By Jenny Tucker

Clare Voller, 46, is divorced and works as an executive assistant in the City. She has accepted that she will never have children

There are times when I am with a group of mothers and it’s blatantly obvious I am not a member of their exclusive club. Of course it can make me feel ostracised, but as a person looking in from the outside I can see the pros and cons of motherhood.

Loads of women become obsessed with their kids, it’s all they talk about – what school they’ll go to, why they won’t eat certain foods. Sometimes I’ll be in a restaurant with a group of them and the conversation gets so one-dimensional I drift off into my own world.

Even more annoying is when mothers imagine that because I haven’t had my own children I can’t contribute an opinion on what makes them tick. In fact I’ve got eight nieces and nephews who are a crucial part of my life. Mothers can also make the assumption that I’ve never wanted children. Now that can be hurtful because it definitely isn’t true.

I was married at 23, and I always believed kids would eventually follow. But as time marched on my chance slipped away. We threw ourselves into our work, had fantastic holidays and basically lived our busy lives. I suppose, looking back, my husband never really expressed a commitment to children and so I didn’t push the idea.

Then during the last five years of our relationship, when being a mother was on my mind, our marriage fell apart. We divorced when I was 38.

After that I fell in love with another man who was already a father. He was honest, telling me from the start that he didn’t want any more children, but I still made the decision to stay with him. Our relationship lasted four years. Then when I was 44 I had a hysterectomy. I’d developed a large fibroid in my uterus and I knew something drastic had to be done, so because I wasn’t with anyone, and the chance of having a baby was getting slimmer, I opted for the operation.

In the months that followed I went through a mourning period. Everywhere I looked I saw women with babies, and after years of thinking that maybe that would be me, now circumstance meant I had to face up to the fact I’d never be a mother. The only person I confided in was my sister. But because we’d recently lost our sister-in-law to cancer, she encouraged me to be grateful. My operation wasn’t life-threatening; I was still here.

There are times when I feel that familiar sadness about not having my own child but, on the whole, I’ve come to terms with it. Adoption isn’t an option because I am not in a relationship and I wouldn’t do it alone. My life is full and there are still so many things I want to do.

I recently went on a Mediterranean cruise with a friend, and I took myself off to a working ranch in Arizona. I am learning Spanish and belly dancing, and later on I want to scuba dive. I don’t see these things as distractions from motherhood; I can simply do them because I’m not confined by the restraints of children.

Only the other day one of my friends admitted that if she had her time again she wouldn’t have kids. She feels that it’s been a 24-hour job, relentless and exhausting. Women can look at motherhood through rose-coloured glasses, but it isn’t always a one-track route to happiness.

Jill Shaw, 43, is a single mother to her adopted daughter, Libby, who is nearly three. They live in West Yorkshire

The route to where I am now has been nothing less than gruelling at times. I was with my boyfriend for three years and during that time I suffered two miscarriages and a second-trimester termination, which was brought on because the doctors told me the baby was ‘incompatible with life’.

We were both completely traumatised by what we’d been through and it ripped our relationship apart. Then he told me that he could never go through the pain of losing another child, and I realised our future was over. I didn’t feel ready to slam that door shut yet, and so we split up when I was 38.

Throughout those years with him in many ways I’d lived a blessed existence. We had an incredible farmhouse and I was running my own PR business so we were financially stable. I suddenly had to construct a whole new life, alone. For a while I thought I might still have my own baby, but, as I didn’t meet anyone else, that belief started to slip away.

To be honest, the idea of going through pregnancy again did hold a lot of fear for me. After all, it hadn’t been a happy experience. Whether it was self-preservation, or the realisation that my time had gone, I started to feel drawn to adoption. I wanted to be a mum, but I no longer had that strong pull towards a biological child.

It was December 2007 when I took myself off to an information evening held by my local authority. Ironically, I found out later that this was the month and year Libby was being born. From that initial contact to Libby coming home with me took just over two years. Most of that time is all about waiting and hoping. There are intense periods, like with the home study when every detail of your life is scrutinised to determine suitability, and there are months of hanging around for some positive news.

In my mind I’d always imagined I’d adopt an older boy, but then Libby’s CPR (child-protection report) came my way, and I was asked if I was interested. It was a huge document, daunting and upsetting. She’d been taken away from her natural mother at birth because of severe neglect and abuse in the womb, and had a diagnosis of extreme learning difficulties.

Adoption is a very conscious process to bring a child into the home. You analyse the negatives up front and give a lot of thought to what might happen. How many birth parents really consider what they’re taking on beforehand?

It was March 2009 and Libby was 14 months when she came to me for good. From day one I felt the need to protect and care for her, but I must admit it took me time to love her. I don’t feel guilty about that because she was a complete stranger to me, plus the authorities tell you to expect the love to come later; the mantra on the Adoption UK website is ‘Fake it until you
can make it’. Now I joke with my friends that she is far nicer than any birth child I might have had.

During our early days together I felt very vulnerable. I was so conscious of her being the poor little adopted girl with the inexperienced mum. But the other day I was in the park with a friend who was talking about the imminent birth of her baby. She looked at me and said, ‘You know how it is,’ and I realised she’d totally forgotten that Libby wasn’t my natural child. I felt completely elated – I was being perceived as Libby’s true mother.

