I say, that will probably not happen. I think no f-ing way.
Those of us in the One and Done Club have lots of reasons for not wanting another kid. I know that having a second kid, as cool as it would be, would not be right for me. Or my husband. Or my daughter. My body couldn’t take it. Our bank account couldn’t take it. My career and sanity couldn’t take it. My mommy-obsessed girl couldn’t take it. And I’m not sure if my marriage could take it either.
But despite all of these completely logical and well-considered reasons, I feel guilty. I feel guilty towards that unborn kid, who I’m sure would be amazing. Who I would love to meet. I feel guilty that I can’t give my husband a gaggle of children (not that he wants that), but more of its-our-genetic-imperative sort of way. And I feel terribly guilty that I’m robbing my daughter of the sibling experience.
I am the youngest of three. I cherish my brother and sister. Did I cherish them when we were kids? Well, inwardly I worshipped them. Outwardly, I threw Barbies at them and accused them of psychological abuse because they would speak French around me so I couldn’t understand them. But now, I am so thankful for them. They are my favorite people in the world. And I feel incredibly lucky and secure knowing that they will always be there for me as we move into (gag) middle age. As we watch our parents age, and our children grow, we have one another for support.
How can I withhold such a great thing from my own kid? I have to constantly remind myself that there are no guarantees. I could become an even meaner, more stressed out mom. Her father could decide he’d rather be married to someone nice and with their sanity intact (picky picky). She could hate her sibling, she could feel resentful and bitter about her position as beloved only/youngest in the family being usurped by some pukey poop machine who cries when you do things like scream the My Little Pony theme song in her face. Boring.
I admit that I feel a true sense of loss when I think I will never have another baby. I will never be that close to another person again. I still have a small bag of breast milk in our freezer because (I’m crazy) I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. Not just because tossing breast milk feels like burning a flag or pouring good wine down the drain. But because it is proof that I did that. It barely feels real to me that I gestated a tiny person, that I kept her alive with nourishment I made with my own body. That same tiny person who is now five and says things like, “I hate my name. My new name is Zarina. And don’t say I love you all the time. I already know that.” Excuse me while I put my heart in the blender.
So I keep that baggie of breast milk. I say I love you constantly, despite protests. I call her Zarina. I try desperately to remind myself that her childhood doesn’t have to look anything like mine. It will be its own wonderful, terrible, joyful thing. Siblings or no siblings.
Sarah Moriarty is a writer, editor and adjunct professor. Sarah’s writing has appeared in such hallowed places as her blog, her mother’s email inbox, the backs of Value Pack envelopes and a waist-high stack of mole skin journals. In addition, Sarah has contributed to F’Dinparkslope.com, WhattoExpect.com and edited fiction for Lost Magazine. Sarah’s first novel, The Rusticators is forthcoming from Islandport Press in Spring 2016. A resident of Brooklyn for the last eleven years, Sarah lives with her husband, daughter and a dwindling population of cats. Check out more of Sarah’s work at sarahmoriarty.com.