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.

Once again, here's more rambling about stuff I'm doing that's not here

I have an essay in the December issue of The Sun! It's called "Eighteen Attempts at Writing About a Miscarriage," and it's about how much I love unicorns. I can hear some of you grumbling, is she still talking about that miscarriage, for Pete's sake? or probably that's my Inner Critic bashing me again, but anyway I actually wrote this quite a while ago. Now shut your mouth, Inner Critic.

Anyway, this essay was originally accepted at another magazine, and they were incredibly gung ho about it and it was amazing to see my work get that kind of reaction, and then the magazine shut down and all our hearts were broken. (Then they gave me a super-secret-special release from my contract, which is why I am not naming it, shhhh.) I couldn't think of a single other place this could go, so when The Sun stepped up I was thrilled. It's an incredible magazine, if you've never seen it, and it's pretty widely distributed. Just go to the sad little dark nook of the literary magazine area in Barnes and Noble. Right there, behind "Car and Driver."

I don't know if it's out yet, officially--but I will let you know when I see it in the bookstores and/or when it's up on their site.

Well! We've got a Momversation backlog, kids, so let's see what we've been up to over at that site, shall we? If you hate these, you may now turn away in disgust. And I know that the word "Momversation" rubs some of you the wrong way, but I swear we don't use the term all that much in the actual videos. It would be great if we did, though. "In today's Momversation, I want to Momverse with you, because I've Momserved that Moms today are BLAM." That ending was me slamming my head in a door.

Here's the video we did on depression. It felt really good to be talking about depression from the other side, and I've received many emails on this one. Depression is, clearly, a complex topic, and we couldn't really explore all the facets of it in one fiveish-minute video, but I think this was a good jumping off point for further discussion:

On a much lighter note, here's a look at our pets. Our doggies and kitties! And more!

First of all, I am wearing my workout clothes in this one, and I have crazy hair. I am getting a little too comfortable taping these things. Secondly, Charlie the Dog is terrified of the teeny video camera, for some reason, and he usually vamooses the minute I set the thing up, so I was holding onto him as firmly as possible during this and he was trembling all over and releasing every bit of fur he could part with onto my lap. It was a little sad. I'm amazed that he wasn't hairless by the time I was through with him.

And finally, my cat, I KNOW. She is enormous. What can I say? I'd tell you she's just a big-boned girl, but she actually seems to be kind of delicate in stature--at least, as far as I can tell from the parts sticking out of her gigantic midsection.

Has it been that long?

Hello I am here! My name is Alice! CAN YOU HEAR ME!

Wait, let me try that again. Hello! This is a blog! Wait. That’s not good at all. HELLO WHAT IS YOUR NAME ARE YOU FRIEND?! No, no, I’m coming on too strong. Sorry. Wow. Greetings, I am here writing you for having long-time not written… is strange! Yes is!

There you go. Much better.

Sorry about that. I’m a little out of practice. It turns out I have to post more frequently, or several terrible things happen: 1) I forget how to come up with ideas; 2) everyone gets mad at me, but secretly, in their heads, so I have to imagine it; 3) Earth’s orbit goes just the tiniest bit awry, and we are set on an immutable trajectory that will eventually hurl us straight into the sun. I apologize for that last part. I didn’t know my own power. I should have guessed, of course. Apologies all around.

So I went to the Broad Summit the weekend before last, and it took me almost this long to recover. I was terribly fatigued, and had an attack of the nerves. A few drops of laudanum in my chamomile tisane managed to soothe me, but a longer rest cure than usual was prescribed. And now these linen straps are holding me fast to the bedposts, making it rather difficult to write! Oh, why won’t the doctor answer my bell?

Seriously, it was an incredible weekend, and apparently I am now a wrecked and aged woman who can’t handle air travel. Or maybe it’s regular life I can’t handle, and the return to reality is what caused my neurasthenia. Either way, I am now returned to my normally vigorous self. Huzzah!

Let’s change the subject now and talk about something cheerful, like miscarriage. We finally tackled the topic over at Momversation, and I am just grateful that the editors edited out my bizarre behavior, because in addition to being an old woman, I am a child who cannot discuss anything painful without interjecting jokes and weird inappropriate laughter. I believe I began my video with a fart joke. I’m not even kidding.

It felt strange to talk about my miscarriage so long after the fact, and the crabby guilt-laden Catholic inside me is whinnying, Why are you still thinking about that? Move on! Worry about the poor and the lame! And also the blind! Jesus died for your sins, missy! But then the rest of me is all, I’m sure you have a point, Sister Teresa of the Bleeding Ramekin, but put a damn sock in it. So there.

Due date.

Today is (was, would have been) my due date, and I'm pretty sad. I didn't think it would hit me this hard, but here it is, and it has.