Parenting Insights
“Is this your first child?” a fellow mom inquires during our visit to the park.
“Yes, just one,” I reply, feeling a familiar tension rise as I anticipate the next question.
“Are you planning to have another?” Her casual tone belies the intrusive nature of her inquiry.
The truth is, we have no plans for a second child.
Why do strangers feel entitled to probe into our family planning? If you’re going to ask such a loaded question, brace yourself for an honest answer.
“We tried for 18 months. I experienced a miscarriage, followed by several endometrial issues. I explored remedies like Chinese herbs and acupuncture, but ultimately, we’ve moved on from our donor, so that chapter is closed.” I share this candidly, hoping to make her uncomfortable enough to reconsider her line of questioning.
“Oh, I’m so sorry…” she responds, pity etched across her face.
Just a year ago, I faced a miscarriage at home, unaware it would mark our last opportunity to add to our family. We kept trying, but I faced multiple unsuccessful pregnancies. Fortunately, my partner and I were using a known donor, which spared us financial strain, but hosting “the guy” monthly without results was frustrating and awkward.
The most heartbreaking part was telling our child about our plans—he kept asking if I had a baby in my belly. Explaining where the baby “went” was devastating. When he tossed coins into a wishing well, he wished for a “healthy” baby brother or sister. Thankfully, that phase has passed; he’s more interested in getting a cat now.
Meanwhile, I’ve been grieving—the future I envisioned for us, the dream that’s now lost. The grief of a miscarriage is peculiar; it feels like mourning an idea that never fully materialized yet held enormous significance. I chose to wait until my late 30s to start a family, and Nature has decided otherwise. I wasn’t prepared for the guilt that accompanied my grief, arriving like an unwelcome guest.
I grapple with feelings of guilt for not being able to give my child a sibling. The thought of his loneliness and feelings of being different weighs heavily on me. After all, he already comes from a same-sex family; I wanted to provide him with the comfort of a brother or sister.
Currently, I’m reading One and Only: The Freedom of Having an Only Child, and the Joy of Being One by Emma Johnson. Each page brings comfort and insight. It turns out our societal bias against only children stems from historical contexts where large families were essential for survival. In the 1800s, child mortality rates were high, making plentiful births a necessity. Early psychologists, who preferred larger families, perpetuated myths about only children being anti-social, which still linger today.
My life hasn’t turned out as I imagined it would—university degree, husband, and two kids—but I’m learning to accept it. Guilt surrounds the choice to have one child, as society often views it as selfish. The whispers in my head echo: “Poor boy, no siblings” or “She must have prioritized her career over family.”
Yes, some do. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
I’m navigating my grief, shedding unnecessary guilt, and embracing an open heart toward the future. I’m grateful for the life I’ve led thus far. The more I let go of preconceived notions of how life should be, the lighter I feel. I believe we can all release those expectations, don’t you think?
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Summary:
In this article, the author candidly shares her journey of navigating the complexities of family planning after experiencing a miscarriage and grappling with societal expectations surrounding only children. She reflects on the guilt and grief associated with not being able to provide a sibling for her child while finding comfort in literature that challenges societal norms. Ultimately, she embraces her family of three and encourages readers to release traditional expectations of family life.