On being childless and the passage of time

Being childless throughout one’s entire life somewhat distorts the awareness of the passage of time. As a parent, one has the inherent opportunity of counting off the years as the children grow up and make their way in the world. Personally, I lack that firm grasp on time’s progression that others often possess. My childlessness, together with a couple of other life markers, distorts this part of reality for me.
I am a gay man and a Baby Boomer — both of which embody the essence of Peter Pan.
Like every other adult, I am heavily burdened with responsibility. I’ve had to make sacrifices and concessions in both my professional and private lives.
Along the way, I’ve fallen in love; I’ve made lasting friends; I’ve known goodness, and I’ve been bitterly disappointed. I’ve buried parents and lovers. I have experienced profound joy and bone crushing grief. I have persevered. I have been forced to be an adult in every way possible.
But it’s artifice; I am a child. I vowed to never grow up, and so far, I haven’t. I’m great at pretending. With the dog years that have gathered on my physicality, I present a stern demeanor these days. But scratch the surface and you’ll find all the childish traits and the magical thinking.
I am unrepentant. This alone is proof of my inability to engage in parenting.
Looking back through this prism, I was amazed when my peers had children that began high school. I remember the first time one began her infusive grandmother pride tirade — I was appalled. Still in my 30s, I took it as an affront. I couldn’t be of an age to be a grandparent!
I didn’t have children that might have helped me focus on my own mother’s decline. To me, she was always the willing partner-in-crime that loved my husbands, my parties and being included.
Hell, I barely understood how to interact with my own niece and nephew. The uncle duties fell upon my husband, who was better suited for the role. Both the female child and the male child grew up physically active. I cringed with fear at the idea these drooling, athletic darlings would expect me to throw them a ball!
So, there it is: I’m that sissy boy too afraid to engage in sports. That is true. The sissy boy himself grew up in a world that assumed a male child was born with primal knowledge of all games. I never received instructions in any sport from my parents or teachers. A rulebook could have made those years easier.
Beyond my deficiencies, I grew to despise sports, particularly football, which pushed every other high school pursuit to the back seat in importance. The minimal education doled out in that era was even waylaid by everyone’s insistence on concentrating instead on that week’s big game. Most teachers back then wanted to see your spirit ribbon, not your homework assignment.
Eventually, though, the onward march of time, became more realistic. Kids grew up. Colleges were chosen. More of my friends became grandparents, and I accepted it. I even grew to understand why they were proud. It just wasn’t my life. I was the casual observer, and that was okay.
Was there a time when I wanted kids? When I was younger, I thought about it, sure. I had stretches of time when I did some soul searching and researched the possibility.
In my 20s, pre-AIDS era, I did some outreach to women’s clinics about being a sperm donor. But even that far back, there were policies that banned gay men from participation. And after I became HIV-positive, lost one husband and married another, I was told by my doctor to give up any hope for child-rearing, because I would be leaving behind orphans and an over-burdened spouse.
It was sound advice at the time.
That probability and my realistic assessment of my potential parenting skills put that struggle to rest. I have finally aged out of that most basic human drive to procreate. Although each spring I do still engage in massive womb-envy that only acquiring a newborn fur baby will satiate. At that point, most years, my “other” tosses on the Adult Hat and overrides my manic insistence that we need “one more.”
I offer all of this in defense of my most recent aversion to parenthood. I am absolutely horrified when I encounter the adult offspring of my contemporaries. These children are now in their mid-40s, and in many the aging process appears accelerated. It throws me off track!
I know that I will find a way to adjust eventually. But for the moment, I am utterly baffled by the time passages in this life I inhabit.
Gary Bellomy is a longtime Dallas activist working on issues of LGBT equality, HIV/AIDS services and family violence prevention. He is a war resister and a Trump resister.