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)
My boyfriend's an "only." In all the years we've known each other (and it's a lot), it never occurred to me to ask why...I figured it was none of my business. I think I'll just hold onto that belief...and my rage at "ticking clock" suggestions from nurses and grandmothers.
I wish our culture spent more time thinking about and doing for existing people instead of potential people. Thank you for this post.
On a lighter note, I am a Sun subscriber and a longtime reader of your blog, and it was so strange to see your byline when the latest issue showed up in my mailbox the other day! Worlds colliding.
BTW, while I was an only who always wished for a sibling, my husband loved it. Cool room, cool toys, cool trips, etc. And I always think about how having another limits our chances of living in a more urban setting, as space becomes tighter and rents become higher!
I do feel guilty that I am not the daughter that my mom probably wished for. I live on the other side of the country and we don't talk every day. I do wish that she had another so she had a better chance of having the idyllic relationship she wants. She now wishes she had another, she meant to but it was never the right time. I'm sorry for her that she has that regret.
I remember your post about your miscarriage vividly. My child would have been almost 10 months old this week. And I forget about it and think that it's gone, but then I remember, and think about laughing babies learning to walk. And it's hard. I was never in bad shape when it happened, I just cried, accepted, and moved on, so it's hard to understand why I still feel it so acutely. I just recently realized it's probably never going to go away, not really.
Love, love, love your writing. And the soul that shines through it.
And I remember that for every happy sibling relationship I've ever seen there's an equal number that make each other miserable in that special way only a sibling can. And it's not like good parenting makes you immune - my parents thought they had "raised us" to get along and not be rivals, too. In reality however they had poisoned relationships with their own sibs and were incapable of teaching us what a healthy sib relationship looked like.
No, I don't hate my bro. But it's a relationship that's caused me more sadness and pain than almost any other relationship I've ever had. And family isn't like a bad boyfriend you can easily dump when personalities just do.not.work out. So lately I'm not feeling guilty at all for not being able to provide a sibling. The inevitable, perpetual fighting isn't worth the hoped for "permanent" BFF.
I know that is not the rule where siblings are concerned, but I thought it was worth mentioning that you are NOT selfish. There is no promise that a sibling would be wonderful for Henry. He has wonderful loving parents and a stable childhood and I am sure that will be plenty for him!
i wish for you whatever you wish for yourself.
In today's society it seems odd to only have one (maybe it's just the local forum I'm on where I feel alien not to be aching for another before the first is a year old), but what's best for you guys is what's best for your family. Though it seems way easier to see that for you than for myself.
(And as an "only" for whom things played out disastrously, I can say that as long as you make sure you always play Adult so he can always play Kid, he'll be fine (and more than fine as he obviously already is).)
I hope to be as thoughtful and as fun a mother as you are.
FWIW, I'm an only, and my daughter will be an only as well.