Sooo...it's been a busy summer. Which means that my 10 dedicated readers may have noticed that I've not posted a blog in three months. To kinda-sorta end the streak, I'm posting a piece, but it was written by my girlfriend and mommy blogger at large, Katie. She was kind enough to invite me to take up space on her blog recently, and I'm happy to return the favor. Especially since it gives me yet another pass on writing something new... Enjoy!
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Penny and I have known
each other for years. You’ll find
my blog: www.bebediaries.com to be
“all about the baby,” whereas Penny’s claim to fame is a blog NOT being about
the baby. (Even though, let’s give
her credit, even when she’s on a feminist rant we know it’s because she wants
her daughter to grow up in a better world). When it comes to families I’ve
found that Penny’s appreciated her small clan for everything they’re
worth. I, on the other hand, keep
finding myself talking about “the next baby.” Here’s where the guilt of
over-sighting my one and only joy catches up to me.
Whenever I’ve thought about what I want my future family to
look like I conjure up a diluted, nostalgic version of my own childhood. Six people, siblings and their friends tearing
through the house with little distinction between outdoor and indoor voices,
always someone to explore with, and having younger siblings to force into
ridiculous games created from my imagination. As adults we have nieces and nephews to roll into an even
larger collage. You can always
invite yourself along with whatever a sibling’s family has planned; it’s not
considered imposing, it’s an unspoken open invitation. There are more holiday traditions to
create and always someone to give advice whether you want to hear it or
not. Yeah, yeah. I know
there is arguing, maybe a few violent attacks, competition, and that someone
would have had to trade college for the whole family to afford a trip to Disney
World; but I just remember a whirlwind (okay, Category 5 hurricane) of people
and noise that weave together into this nest of love that I flew from.
Needless to say, I always imagined my own family would be
much of the same. One day, I
didn’t understand why at the time, but my mother convinced me that having four
kids would be insane. (“Whhaaattt?? You want FOUR children?? Are
you INSANE?? You grew up in a
house with four children!!”—as if that were explanation enough.) So, in the way that every young girl has
a carefully drawn out schedule and plan for her future, I made the fateful
scratching of 4 into a 3.
I’ve been a mother in the making since creation. I was a babysitter, nanny, became an
elementary school teacher, and married a man that revers family as much as I
do. All plans continued onward and
upward. Precisely one year after
we got married I became pregnant with our now 15 month old boy. Yes, that was in the timeline. And now, the checklist says it’s time
for Number Two. But here’s the
question that renders this post a coveted place on Penny’s blog, where
originally it was the antithesis of It’s
Not About the Baby: Could my
son be enough?
What if he was able to get snuggles from Mama anytime he
wanted? What if we were able to
give him the world because we wouldn’t have to pay for three kids to have tennis lessons/guitar lessons/summer
camp/airfare for travel/college?
What if I didn’t have to buy a minivan to fit all of those little
rascals in? And, what if while I’m
pregnant I can’t run and play with him (I was gigantic while carrying him), or hold
him because my belly is in the way.
What if I’m nauseous and tired and lose my patience with him? What if Daddy has to take over all of
those nurturing responsibilities and he resents me and only wants his Daddy for
the rest of his life?? (Yes,
welcome to the demented way my brain functions.)
Society and historical psychology have left their
identifying mark on “The Only Child.”
We’re told that Only Children don’t know how to socialize with others
their age, that they don’t know how to entertain themselves, and that they’re
spoiled. If I think about personal
memories of any classmates who were only children I remember that they had a
lot of toys I wanted, and their bedrooms were spotless. I may have even
identified them with the word spoiled.
Now, it doesn’t take a proverbial brain
surgeon to deduct that their parents could probably afford more toys having fewer
groceries to buy. I’m not entirely
sure if the neatness is a fair correlation but I’m guessing it’s easier to keep
on top of one child’s destruction than the mess of more. When I was growing up our Rec Room
(that would be the pseudonym for a carpeted basement) looked like a Misfit Toys
Island Massacre. Somehow my mother did perform a daily miracle of keeping the
house clean, we just covered all of
the sparkling laminate and carpet with our junk.
Of course these Only Child stereotypes are unfair. For me, it’s no longer a case of “I
can’t have an only child because I will disservice him by his instinctive
unwillingness to share, inability to entertain himself, or inevitably become
socially inept,” it has become, “Will I have everything I’ve ever dreamed in
this one child?” I mean, in prior
Only Child judgment I hadn’t taken into consideration the parents who were
actually unable to conceive more than one child. For all I knew when I was younger kids were to be had and
the amount was a choice.
Now I
know families that have one child because that may be all that’s biologically
possible. They don’t wring their
hands wondering if they should have just stayed childless as opposed to
bringing an Only Child into the world.
They scoop that child into their arms and marvel at how amazing it is to
love a creature with a strength that has an unknown beginning and infinite end.
So, will I have more children? Probably. If I couldn’t have any more children
would I be devastated? Not at
all. I’ve learned that I can undoubtedly
find everything I need in the family I have.
