Somewhere in between pushing through one contraction and waiting on the next, a nurse in Labor & Delivery asked, “So, are you planning on having any more?”
I remember looking up at my socked feet propped in stirrups, backlit from the fluorescent lights on the ceiling. I hadn’t slept in 24 hours. I had just put my hand down to feel the top of my baby’s soft head as it started to push through my vagina. Everything about the moment was surreal and impossible, which is maybe why I wasn’t surprised by the question so much as utterly unable to grasp it.
“Let me have this one first, okay?” I said, and everyone laughed. Another contraction came, and we all went back to focusing on the task at hand.
“Though no one quite phrased it this way, it was strongly suggested that there wasn’t a ‘right’ total number of kids, as long as you didn’t have only one.”
To be fair to the nurse, The Question didn’t come out of nowhere — my doula had just revealed that she was 12 weeks pregnant with her seventh child. After a round of congratulations, a series of questions and comments followed, everyone offering their opinions and feelings and experiences from their own families. And though no one quite phrased it this way, it was strongly suggested that there wasn’t a “right” total number of kids, as long as you didn’t have only one.
“It’s just so unfair to the child,” they said.
“They get so lonely on their own.”
“They miss out on so much.”
There were five or so women in this conversation, all birthing professionals and mothers themselves. It felt like I was bearing witness to a cabal charged with passing on divine orders about parenthood, with a clear, black and white message that the happiest children must, under all circumstances, have siblings.
“I think it’s just selfish to have only one,” they said. “If they have brothers and sisters, then they have a friend for life!”
My husband and I let the chatter about the moral responsibility of parents having more than one child wash over us. We are both the oldest kids in our respective families, so a consensus of multiple kids seemed reasonable enough. We hadn’t formally decided yet on a number for our own family, but we both felt vaguely comfortable with the familiarity of two-ish. Why not?
Which is why, in between contractions, I found myself agreeing with everyone. “Totally,” I told the nurses in the delivery room that day, nodding. “If you have a sibling, you have a friend for life!” In my memory, the room seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief.
It hadn’t ever occurred to me that I could be happy with just one — or how quickly I would realize that our first baby we welcomed just minutes later would also be my last.
Unknown unknowns
I became a mother thinking I was going into it eyes wide open. My sister was born when I was fifteen, and I had over a decade of nannying and early childhood education under my belt. I had prepped bottles and changed diapers and navigated awkward social moments with loud kids making frank observations in public; I knew what a five-point harness car seat was and I’d heard of baby-led weaning. I knew that children were basically wet and sticky with their own bodily fluids (plus some mystery ones) for the first five years of life. And I was up for it — I knew how to be firm but playful, how to disrupt a tantrum without dismissing big feelings, and I knew tons of early childhood education activities and games that I couldn’t wait to introduce to my own child. I had a clear vision of myself as a warm, creative mom, always ready for whatever came next.
“I had a clear vision of myself as a warm, creative mom, always ready for whatever came next.”
But look: You don’t know what you don’t know, and there is a LOT we can’t know about having children. Top of the list? How becoming a parent changes us.
Unknown unknowns are the things we not only don’t know, but aren’t even aware that we don’t know. I thought, with all my experience with kids, that I was prepared. But there’s a massive distinction between caring for the kids you hand back at the end of a shift and caring for the ones coming home with you.
When the children are your own, you don’t get a break. You don’t have the opportunity to step back, recharge, and fill up your own cup — not in the way you’ve been perfecting your whole life, anyway. You might feel theoretically ready for this, but the truth is, there is truly no way to predict how this might affect you or your partner until you’ve done it. There are going to be surprises that you couldn’t have prepared yourself for, because you had no idea they were even a possibility.
“The person I was as a preschool teacher and a nanny was not who I became as a mother.”
In other words, the person I was as a preschool teacher and a nanny was not who I became as a mother.
I didn’t know how much I relied on alone time until I couldn’t get it. I didn’t know I needed silence to write. I didn’t know that I could ever dread being touched by the people I loved. I didn’t know I could be so dependent on a schedule, how panicked I could feel if we strayed from a feeding time even by a few minutes. I didn’t know I would feel abject terror about something as innocuous as putting my baby down, or that I would be one of those mothers who would go into fight-or-flight every time she cried.
How could I have known? I’d always been so relaxed with kids before! I loved a noisy classroom, a packed social calendar, and understood the value of helping kids learn how to self-soothe in a safe environment. And yet there I was with my own baby, this little dream I’d wanted with all my heart, turning into some parody of a mother I’d previously felt free to criticize in my childless past.
What I really didn’t know? What it would be like to cross from the spectator section in the court of public opinion into the cross examination seat. Because that is the thing about parenting that is sort of a sneaky unknown unknown: Everybody’s got an opinion about it. And more often than not, you’re already doing it wrong.
Great for her, not for me
A few years ago, John Cena made the rounds on the internet for an interview he did on the Drew Barrymore show where he discussed why he and his wife have decided not to have children.
“I think just because you might be good at something, for me, is not a strong enough reason to do that,” he said. He explained how becoming a parent just because you’re ‘good with kids,’ would be like becoming a carpenter because someone thought you were good with your hands. Without passion for it, carpentry could easily take over your life, leaving little room for all the other things you do truly care about. “It’s work to be the best partner and husband I can be to my loving wife,” Cena said. “It’s hard to keep connections with those in my life that I love. And it’s also hard to put in an honest day’s work.”
