It’s the season of… incendiary questions about kids

When I say “incendiary questions” I am of course referring to those questions that have the potential to blow things up.

For me, one example is, “…so, have you got children?” Someone asked me that very question a few days ago, and I’m still sort-of wondering why they asked it.  I hadn’t met this person before, but we’d just spent the last few hours together.  We were part of a group of people who each talked incessantly about what their kids are doing for Christmas, whether their kids still believe in Santa Claus, and how stressful it is to be a parent at this time of year.

As the only non-parent in the group, I nodded, laughed, and made sympathetic noises in the right places.  Occasionally, I chipped in with a few stories from my husband David’s current acting turn: as Santa Claus at a local holiday park*.  I’d had ample opportunity to talk about my kids, which made that question feel all the more strange.  I wasn’t talking about my kids, so I clearly either didn’t have any or I couldn’t have any, or I used to have some but not anymore.

It was a question that had the potential to blow things up.  But luckily, as it turns out I simply haven’t got kids. “No,” I answered, neutrally.  The question-asker waited patiently for me to say a bit more.  When I didn’t, they giggled awkwardly.  “Oh… well, you’ll have a lovely quiet Christmas, then!”

I probably don’t need to highlight that the incendiary question-asker was a woman.  It’s always women – always mothers, actually – who want to know if I’ve got any kids.

If that reads as a tad aggressive, it isn’t meant.  I’m more curious about why it’s such an essential thing for them to know.  I suppose it could be tribal, in that the question-asker is checking to see if I’m one of her kind.  She must assume I already am, or she wouldn’t ask… or at least I wouldn’t ask, if I were in her shoes.

But what usually happens is that I say “no”, and then everything goes quiet for a few moments as this mother realises I’m not one of her kind, and now she’ll have to say something else but she isn’t sure what.  I used to try and fill that silence myself, but I don’t anymore because it isn’t my responsibility to fill it.  I didn’t ask the question, after all.

It’s got worse now I’m that bit older, though.  People haven’t got those faithful follow-ons, like “don’t worry, there’s still time!” and “it changes your life, honestly!  I don’t really like kids either, but it’s different when it’s your own!”, to fall back on.

(For the record, I never say I don’t like kids.  I don’t like all kids, granted, but I don’t like all people, and kids are people.

Yes.  I’m a non-parent who knows that kids are people.  Shocker!)

I sort-of miss those faithful follow-ons, partly because their absence reminds me that I’m getting on in years.

It’s also because those few moments of quiet are always a little bit excruciating and a little bit wearying, as I realise people are never going to stop asking me if I’ve got kids, and this will always be what happens when they do.

Yep.  I’m well aware that one day the incendiary question will morph into “…so, have you got any grandkids?” and that will get even weirder and even more complicated.  I’ll probably have to become a certified alcoholic to cope.

Watch this space.

*I asked a rhetorical question about why people would take babies and very young children to see Santa Claus.  David had mentioned that most of them either cry, scream or look bone-shakingly terrified at the sight of this strange man* in a fake beard and a red suit, clearly not enjoying an experience that’s supposed to be magical and joyous (and let’s face it, that their parents have paid quite heftily for).

“It’s for the photo,” replied the mums, almost in unison.  Parenthood really is a whole other world, isn’t it?

*Just so we’re clear, David isn’t someone who usually makes babies and very young children either cry, scream, or look bone-shakingly terrified at the sight of him.

Honest.