Of course in reality we are grateful for our health

I was talking with my friend Abby, who had just suffered through several sick-kid-induced sleepless nights, and was losing her mind a little bit.

Abby: I need a break. I need a good reason to lie down for a few days.

Me: I know. When Henry was sick last week and sneezed in my face, part of me got a little excited. Because then I'd be really sick, and I'd have to take to my bed.

Abby: I totally get that, except I dream about getting in an accident.

Me: Excuse me?

Abby: Not a bad one, of course. Just getting banged up enough that I have to stay in the hospital for a couple of days. For observation. Of course the kids wouldn't be in the car, just me. I don't want anyone else getting hurt.

Me: This is sad, Abby. Why couldn't you just get sick?

Abby: It wouldn't work. I have three kids, they'd still need me all the time. Then I'd be sick and in charge.

Me: No, but in my fantasies I'd be so sick that Scott would have to take over. I'd be too feverish to be left alone.

Abby: Nope. They'd still get at me. Even if Nate were home. There's always one who'll sneak away and demand something from me.

Me: That's a good point.

Abby: That's the advantage of the only child. You get to just have the flu. I need a car accident.

Me: Oh dear.

Abby: I NEED IT.

Your honor, spare my son!

While walking home from school, Henry and I start talking about tightrope walking. Naturally.

Me: you know, a guy walked between the twin towers on a tightrope.

Henry: I know. And he died.

Me: No, he didn't. He made it over.

Henry: I thought he died.

Me: No, just got arrested.

Henry: Wouldn't he rather have been dead than be in jail for LIFE?!

Me: Wait, what? No one was in jail for life. I don't think he was in jail at all, actually.

Henry: I think he should have stared at the cops at the other end of the tightrope, and he should have said, "Well, here goes nothing," then spread his arms out and jumped.

Me: Gah! That sounds awful!

Henry: That's what they do on TV shows.

Me: What TV shows are you watching where people commit suicide by tightrope?

Henry: They're always jumping off buildings so they don't have to go to jail.

Me: I think those are superheroes who enjoy the power of flight.

Henry: What's so bad about jail, anyway?

Me: Well, you know. No freedom. You're trapped in there with criminals. Like that.

Henry: I don't think I'd do well in jail. I'm not a tough guy.

Me: No?

Henry: Nope. Not a toughie.

Only

We'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.

Learning opportunities are everywhere

Henry and I got on the subway and sat next to a man who was, it soon became clear, mentally unwell. Specifically, he was railing against people who were not there, and using all manner of bad words. So I suggested that we move, and we got up and moved, and that was that. Henry was chatting with me and anyone who'd look at him about Bionicles and I was sure he didn't notice a thing.

A few minutes later he asked, "What was wrong with that man?"

So I went on to explain how sometimes people are sick in their heads, and how sad and upsetting is for them.

Henry: Why did we move?

Me: Well, he seemed agitated, and it just seemed better to keep our distance. Did you hear how he was using bad words? He seemed really angry.

Henry: What are bad words?

Me: You know. Curse words. Bad words.

Henry: Yeah, but like what?

Me: Really, you don't know? Do you not live with your dad? Ever heard him after he breaks something?

Henry (lowering his voice conspiratorially): Is shoot a curse word?

Me: Not really, no.

Henry: So tell me a curse word.

Me: No.

Henry: Would you just say one.

Me: I can't curse into your sweet little face. Come on.

Henry: If you don't tell me what a curse is I'll never know what not to say.

Me: Okay. Okay, FINE. Shit.

Henry (loudly): SHIT? SHIT is a curse word? You say SHIT all the time! You curse in front of me!?

Me: I do not. Your father does. Please get the two of us straight.

Henry: I don't know, "shoot" sounds worse to me. Because it's like guns.

Me: You're absolutely right. Stick with "shoot." Much worse.