Only
December 5, 2009We're walking home from school.
"I was thinking," Henry says. "I was thinking it would be good to have a little brother."
I can't help but picture it. Henry holding a little boy's hand, guiding him as he toddles down the sidewalk next to us. He would have been such an excellent big brother.
"Or a sister," he says. "Yeah, actually? I think I want a sister. Because I like the girls I'm related to. So I think if I had a sister, I would like that."
I am murmuring noncommittally. "Huh!"I say. "Hmm!"
"So," he adds, looking at me, "can I get one?"
"I don't think it's in the cards for us, sweetie," I finally say.
"What does that mean, in the cards?"
"It means I don't think it's going to happen."
"That's okay," he says quickly. "That's fine. I was just thinking. "
I try to point out the advantages of being an only child. The quality time with us. He does not appear convinced.
"It could be fun, though," he says.
"Yes," I agree. "It could be."
*
When we made the move back to the city from the suburbs, part of it was because we realized we weren't going to try again. There are so many reasons, and if I give them, I'm afraid someone's going to pop up in the comments to argue that our reasons aren't good enough. "Oh, you can still have a second even if X!" this imaginary person might say. "My precious miracle came about even though we also thought Y and Z and you might be the same way so keep on trying!"
No. It's not going to happen.
And I am sorry. I am. It's so much more satisfying for everyone else, to have a successful pregnancy after a miscarriage. It's expected. You keep on trying, and then eventually you get pregnant and it all works out and the miscarriage becomes an unfortunate blip in your otherwise upbeat narrative. I realize that this is kind of a bummer.
*
Henry hasn't asked about a sibling for a long, long while--long before I had the miscarriage. It's interesting that it's come up for him now, just as my essay appeared in The Sun and I've been sort of overwhelmed by the feelings stirred up by the publication and its response.
I have to admit, I feel a little strange about all these Sun readers emailing me, responding as if I still feel the pain of the miscarriage as acutely as I did back when the essay was written. I wrote it well over a year ago, and when I finished, I felt like I had exorcised something. I exorcised it and saved it in a Word file and then I was free. And now all these people are expressing their sympathy, when that pain has dulled to an occasional ache, and I feel like I'm pretending to be something I'm not. Like I need to tell them they've made a mistake.
Then as I'm responding to them, something bursts open. All that pain I thought I had purged, that deep, awful well. It's right there, and I want to scream. Then I want to thank all these people who wrote to me, because part of me was afraid it was gone. Nope, still there. I still miss that baby I thought I was going to have. That baby who would have been one year old just a couple of weeks ago.
So many people writing to me want me to know about the children they had after their miscarriages. The happy endings they wish for me. I know they're hoping to make me feel better, I get that, but all I can think is, there won't be a second for me. And then I think: because I'm too selfish.
I am ashamed. Because I've made a decision, and at the heart of it, I made it for me. Scott and I made it for us. And for Henry, but who can really say what's best for him, at this point? I'm afraid we're doing Henry a disservice. That we're leaving him alone as we get older and more helpless, that we're depriving him of a soulmate and ally, someone to build forts with or whatever else I imagine he'd do with a sibling when I'm really beating myself up over my decision.
I wonder if he'll forgive us. I wonder if he'll hate us for it. I wonder if he'll be glad.
Of course I know, rationally, that only children can be happy and successful. I know that Henry's happy and well-adjusted and loved beyond measure. I do.
But it keeps coming up. They think I'm selfish, I think, when other parents ask me if Henry is an "only." Stingy. Not willing to spread myself just a little too thin. I want to give them my reasons. My very good, well-considered reasons. But I'm afraid they'd argue that those reasons aren't enough.
Henry is not an only, I want to say. Henry is enough. Can't that be the question? "So, was Henry enough for you?" I could confirm that without a trace of shame.
Just look at him, I could say.
Look at my boy. Look at all that I have.
Reader Comments (245)
As one of the comments said, there is always a story and mine is a long one, but despite the feelings of guilt, I just think I'm done. Not because I want to be, but because I just feel like she was my miracle and sometimes you only get one.
She is more than enough for me and I have not pictured my family any differently. Just his morning she told me I am her best friend. Moments like that are priceless.
I totally loved your post, it did bring me a degree of peace. I was wondering, if you have the time, would you let me know if you still, despite being ok with your decision, feel resentful when your friends of family keep falling pregnant at what seems like a whim?
Thank you for sharing such a deeply personal experience with us, it has really helped me.
I love this baby in my belly.. and will always consider myself a mother of two, regardless of the outcome. I know after this pregnancy, I can say with some certaintly, that this is it. Two is enough. Enough because the hard parts are too hard for me.
I could go on about how I'm an only child and I'm ok. How I know my son will be fine for various reasons. But I know that you already know all of that. And that you probably tell yourself the same things that I do all the time to reassure yourself.
So, I just want to say thank you. Thank you for expressing so eloquently over the years many of the same things I have wanted to express myself. I truly appreciate it.
Having a kid is the most selfish thing you can do. It's also the last selfish thing you can do. There are no "right answers." You pays your nickel, you makes your choice.
What you wrote here was both brave and generous, and I am in awe of you.
It took me about three years after making it to finally own our decision to have an only child. After Beloved got snipped, I knew it was really always going to be that way -- and I let myself relax into our decision like a hot bath.
I hope you will feel that relief, too.
As an only child, it chafes me that there are people out there who pity people like me or judge our parents. Yes, I know that there are things I missed out on that my husband got to experience with his 3 sisters, but I also know that I got all the parental attention, and, frankly, resources that in his case were spread over 4 kids. Even though we didn't have much money when I was little, I got to try whatever I wanted, take music lessons on multiple instruments, and have a truly full childhood. I didn't end up spoiled and awful. (I do like to get my own way, I admit, but I try to hide it!)
From where I sit, it is not only OK to be an only, but it is special in its own way.
I would be a different person with siblings. Not better, not worse, just different. I like who I am, and I like my family.
Thanks for posting. :)
I'm happy for you, and for the blessings that you have and have shared with us.
I am an only, and I love being an only.I have an only and would have liked to have more, I think, but at this point that does not look likely due to my circumstances.I feel blessed, either way; in all ways.
And you owe nobody an explanation or “justification” of your very personal decision.
As so many others have said, this is a beautiful and powerful piece, Alice.
It floors me that anyone would consider your family choices to be "selfish." What a hideous thing to think about something so intensely personal. You don't have to have any reasons at all, but whatever reasons you do have are enough, because they are yours and this is your life and your family. And your life and family are perfect just as they are.