When you don’t have children of your own, the only kids in your life belong to someone else. If you want time with young people, you have to borrow them.
Sometimes that can cause problems; sometimes it’s a parent’s dream come true. Like anything else borrowed, I think most of us kidless folk treat borrowed kids well. Otherwise, we just return them.
Today, about 1 in 5 American women over age 50 have never had children, according to a 2024 Pew Research Center study. The same Pew study found nearly half (47 percent) of adults aged 18-50 are unlikely to have kids, a 10 percent increase over 2018 findings.
So, if you like kids and don’t have any, from where do you borrow them? Siblings’ kids are a natural. Those nieces and nephews enjoy some time with a different adult. You know—you grew up with one of their parents. But maybe they live far away. Neighbor kids might live too close, with the risk of getting tapped to babysit when you’d prefer to watch TV or do laundry.
Elementary schools have lots of kids around, and they always need help. The first time I braved a grown-up trip to my local school, I felt like I didn’t belong. Then, like a mirage, I saw a teacher I knew. She invited me into her classroom, and presto—I began what became a decade-long stint helping little ones learn to read. Especially those who struggled seemed to benefit from the one-on-one time I could provide for a few hours each week.
I loved the start of every school year and would introduce myself the same way each time. “Hi, I’m Kate,” I’d say. “This is my fourth time in second grade.” (Or whatever the correct number was.)
One fall, a little boy stood up, took my hand, and looked me right in the eye. “That’s okay, Miss Kate. I’ll help you.”
I met my young friend Anna after her junior year in college. She got an internship at a coastal art center nearby. I served as her community liaison, welcoming her and showing her around. We fell for each other from the get-go. Later, Anna moved into my downstairs. We began referring to each other as mother- and daughter-of-the-heart. Later, when she moved in with her boyfriend in the city, I rented a room in their house. I got my city-fixes. They got some much-needed financial support, and we saw each other regularly.
At a holiday celebration one year, her mother, who lives a couple hours away, asked me to go for a walk. “Something’s bothering me,” she said. “I’m jealous of the time you’re spending with my daughter. You see her more than I do. I just needed to admit that to you.”
I was struck mute. Later, Anna told me her mom confessed her jealousy to her daughter as well, adding that our pet names for each other hurt. Neither of us knew what to do, but it cast a shadow over our interactions for quite a while.
I don’t know what her mom was worried about. What’s wrong with enjoying a younger friend’s company? I do know, if forced to choose between us, who dear Anna would select.
Now that I’m partnered with a father and grandfather, I get folded into the chaos of his family life. I know how to play and enjoy reading with the littles. At times I get overwhelmed, though, and he knows I need space away from the hubbub. I like to go read under a tree.
I was taken aback last summer when the eldest grandson referred to me as “Grandma Kate.” The moniker felt like a misplaced honor, obtained by affiliation only. I feel more like a friend and will see if the Grandma thing sticks.
It occurred to me that there are many ways to make a difference in a child’s life. Some of us give birth, raise our young, and hope they will hold our hands when we die. The rest of us spread our love throughout the course of our lifetimes, with some people for years, with others as brief encounters of momentary connection.
My friend Anna is now a mother herself. These days we live across town, and I’m teaching her 7-year-old how to write in cursive.