Janie Ashton, 46, lives with her husband, Jeff, 52, in Hertfordshire. Over the past eight years they have been foster carers to 17 children

For 20 years I worked as a primary-school teacher, and always knew that I wanted children. But when I did eventually try for kids it just didn’t happen. I had a cycle of IVF in my thirties but I ended up with a ruptured ovary, years of pain and a succession of operations. When I got to the point of no return I was so shattered I had to resort to counselling to learn how to grieve for the babies I would never naturally have.

We looked into adoption but we are a religious Jewish family and so wanted to go through a Jewish agency. Because of our culture, very few children come up, and we realised our chances of becoming parents were slim. Then one day a friend mentioned to me about fostering as an alternative. We didn’t feel that the Jewish connection was such a necessity because the kids come and go, and so it gave us more scope.

We’ve always opted for short-term placement through our local council, which means we have a succession of kids staying with us; the three we’ve got now have been our longest placement – 18 months. You tend to get younger children with short-term, and we love babies, so although it can be exhausting the house is always filled with giggles and the joy that comes with first smiles or first steps. Luckily, my husband works from home and he is a tremendous help.

Our main aim as foster carers is to give these children love. They come to us scared and angry – sometimes they have been badly abused or neglected – and we have to give them the chance to believe there is a different way and they can go on to have a future. Then, to prove you do truly love them, you have to let them go. It sounds the hardest part, but actually I am OK with it.

I remember the very first placement we had, two gorgeous boys of six months and 19 months. The eldest one stood on my doorstep, looking such a sorry state. He was filthy, dressed in clothes that didn’t fit, he had head lice and a bad rash on his face. But as soon as he stepped in to the house I fell in love with him. Thankfully – and I am not quite sure how – that happens every time.

If someone had told me 10 years ago that I wouldn’t have any regrets about not having my own children, I would have said they were talking rubbish. Today I feel that being a foster carer has given meaning to my life. It has brought me so much happiness and enriched my life on every level. I feel lucky to be a part of it. fostering.net; 0800 040 7675 begin_of_the_skype_highlighting              0800 040 7675      end_of_the_skype_highlighting

Kay Howell, 37, lives in Essex. she has been married to Tim, an electrical engineer, for two and a half years. Kay is pregnant with twins, conceived through IVF treatment

I was adamant I wouldn’t have children. Or get married. Then I met Tim at 33 and everything changed. Basically, I met the right guy and my whole attitude changed. Up until that point my career dominated everything. I’d always worked long hours, first as a nurse, then as a pharmaceutical rep, but now my job seemed significantly less important.

I knew all the statistics about declining fertility in women over 35, and as Tim is seven years younger than me it seemed that time wasn’t on my side. Like most people, I believed I’d be pregnant within a couple of months, but it didn’t work out that way.

After six months of nothing happening I started to get uptight. Not only did I feel crushed every time my period came, it seemed that everyone I knew who was trying for a baby got pregnant almost immediately. Two of my friends conceived on their honeymoon. I couldn’t help feeling envious of them and worried that something was wrong with us.

Our GP recommended a local fertility clinic, where they ran all the specialist tests. Nothing was conclusive, but they suggested IVF. Although a part of me felt upset that we were heading down this route, another part felt relieved because I believed it would simply happen straight away. ‘This will be it,’ I naively thought to myself. ‘I’ll have a baby soon.’

We were offered three funded cycles of treatment at Bart’s hospital, but because we’d spent so much time waiting for test results and appointments I was 35 when we went in for the first one. Throughout the process I just put my head down and got on with it. I suppose my medical training helped. T

hen after the embryos were implanted I sat back and waited for the two weeks to pass until I could do a pregnancy test. Five days before the deadline, on Mother’s Day, I started bleeding. It was one of the worst days of my life, and seemed such a cruel coincidence.

Six months later we tried again with frozen embryos from the previous treatment. When that didn’t work we waited another six months before our second fresh transfer. Again I bled, and again I felt completely brokenhearted. I can hardly explain the sense of isolation I felt, stuck in this world of desperation, unable to reach the outcome I wanted most.

Even Tim couldn’t relate to my deepest feelings. He is generally a very private person, and he found it hard to talk openly about what was happening. The whole situation put so much stress on us and we started arguing more. I cried every day, and I seriously thought about giving up at that point. I wasn’t sure that I was strong enough to go through the emotional disappointment again. But my desperation to have Tim’s baby pushed me into one last try.

Ironically, the last cycle resulted in my lowest egg production yet, but almost immediately I felt different. I couldn’t stop going to the loo and I couldn’t stop crying – but this time it was emotional tears rather than unhappy ones. A few days before we were due to do the pregnancy test I went to the loo at 3am and impulsively did the test there and then. Minutes later I was jumping up and down on the bed, telling Tim to wake up, he was going to be a daddy.

The twins – I’ve been told they are identical – are due to be born next May. I’ve waited so long I can hardly believe it’s truly happening. I can’t say I wish I’d done it earlier because I didn’t meet Tim until later in life, but, because of the IVF, getting pregnant was a two-year process. My age means I’ll be an old mum, and probably an old grandmother, but at least I’ve got here. I feel blessed that I am finally going to become a parent.

infertilitynetworkuk.com; 0800 008 7464 begin_of_the_skype_highlighting              0800 008 7464      end_of_the_skype_highlighting