Only one?

How do you know if you want another child? This keeps going around and around and around in my head. Where it stops, nobody knows. Not yet. I don't even know why I don't know the answer.  I've been thinking on this topic a lot, for a long time. This post from motherbumper brought it bubbling up to the surface again. I've started blog posts on this, on the computer and in my head, many of them, over and over. But I haven't published them until now.

Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away, when I was young and brash and thought I could plan everything, I was pretty sure I would have more than one. I would also be married before thirty, squeeze out at least one of thost babies before thirty, and be happily ensconsed in a leafy and pricey Washington, DC suburb with good public schools, the wife of a well-paid corporate lawyer. And that is how it would all be done.

Of course it wasn't. I got married instead at the ripe old age of 32, to someone else entirely. Then, I needed some time to travel the world with my husband, adventure, eat, drink, run a marathon. I just wasn't ready. Even though I didn't really know how profoundly having a child would change my life, I knew it would change it enough so we couldn't jet off to Thailand when we wanted to, and I couldn't spend three or four hours training for a marathon every weekend. I wanted to be good and goddamn READY.

And I was. I ran my marathon, went off the Pill, and serendipitously got pregnant within 3 months, at the "advanced maternal age" of 35. The thing is, I remember people asking me how many children I planned to have even while I was still pregnant with the first one. I just smiled, and said, that we'd see how it goes with one. Maybe it is my advanced age, but as your friends start having babies, it's just not that easy. The wrenching stories of infertility and miscarriage and preeclampsia and late-term fetal death and premature labor and disabilities pile up, and you know you can't take the birth of your one precious baby for granted. It just might not be that easy. And the birth wasn't that easy, not what I had hoped for or wanted. But she was healthy and perfect; though I felt violated and battered.

Then, there comes the sleep deprivation, the fact that you are ON DUTY 24-7, there is the juggling of that nagging day job that pays the bills with your parenting job, which may require your attention all night long. There are all the moments that you realize you don' t know what the hell you are doing, and you cry, and the fact that your child doesn't sleep all night until she is finally 20 months old. You are a mediocre employee, a semi-wretched mother, a bad and surly wife, a sleep-deprived screeching fishwife, impatient, stretched too thin, with barely a half-hour to yourself, alone, each day. If you are lucky. You are absorbed by laundry and meals and groceries and paying the nanny and finding socks and toys and some coffee and getting the right dose of Tylenol at 3:00 am, and still going to work the next day, feeling your daughter's cold invading your own body, scratching at your throat. You think, I'm such a crap-ass mother to just one kid right now...what the hell would I do with another one?

Meanwhile, all of your mama friends in the neighborhood betray you. They gang up on you. They all get pregnant again. They all fall, one by one. Bethany and Jennifer, then Rebecca and Emily and Suzanne, and Stuart and Shannon. Every. Last. One. Some of them have their second before their first one (that one that you shared with them, the one the same age as yours) is even two. You can't imagine. Well, you can imagine, and that's what scares you. A toddler howling at your feet to be held while you are clutching a hungry newborn. Nursing the infant every two hours, while your two-year old wakes twice a night from cutting molars. You think, I'd go crazy if I had an infant right now. I am practically crazy as it is, I barely have this routine, this life in hand.

Your pregnant friends, they comment on it, they ask you at the playground one day. So when are you going to have another one? Look at your daughter with that baby, wouldn't she be a great big sister? You just say, "Oh, we were never sure that we wanted more than one. We still don't know." It's the truth, and you don't think it's a big deal, but your friends seem shocked into silence, and they don't say anything more.

You start to wonder if something is wrong with you. Why don't you know? Why aren't you certain? Why aren't you like them, happily having a second baby, no matter the sleep deprivation, or the mental toll, or the size of the house, or the financial burden of double childcare costs? Are you being selfish? You think of all the people you know who have had this choice made for them, because of infertility, chronic illness, nightmarish pregnancies and births, premature babies, these agonies that they cannot physically or emotionally or financially go through again to have another child. You think of what some of your friends have gone through to have a second. The miscarriages, the finances, nine months of debilitating nausea (again), the surgeries, the IVF, the monitoring, the medications. You had nothing that bad. You got pregnant easily, had a pretty easy pregnancy, you had a fast, easy labor, but a freak flipped-breech baby. You are healthy. You could most likely have a VBAC this time around. You're considered "rich" by most standards; you could afford it. God, you must be selfish, when you might have another so easily by comparison.

Age is creeping up on you. Thirty-fucking-eight is right around the corner. Those media-hyped piles of statistics and shit about declining fertility. Your worries about whether your daughter should have a sibling. You don't really know, because your half-sister is thirteen years older, always barely present in your life, more like a distant cousin. You were basically an only child. Your husband has an older brother, but doesn't feel strongly about having another baby. He said, some months ago, that he wasn't ready for a second, because your first, your Olive, your preshus, is pretty intense. You don't know if he's changed his mind. You're utterly afraid to talk about it, afraid that some decision will have to be made. You wish you were six years younger.

The Olive's outgrown clothes and toys pile up in her closet in boxes, saved for some moment in time when a decision is made. You can't get rid of any of them, not yet. She still needs you so much, your girl. She needs to be held and comforted, and it takes everything you have, some nights, to get it all done in the dinner-bath-bed rush, and you can't imagine how you would do it with two of them. Some nights, you go to bed right after she does, because you have nothing left. Could you find something, anything, for a second child? And your sweet husband, already shuffled off to third place, what happens to him, to your marriage?

