When it came to the topic of parenthood, my contemplation centered around whether I wanted children at all, rather than how many. My upbringing shaped my perspective; the men in my family seemed to contribute little while expecting a great deal from the women. Many adults with children appeared perpetually stressed and irritable, leading me to believe that the whole endeavor was somewhat overrated.
However, after finishing high school, life took a typical yet unexpected turn. I met a wonderful man, we fell in love, and soon we were living together. I married him at twenty-one, and after a few years, I decided I would embrace conventionality: one child, please. We conceived right away, and my beautiful daughter arrived in 2011 when I was just twenty-four.
Life felt perfect. The love I had for her surpassed anything I had ever experienced. Every cliché about motherhood rang true; I was overjoyed. My husband was the complete opposite of the men I had known—he changed diapers, cooked dinner, and was a fantastic father. We were genuinely happy. Yet, as it turns out, that wasn’t enough for everyone.
Little did I know that once you take the leap into parenthood, the expectation to have more children is often met with fierce opposition from friends, family, and even strangers. The first unsolicited comment came from a woman selling holiday decorations when my daughter was only six months old. “When are you planning to give her a sibling?” she asked, as though it were a routine inquiry about our car lease.
I was taken aback. Hadn’t I just had a baby? The thought of enduring another pregnancy so soon hadn’t even crossed my mind. I was still savoring the joy of our new little life. “Oh, we haven’t thought about it. We might just stick with one,” I replied. Her curt response was, “Oh, you can’t do that.”
I shot her a bemused look and resumed my shopping. In hindsight, it was almost comical—who was she to dictate my reproductive choices? Yet, her words stuck with me, planting seeds of doubt about my happiness. Should I consider having a second child? Was there something inherently flawed about wanting just one? Would my daughter suffer as an only child? These questions began to plague me, making me question whether our family was truly complete without another baby.
As my daughter grew older, the comments became more frequent. The well-meaning yet intrusive inquiries—“Aren’t you worried about the age gap?”—became a regular aspect of our lives. My husband quickly became adept at deflecting these probing questions, reminding well-intentioned acquaintances that children aren’t like potato chips; you don’t need to have more than one to be complete.
In an effort to connect with other parents, I started a mommy group and organized playdates with local mothers who had children the same age. It was refreshing to bond with new friends and observe my daughter’s interactions. However, as my friends began to announce their pregnancies, I felt an overwhelming sense of dread. My own pregnancy had been exhausting, and the thought of navigating it again with a toddler was daunting. I realized I wasn’t ready to follow my friends down that path just yet. The memory of constant nausea and fatigue (I had hyperemesis) did not evoke any fond nostalgia.
“Maybe in another year; we’ll see,” I told my friends. Fast forward a few years, and my daughter is about to turn five, yet I still grapple with the decision of raising an only child. Am I selfish? Is this the wrong choice?
I have two close friends expecting their third child. I admire their resilience, even as they tackle everyday tasks like grocery shopping with two and a half little ones in tow. They manage it all with grace, although I can see just a hint of wild-eyed panic at times. While I applaud their efforts, my mind screams, “Not for me!” Yet, I can’t help but wonder, why not me? If it were truly awful, why do so many choose to have multiple children?
I won’t deny that I’ve come to enjoy my quiet two-and-a-half-hour breaks while my daughter is in preschool. During that time, I run, walk the dog, and savor overpriced lattes—all alone. I take pride in this time for myself. However, I also have days when I feel too drained to be fully present for my daughter, or when frustration seeps into my voice and affects our interactions. Like all parents—regardless of how many children they have—there are tough days. It’s during these times that I ponder what having a second child would really mean for us.
It’s in those rare moments of frustration, when tears of inadequacy threaten to spill, that I question my ability to cope with a baby. Could I truly be the best version of myself for two little ones? The answer is likely no. After all, no one can consistently be at their best in every situation. We are human, and we make mistakes—yelling, saying hurtful things, and shedding tears for all the wrong reasons are part of family life.
I cannot view my daughter simply as an “only” child. She is my child, our child, and she is absolutely perfect in our eyes. We are genuinely happy. Not in a forced way—my husband’s income allows me to stay home, she will be attending a great private school soon, and there are plans for a Disney trip in the near future. Many of these comforts would change if we decided to have a second child.
Is it worth it? The uncomfortable truth is that no one truly knows. Few parents would openly admit to regretting having a second or third child. One thing remains clear: the decision is complex and far from straightforward. For more insights on this topic, you can check out this article on Modern Family Blog or learn more about fertility treatments.
Summary
The desire to have only one child often invites unsolicited opinions and societal pressure. As a mother grappling with this choice, the journey is filled with moments of self-doubt, comparisons, and the constant questioning of one’s happiness and fulfillment. Ultimately, the decision remains deeply personal, underscoring the complexity of family dynamics and the beauty of embracing one’s unique path.