectionate, was a fabulous cook and to my friends, was a charming and warm host who loved to entertain.

This Jekyll and Hyde personality made trust between us impossible – I could never predict how she would react to something or what kind of mood she would be in from one moment to the next. 

As a teenager, I’d marvel at my friends’ relationships with their parents. They always seemed to be going on weekend breaks, girly shopping trips or sharing photographs with their mum on social media with the caption ‘my best friend’. None of which made sense to me. 

I couldn’t imagine what that feeling of companionship, love and trust with their parents must feel like. I was envious. 

My parents were together and I was lucky that I had a good relationship with my dad. However as I grew older, my mum became increasingly jealous of our close relationship, which made it difficult for me to spend time with my dad without causing arguments. 

For example, watching films together, or going shopping, would result in my mum giving us the silent treatment for days afterwards, so eventually my relationship with my dad became more distant too. 

Our different upbringings almost certainly had an impact on who we were as individuals, too. While my friends would always be kind, generous and happy-go-lucky, I could be mean, jealous and entitled; a symptom of my narcissistic upbringing.

My mother and I only continued to drift further apart after I told her that I was gay.

I came out to my mother when I was a teenager and she didn’t take the news well. She called me ‘a disappointment’ and cried. Her perception of me seemed to shift in an instant and she said that I had let her down by choosing this life and not giving her grandchildren. 

I was completely unprepared for this reaction, and in addition to her rejection I was also struck by how much me having children meant to her, as though this was the only way I could make her proud.

From an early age, I knew that I hadn’t wanted children. Being in a relationship with a woman wasn’t going to change that. People would say ‘You’ll change your mind when you get older’ or ‘It’s different when they’re your own.’ But the maternal feeling never came. 

Having children has never been a life goal: I am not a particularly maternal person, I don’t go gooey eyed over babies in prams and I’ve never changed a nappy. 

But when I met my wife, I had to admit that we made a good team. And the thought of having a child who would look like her (I had no interest in using my own genes), with her big blue eyes and dimples, was tempting – so much so that we very nearly went for it several times.

We even got as far as telling our family and our friends about our plan to have a baby. And then my own worries started to come to the surface.

Would I be able to handle a messy house, with sticky fingerprints on the walls and toys strewn around my once pristine home? 

I was scared that I would lose my temper, become physically violent and grab them, hit or terrorise my own child like my mother did to me

Could I keep my cool when faced with a stroppy teenager? 

Mostly, I was scared that I would lose my temper, become physically violent and grab them, hit or terrorise my own child like my mother did to me. 

My wife understands my fears about generational trauma, even if she thinks they’re unfounded, so she would reassure me that I was nothing like my mother. She’d say that I am a gentle, self-effacing and humble person but, yes, I can also be prickly and impatient. 

She’s right, of course. I have never raised my hand to anyone, I feel deep empathy and compassion for the vulnerable, and I have worked hard to undo a lot of the narcissistic and OCD traits I recognised in myself from my mother.

I just couldn’t be sure if I had done enough to remove them completely. I feared the pressures of being a parent would make them resurface.

The thought of becoming a violent parent like my mother was all encompassing and I felt that I couldn’t take the risk. 

So, after a year of discussion, we reached the point where we decided to live happily child free. The thought of dropping what felt like an atomic bomb on our peaceful life was too terrifying for both of us.

Unlike me, my wife has a good relationship with her parents, so for her the decision to remain child free was due to financial pressures and the impact a child would have on our freedom and social life. 

Although we both have good jobs, childcare costs and the cost of living would make providing for a child in today’s economic climate extremely difficult. Plus, the thought of going to child-friendly holiday resorts or giving up our Sunday morning lie-ins and nights out with friends filled us with dread.

I understand that, for many people, these are trivial reasons to not have children. But I think that for good parents, who desperately want a child, these ‘negatives’ pale into insignificance when compared to the joy and fulfilment a child will bring.

For me, they were nails in the coffin of a decision I made many years ago not to pass on my own trauma to the next generation.  

I don’t speak to my mum anymore and we lead completely separate lives. It’s been a relief not having to manage that relationship and being free from her judgement has been liberating. 

As I get older, I thankfully get asked the ‘children’ question less and less. But it hasn’t stopped me  wondering why my own mother decided to have a child in the first place… 

She really didn’t seem to enjoy being a parent and would take her frustrations out on me both emotionally and physically – that was a pattern I knew I had to break.

Being childless allows me a physical and psychological freedom that I could not otherwise afford and I don’t think I’ll ever regret that choice: We can’t miss what we have never had. 

Every night, I sit with my wife’s feet propped up on my lap and a dog snuggled under my arm and I know that we made the right decision.

I love my life as it is, I don’t need a child to make it complete.

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