In a previous post, Nikki introduced me and mentioned that my wife and I are childless. That’s been on my mind a good bit of late.

When it comes to discussions about infertility, it’s common for men to be left out of the discussion. Our society places much of the expectation to have, and care for, children on women, so in many cases it is the woman who carry the weight of fertility treatments, invasive medical procedures, and guilt. My wife believed for years that our lack of children was due to something wrong with her, and even though she didn’t really want to have kids, she felt guilty for not living up to society’s expectations of motherhood.

And then we found out that the problem is on my end and, without digging into medical specifics, I simply am not going to have biological children.

It’s difficult to accept that you won’t have children of your own. I’d buried my feelings about the matter for years, hiding them in order to give Ann space to process her own grief, and then Nikki came along and dug those emotions out. She’s good like that. Has a witchy people sense and is willing to ask the uncomfortable questions. I’ve found myself crying several times in the last couple months, process the repressed grief of never having biological children, and the anger I felt towards the doctor who sugar coated some test results eight years ago, giving me hope and making Ann feel as if she was to blame.

But that’s not the end of it.

On the day when I received the latest test results, I talked briefly with Ann and Nikki. They expressed support and love, then suggested that I go out and do what I love: Pottery.

It was the best thing to do. Sitting in my studio, feeling the warm clay rippling between my fingers, listening to the soft hum of the wheel, I felt the joy of creation. The clay rose up, bending to my touch and forming a simple cup and a small, but delicately curved vase. I moved slowly, releasing my frustration in the strength required to center the clay, concentrating my tenderness on caressing the wet earth into shape.

I will never know what it is like to hold a newborn who carries my own genetic code, but I already know the joy of creating a work of art with my own hands. And I know the fear of sending out a novel that I have labored over for a year or more, hoping that it carries the message that I intended to the world. While I won’t ever have children of the body, I am able to take some solace in known that I am crafting children of my mind and hands.

As much as I love art, it is not the same as raising actual human children.

Which is part of why my relationship with Nikki, and the aggressively welcoming way in which she and James have brought me into their family is so beneficial to us all as a family.

Within a few months of starting our relationship, Nikki recognized that I’m pretty good with kids (thanks to a dozen years teaching and a lifetime of working with Scouts). I was already assisting with them a little, especially in helping Boychild and Girlchild both join Scouts, but following Nikki’s accident I took on a much larger role in helping raise the kids and Grandchild. The moment I knew that I had been accepted into the family came when Girlchild begged Nikki for ice cream, was told “ask dad” and, seeing James already jokingly scowling, she instead turned to me. Shortly after that Boychild camped in Ann’s backyard and, upon returning home from a night of s’mores and tents, immediately asked to go camping again soon.

And so I find myself with two more children of the mind. Kids who have already been raised to be good people by Nikki and James and, in the wake of a disaster, were able to find some solace and distraction from their mother’s injuries by spending time with Ann and me.