One is Enough

By Tart Spice

Posted on Friday, June 24th, 2016

At my high school Class Day, I was voted ‘Most Likely to Have the Most Children.’ I’m not sure why that wordy superlative was an option, but it fit. I had been talking about having children forever. On any given day, I could rattle off 6-8 future baby names and intended to use all of them.

As the oldest daughter of an empowered late 80’s business woman, I idealized a different sort of mother. I would be present. I would be domestic. I would kiss my half dozen children goodnight and tuck them into bed myself each and every night.

I was everyone’s go-to babysitter. You didn’t even have to pay me; if I was in the same room as small children, I became the mother of all mother hens. While visiting family, my smallest cousins knew they could wake me up as early as they wanted and I would gladly entertain them while their parents stole some extra sleep.

After college, I worked in a children's hospital and nannied. I loved all of it: little minds absorbing everything like sponges; wiping away tears from big, shining eyes; playing a thousand games of Ring-Around-the-Rosie.

I was 27 when I got pregnant. I was so ready. I ached to have my own child, to teach, to cuddle, to be "Mama". But at 5 weeks, my morning sickness started. The worst of all misnomers, my morning sickness was not the almost-cute mild sort that sent me scurrying to the bathroom comically when I woke up. It could not be fixed with ginger ale and Saltines. And it did not pass when I crossed into the second trimester.

I vomited multiples times a day my entire pregnancy. I could barely move and sucked on ice chips because even a sip of water would make me wretch. I had to vacate my apartment weeks before our lease was up because the downstairs tenants smoked and the stench was unbearable. I couldn’t open the refrigerator- any refrigerator, could not stand commercials for food products, couldn’t believe no one else thought my dog was vilely odoriferous. I literally took a large Tupperware container with me everywhere because I so often could not make it to a bathroom or even open my car door before I would start throwing up.

That is when I started saying, “I think this will be my only child.” Everyone laughed it off. “You will forget all about this the instant you meet your baby,” they promised. And they were almost right. The first few months after my daughter came home were a strange sort of bliss. I was exhausted and scared, sure, but it was a burden of glorious purpose. And, of course, these hard days would pass and it would get easier. She would learn to sleep and all would be well..once we had the hang of breastfeeding…maybe after the 4 month sleep regression…definitely once she was rolling over…crawling.. eating table food.. Walking?

For me, motherhood has had casualties. I left my work-from-home job when she was ten months old so I could catch up on sleep while she napped. I rarely go out without her, and when I do I am usually summoned home early. My hobbies and interests are on the back burner, and while I still read, I know I am not retaining much and struggle to hold discussions of any depth. My house remains embarrassingly untidy. I know deep in my bones that the next dominoes to fall would be 1) my relationship and 2) my mental health.

We never envisioned ourselves as parents of an only child. My partner was discussing a second child before the pink lines appeared on my pregnancy test. When reality hit, we simply planned to space them out a bit more. When she is done nursing, or out of diapers, or in school. Eventually it became obvious that while repeating the early days with an infant would not be particularly pleasant, going through another pregnancy while already caring for a child would be near impossible. He came around more slowly than I did, but all the hopeful possibilities of our future are much closer to our reach if we shut down the baby factory.

I am resentful of the commentary I received from those with whom I have shared our plan. It seems every reason you hear to chastise those who choose to remain childless can also be applied to parents who choose to stop at one. Who knows? Maybe I will change my mind. That’s my prerogative. I am not completely without regret. I am very close with my sister and would love if my daughter had that bond with someone. I still hope that she finds it, even if it is not forged from similar DNA. But mostly, I am better able to cherish every moment- including the most difficult- because I have accepted they may be the only time I experience them.


About the Author:
Handicapable, Progressive, Pisces, Jedi, Ravenclaw, ENFJ. Musing over the many things that have not gone according to plan.