Yet. Yet. You don't want to regret anything, leave anything untried, undone. You already know in your head how the study would have to be renovated to turn it into another actual bedroom, and where the furniture would be placed. You wonder where all the books would go, but you have ideas. You think about your friends' kids, playing together, entertaining each other, knowing each other as only siblings can. You wish you knew what that felt like, so maybe you'd know if your daughter needs it, that sibling.

But you didn't like being pregnant, not at all. Didn't like nursing all that much either, even though you did it for nearly two years. You think about the agony of going through all of that again, all that discomfort, inconvenience. And more years of double-disrupted sleep, and teething and chasing and toddlers and baffling tantrums.

Sometimes, you feel that your family is perfect, right as it is. Cozy, with just you three. Only one child to wrangle, one carseat, one extra plane ticket to buy. So much love and attention, from two parents, three grandparents. Then, there are those times when there are three or four of you with her, and it seems ridiculous, overindulgent, to have all of those adults just for one small child, such excess, wasted resources.

There are, of course, those many moments of pure gold and bliss. Your utter infatuation with your daughter from the moment she was put into your arms. Your endless fascination and amazement at every single new thing that she does, even now. The smell of her curls, the feel of her small warmth in the cool mauve-grey dawn as you are both waking up. You look at her, so utterly herself, so lovely, shining. And you can't even imagine loving anything as much as her, can't imagine finding it in your heart to love anyone or anything so much, again.

But you never imagined her either. She was impossible to imagine, impossible to dream about. Only the reality of her could be enough, and more.

So, how do you know? How do you know if you should have another? How did you know?

Because I still have no idea. And time breathes, hot, at my heels.

 

Comments

[A'Dell]

I love this post. It's gorgeous and beautiful and honest and lovely.

I went through a lot of the same should we/shouldn't we and eventually it became clear that there's no point waiting for things to get "easy" so I can be ready for them for get "hard" again.

Life is always hard. It's always busy. There's always SOME crap thing or bit of bad news or a sleepless night with a croupy baby. Choosing to only have one child doesn't make my life any easier. (On the contrary, I hear that if you don't have a second kid, you have to entertain the first one on your own for 18 years.)

[Erin]

My friend A’Dell posted a link to your blog so I gave it quick read. I have to say, it made me want to call my mom and tell her just how much I love her. Also, I rarely comment on blogs so that says something, right? You see, I’m an only. And now being the ripe old age of 33 (not married, no kids) I can tell you, I wouldn’t change being an only for anything. I’ve seen friends quarrel with siblings and harbor jealous feelings…not something I thought I missed out on. I’m sure siblings come with good and bad just like any relationship but being an only is special.

I NEVER questioned how much my parents loved me. The overworked day jobs, the monetary sacrifices, the lack of true adult social lives…all done for me. Our little family of three was perfect. I see now that the time we spent together, the places they took me even when I was very young, showing me the value of hard work, certainly made me who I am today. And I never had to jockey with a sibling for attention.

When people find out I’m an only they usually say “really? you’re so normal, not selfish at all”. (I always find that odd because I’ve seen plenty of multiple child families with highly-selfish/spoiled children.) I’m not perfect but I think I turned out pretty darn good. Only's also learn how to entertain themselves...comes in handy later in life too. :)

[Bryan]

We hammered out three kids in three years, the last less scheduled than the first two, though more than two was the notational plan. It was hard when they were all young (4, 5, 7 now) and stretched us to the limits. What I can say, though, is that the love that your heart contains is not of finite size, picked upon your birth for you to fill. Rather, it expands with each of their births so that each child is loved fully and uniquely.

Now they largely entertain each other, are being trained as a housekeeping army, all still fit in the back of a normal sedan, and are each my pride and joys.

I can't speak to your health, money, or life goals, but I can say I was concerned about the practical side of having more than two and eh, it all works. I do believe that your capacity for love expands with each child, though... I don't see how it could be any other way. Convince yourself of that and you'll have the strength to power through the first couple of years of having two kids.

[DCZia]

Thank you everyone, for reading and for your thoughtful words. It helps, it really does, to hear from other people. I was basically an only, so it's hard for me to imagine what real siblings are like. But I see my friends' kids together, and that whole "entertaining each other" has something to it. I guess we will know when we know, and our family will be perfect, however it is.

[Susan Freel]

I have 2 younger brothers, 6 and 7 years younger than myself. I longed for a sister close to my own age, and still do. Now that I"m over 50 I truly appreciate both of them. We are distant physcally, but we keep in touch and I know I could count on them for anything in life. When our dad died it became very evident to me that our blood relationship was special. The 3 of us share something that nobody else has. Our mother is 86 now, and I know when she passes that connection to my brothers will be more important than ever. Of course, I have no idea what it means to be a 'single', but I am very thankful for my siblings. And by the way, I had 4. After the twins were born there was never any question that we were DONE. (4 children under the age of 5).

[Terror]

As you know I have a million full, half and step siblings. I love some, can't understand others and we muddle through as adults. But having them with me as kids was awesome. We did entertain each other and get each other into mischief. I couldn't imagine my life without them.

Another (albeit depressing) thought is, what if she ends up not having children of her own? Who will be her family after her parents have passed? As a single, childless almost 20+18 year old I am very grateful to have my siblings and their families. It's seeming unlikely I'll ever have a family of my own. Someday our parents will die and I'm not interested in spending holidays alone on a beach. Luckily I don't have to, instead I can visit my family, see their kids and be Auntie Mame.

I'm sure it's terrifying, but do what your heart tells you, either way.