I don’t have kids. I did that on purpose. I am one of the growing number of women who decided being a mum just wasn’t for them. The childfree movement is enormous online, and so is the backlash. We are talking about a potential clash of lifestyles and values here, between those who do and those who do not have kids, so I guess some conflict was inevitable.
Those with children feel they are being judged by childfree influencers posting about their firm pelvic floor and oversleeping on the weekends. And those who don’t want kids just feel judged all the time. I certainly do. “You’re selfish.” “You’ll regret it,” and, of course, the coup de grâce, “what will you do when you’re old?” That one really is the childless elephant in the room, isn’t it? What will you do when you are old? And I want to address it here.
It’s a question that haunts anyone who doesn’t have kids. I don’t care how confident you are in your choice to be childfree, this is the big one. I hate it when people ask it of me because I don’t know the answer. What will I do? It’s the chink in my armour, my Achilles’ heel, the one point that can have me doubting my choices. I try not to dwell on it and push it to the back of my mind, but recently I have been thinking about it.
In a moment of supremely responsible adulting, I decided I should make a will. I made an appointment with a lawyer, and naively assumed this would be a case of divvying up my handbag collection and making provisions for various donkey sanctuaries. But the fact that I don’t have kids kept coming up, as did the issue of who will make decisions for me if I lose capacity. Suddenly, there was no ducking the issue. Who will care for me in my old age? Not the donkeys, that’s for sure. Having been forced to confront the issue, I now can’t stop thinking about it. It’s a scary question, no doubt, but I’m not so sure that not having kids is what makes that question scary.
We all want to live long lives, so I don’t think it’s the age bit that scares us. I honestly don’t give two stuffs about the prospect of living alone in my nineties, as long as I am hale and hearty. No, the thing that frightens all of us is becoming old and infirm. What if I get dementia? What if I have a stroke and can’t look after myself anymore? Who will take care of me? Will I be lonely?
But these aren’t just questions for the childfree, are they? What will any of us do when we are aged and infirm? I hate to say it, but there are care homes just full of older people who are both sick and lonely, and they have children. Having kids is no guarantee that someone will be there when you can no longer take care of yourself.
I’m not so sure that viewing your children as a retirement plan is the gold-plated guarantee against the terrors of infirmity it is assumed to be. I mean, what if you’re an arsehole? What if your kids are arseholes? There’s no insurance against that. And even if you’re all lovely and get along like a house on fire, is the dream of your children rallying around to support you in your old age even plausible anymore? I hate to sound like the harbinger of doom, but like jobs for life, homeownership, and single income families, I suspect that children supporting their parents in their infirmity is going to be very difficult for all but the wealthiest.
Getting older is simply becoming harder and harder. Many of us will likely be working until we are into our seventies, and even if we get to retire, in 20 years I doubt our state pension pots will be able to cover the cost of a bag of butter candy, let alone care costs. A report recently found that women would need to work 19 extra years in order to retire with the same pension pot as men. That sucks.
You know what else is unfair? You can do everything “right” in your life to secure your twilight years, and still get shafted. You can have kids, work hard, pay into your pension, and buy your own house, but what will happen if you need to go into a care home? Will your kids be able to afford the cost of that?
The average cost of a nursing home in the UK is £1,000 per week. The average care home is £800 per week. It’s quite possible that you will have to use your savings and the equity from your home to pay for that. It almost seems sensible to just spend the lot and throw yourself on the mercy of the state when the time comes. (I like to call that “Plan B”.)
This is all sounding extremely depressing, and I will pick it up, I promise. But the simple fact is that the “what will you do when you are old” question is not just for people without kids! All of us need to start making plans, and the plan cannot be to just have children. So, what is my plan?
When people ask you: “What will you will do and you’re old when you don’t have kids,” really what they are asking is: “What you are going to do if you don’t have people in your life who love you enough to care for you?” It’s not really a question about kids, it’s a question about love. Who will love you? This is an important distinction to make, because love doesn’t have to come from your children, or even from your family.
The American author bell hooks once wrote that “deep, abiding friendships are the place where many women know lasting love”. I have always found that quotation to be profoundly moving. It’s certainly true for me. I have friendships that go back to secondary school. I have friends who have outlasted every boyfriend, fling, and fancy I’ve ever had. I absolutely love my friends, and I know that they love me. These are the women who held my hair back from my face so I could vomit in a skip in my twenties. Of course I will wipe their arses for them in their eighties.
My friend Verity is a few years younger than me and also sans children. We have long joked about moving into a cottage in the forest together to make the most of our crone years, but I’m not so sure we are joking anymore. We send each other links to smallholdings for sale and have lengthy text conversations about whether or not we would keep animals.
The other week, we spent a significant chunk of the weekend combing over the thorny issue of sporting rights on rural land, just because we had found our “ideal’ retirement cottage. It’s mostly fantasy, but not all. I mean, would that be so crazy? Move in with your friends to support one another? I don’t think so. It worked for The Golden Girls.
In fact, this phenomenon is already happening. It’s still unusual enough to be considered newsworthy, but all around the world, older people are moving in together to share costs, company, and care. I think this sounds incredible. Of course, I have family who I am sure would take care of me, but I think I’d rather be with my friends than worrying if my niece can support me. Just realising that living with your friends is an option makes me feel lighter and more reassured that I won’t be left all on my own.
And I know what you’re thinking: what if you finally lose your marbles entirely and need to go into a care home? If that happens, then I guess I’ll have to do the same thing you will and go into a home, only it’ll be a social worker, rather than a child who makes that decision. Other than that, I can’t see how my experience of that would be any different from anyone else’s.
But what about the end-of-life care? Or the care you need when you are very frail? Why wouldn’t your friends be there for that as well? When my friend Hazel died of cancer a few years ago, she didn’t have any children or a husband. But she was never on her own, not for a second. Her friends tended and cared for her throughout her illness, and if you can have a beautiful death, Hazel did. Her closest friends sat by her side as she was dying, stroking her face, taking turns to read to her, and sing her favourite songs. Her funeral was packed and a year after her death, we all met again to plant a tree in her honour and to remember her life. These were truly deep and abiding friendships, built on lasting love.
The quality of life in your final years is not dependent on whether you have children, but if you have people around you who will care for you. That can be a spouse or family members, but it can just as easily be your friends. In fact, I love that idea. So, no. I do not have a clutch of children who will care for me in my dotage. What I do have is deep and abiding friendships with women who will absolutely form a coven with me and move into the woods to grow veg, make jam, and frighten the local children. And I’ve got to say, that doesn’t sound too shabby at all.
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