When You Have To Stop At One

Anniki Sommerville - 13 Jan 16

I feel incredibly lucky to have my daughter. It took a lot of energy and effort to get pregnant (and stay pregnant) and it could never have happened. I’ve got friends who’ve not been so lucky and haven’t had kids. They have different lives, not better or worse, just different. I don’t agree that it’s each woman’s destiny to become a Mum. I hate it when the media try to tear women apart for choosing not to have kids. But it’s cruel if you want one and can’t. In fact it might just be one of the cruelest things of all.

So I know I need to be grateful. I may not be grateful at five thirty in the morning when the dawn shouting starts up. I may struggle in the café with my daughter rolling on the floor screaming. But yes I get it. I’m grateful. I am.

Now that my daughter’s reached two years old many of my Mum friends are falling pregnant. Of course none of them kept it a secret that they wanted to have more children. It’s not like they’ve gone off to join the ‘Hells Angels’ or shaved off their eyebrows. Women try to have babies and they have babies. Other women try to have babies and don’t. It’s nature. It’s the norm.

That word ‘grateful’ dances around my head. ‘I know,’ I chant to myself, ‘I know.’

I was thirteen when my first sister arrived. At the time I was going through a rebellious phase, wearing thick, black eyeliner, listening to ‘The Smiths’ and eyeing up any boy who looked like they’d be bad for my health. I was self-obsessed like all teenagers. A baby sister was pretty much useless to me. I loved her to bits. I played with her sporadically (but offered no real help to my Mum) and when my second sister arrived (when I turned fifteen) I had almost left the nest anyway. I wouldn’t wish it any other way but in essence I grew up an only child.

Now I haven’t read all the literature about only children so am only talking from my own experience but I spent a lot of time with adults. I loved entertaining them and would put on silly voices to get their attention. I listened to great music like Joni Mitchell and Bob Dylan as my parents prepared fondues and talked about philosophy. My Dad took me to a ‘Misty in Roots’ reggae concert when I was five and I couldn’t hear for about a month because the bass was so loud. I spent a lot of time drawing, writing and reading. I made tapes where I played the part of the DJ and the pop star. I wasn’t lonely but I talked to my cat a lot. That cat became the repository of my hopes, dreams and ambitions. I feel guilty sometimes when I think about it. It was a lot for that cat to carry on its back each day.

Now fast forward to today and it’s obvious that unless a miracle occurs, my daughter will be an only child. I feel fine with this but I also feel sad. If she’s anything like I was then she’ll beg for a brother and sister. She’ll look at her friends and wonder why they have siblings and she doesn’t. She may have days when she doesn’t want to listen to Joni Mitchell or talk to the cat. But there’s not much I can do about it.

And from a selfish perspective I love the idea of a second child. I was so stressed out the first time and didn’t enjoy the bits you’re supposed to. There weren’t any of those Hallmark moments that you see in films. I cried. I ranted. If I’d been living in Victorian times I’d have been sectioned.

That word ‘grateful’ dances around my head. ‘I know,’ I chant to myself, ‘I know.’

From my daughter’s perspective I know there are ways I can make sure she doesn’t get lonely. We have two cats so they can share the load. Already she has lots of friends and she loves socialising. She goes to a child-minder part-time and she’s become part of her family unit too. I have one or two friends who have one kid and she’s close to them. There are plenty of ways to create spiritual siblings if a physical one doesn’t come along.

But there’s still a pang when I hang out with my pregnant friends. I love them. I’m happy for them. I see the excited anticipation in their eyes. Their world will change again in ways they cannot understand or plan for. I also see the fear and trepidation too. I remember how my daughter’s head used to fit perfectly into the curve of my neck. I remember the nights when I felt like crying but the warmth of her on my chest stopped me. I remember how in every single way it was the best and worse of times.

That word ‘grateful’ dances around my head.

Anniki Sommerville

I'm Super Editor here at SelfishMother.com and love reading all your fantastic posts and mulling over all the complexities of modern parenting. We have a fantastic and supportive community of writers here and I've learnt just how transformative and therapeutic writing can me. If you've had a bad day then write about it. If you've had a good day- do the same! You'll feel better just airing your thoughts and realising that no one has a master plan. I'm Mum to a daughter who's 3 and my passions are writing, reading and doing yoga (I love saying that but to be honest I'm no yogi).

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