Today, in my spinning class, our instructor divided us into two groups. One group would sit and put on a “big boy gear” and climb while the other group would rev up the RPM to stand and go for a run. “Climbers climb and runners run,” he frequently tells us. “We run to lose weight and climb to add shape.”
I’ve been in classes where the two groups were split into the front and back of the room, left and right or occasionally men and women, but today’s division was novel. If you had two kids or more you were in first group and one kid or less you were in the second group.
As the music kicked into high gear, those with two kids or more started as runners and those with one kid or less started as climbers. Women rose to the left and right and to the front and back. It felt as though I was surrounded by a throng of runners. I counted ten women standing, mothers all and at least twice over at that.
Five climbers and me cranked our gear up to 18 and chugged up the imaginary mountain. Our instructor was in our group. He’s in his early 40s, single, and from what I’ve gathered, not terribly interested in making any mini-me’s. Two of the climbers are young gals, in their 20s, with plenty of time to move from the one kid or less camp to the two or more. That left me, Grace* (not her real name) and one other guy. I know Grace doesn’t have children though I heard through the grapevine she’d wanted kids in her younger years; I’m not sure about the guy, who appears to be in his 50s.
When our hardy little crew of six took our turn to stand and run, my mind traveled through the gamut of thoughts and emotions. Only a few of my cycling mates know about the many months we’ve spent pursuing our adoption. A handful are aware that things went south on our recent trip to Armenia to meet the child we’d hoped to adopt.
Still, I felt positively ‘outed’ in class. There I was sweating with the masses in all my childless glory. Did they notice, I mused? While I rarely get pegged for a fifty year old, I’m sure it’s no secret I’m past my child-bearing years. If anyone did notice, did they wonder why I’m kid-free?
I realize that while my wheels were turning this over and over, the likelihood was that no one else had given it a second thought. I didn’t feel angry. It was a completely innocent and playful decision to split the class this way. I doubt there was a soul on two wheels who’d even considered the implications of standing with the runners or sitting with the climbers. Still, it was hard not to feel like I had the scarlet letter, B, for ‘Barren’ emblazoned on my Lululemon-clad behind.
Choosing not to have children or being unable to should not be viewed as a badge of dishonor, even though at times our society makes it seem as though it is. I heartily support the range of choices individuals and couples may make about whether or not to procreate. Parenthood is not for everyone. For many years, until I met Big Papa, I wasn’t completely sure it was for me. I certainly didn’t see myself taking it all on solo and hadn’t met anyone who wanted to parent with me or who was parent material.
Even if our adoption is eventually successful, it’s unlikely I’ll make it to the two or more kiddo category in our spin class. Still, I did some deep thinking about what it would feel like to stand in the smaller of the two pods, if and when we do adopt. Will I hold myself a bit taller and pedal a tad faster knowing I’m a mom at long last?
The autumn rains started this afternoon, more ferocious than we’ve seen in quite some time. Slate gray clouds fill the sky and droplets race down our window. It’s the sort of day when you just want to crawl under the covers with a steamy pot of tea, a cuddly kitten and a good book. Given my mood at this moment, it’s exactly the kind of day I need. A quiet introspective day to sit anonymously behind my computer, wrapped in my own private cocoon, rather than perched publicly on a bike.