“Becoming a parent just because you’re ‘good with kids,’ would be like becoming a carpenter because someone thought you were good with your hands.”
Though Cena categorized this choice as “selfish,” (and the comment sections predictably enthusiastically concurred,) but I couldn’t disagree more. Instead of the usual romanticization about family and children as some ephemeral dream materializing from nothing, Cena spoke frankly about the cost of parenting, and how he was already making comparable investments in a life he loves. This wasn’t a judgmental rejection of family life, but a measured and informed decision coming from a place of deep respect for what it takes to be a parent.
Most of us only truly discover what parenting costs us after we’re already in it. Which is maybe why it’s such a challenge to have an honest conversation about it as a collective: We’ve invested so much already! What would it mean if we weren’t 1000% happy with the outcome?
“Most of us only truly discover what parenting costs us after we’re already in it.”
It doesn’t feel like this to everyone. For some people, the transition from single adult to parent might feel like ripping up old carpet and then just having to adjust to walking on a different surface. Maybe it’s creaky, maybe it’s slick. Maybe there’s a tiny height difference now that you have to account for as you step into the space. But overall, the adjustment isn’t too big a deal, and the end product is beautiful and more or less what you’d hoped for. Why not do it again?
For others, becoming a parent might feel more like ripping up the carpet only to learn that there’s termite damage in the foundation. Where there was meant to be original hardwood flooring there is now a gaping hole, and you have to figure out what to do about it on less than an hour of sleep. It’s not impossible — you’ve gotten some estimates, and you know there are options available for you to fix it and maybe even turn it into what you’d always hoped for. But it’s going to take a lot of time and work, and it isn’t going to be easy.
Neither of these scenarios illustrate a morally superior circumstance. Yet we might still compare everything to the reno project that went smoothly, making harsh judgments on the one that didn’t, along with all the ways that family tried to navigate the situation. Sure, maybe you would have handled it differently — maybe you would’ve gone with a different contractor, or maybe you think termites are a deal breaker and you would have moved. Maybe you wouldn’t have ripped the carpet up at all, not until you’d prepared for this exact possibility and set aside the money to pay for it. Who knows! Even if you go and rip the carpet up in your own house, what you find underneath isn’t necessarily going to match your neighbor’s.
Becoming a parent isn’t going to be the same for everyone either, no matter how many commonalities we might share in the experience. We live in completely different houses.
“Even if you go and rip the carpet up in your own house, what you find underneath isn’t necessarily going to match your neighbor’s.”
In her 2015 book “Yes Please,” national treasure Amy Poehler posits that we should all view each other’s life choices with a more gracious lens — especially when faced with something you feel certain you would never do yourself. The motto? “Great for her; not for me.”
I know so many moms who have found themselves adopting this phrase to survive the endless onslaught of public opinion, social media child education content, and unsolicited parenting advice from … literally everyone. It’s one of those reminders that can instantly set you back on your own track, saving you tons of mental anguish about something that is ultimately not your business.
The coolest thing happens when we can train ourselves to let go of our own judgmental impulses: We learn how to let go of what everyone else thinks about our own choices, too. And that’s where the magic happens.
Asking yourself the right question
Before I was pregnant, the social pressures around when my partner and I would have children were minimal. After having our daughter was a different story — an experience I know many parents of only children share.
People are uncomfortable with only children. People are terrified that we are “ruining” them. The idea that we might feel like our family was complete doesn’t seem possible — because despite recent studies blowing the stereotypes out of the water, the reputation for only children holds fast as lonely, neglected, and weird. But people also seem to be willfully dismissive of the parents as people, far too blasé about what it takes to raise children — let alone raise them well.
“People also seem to be willfully dismissive of the parents as people, far too blasé about what it takes to raise children — let alone raise them well.”
In an AMA specifically about her decision to have one child, Australian content creator Hayley Smith was asked everything from how she knew she was done having children to whether or not she ever struggled with guilt about it. There was some good faith curiosity in the questions, but there was also an astounding amount of judgment too — one follower accused her of being selfish, another worried about what attributes her daughter would lack without siblings. There were many leading questions about what an only child might miss out on, how she will be alone in the world as an adult, and concern about how she would be saddled with the burden of caring for her parents at the end of their lives dominated the questions.
Hayley’s answers were gracious and consistent as she fielded these, explaining that it boiled down to this: “I wanted my experience of motherhood not to be defined by the number of kids I have, but the depth in which I am able to know and be present with my child.”
“I wanted my experience of motherhood not to be defined by the number of kids I have, but the depth in which I am able to know and be present with my child.”
– Hayley Smith, content creator
After my daughter was born, I was shocked to discover how swiftly my future vision of our family no longer included anyone else. I couldn’t imagine being pregnant again, and already saw most of our big moments with our baby as their own singular, perfect event. But even as I started to recognize this for what it was, I resisted naming it. Why wouldn’t I want to “give” my daughter a sibling, after all? If we’re already in the throes of early childhood, what’s one more?
In the smallest, most sacred places of my heart, I knew these questions were the wrong ones. What I should have been asking is what I wanted my experience of motherhood to be, and how I could make that work with all my plans in the other areas of my life.
What is it we mean when we say we want a family? What are we talking about, exactly — what is it we want? Is it the sweet, cozy snuggles of the babyhood, the quiet lullabys and tiny clothes, everything smelling powdery and sweet? Is it the happy chaos of the childhood years, the busy weekend schedules with soccer games and dance recitals? Or is it the promise of years of full holiday tables as everyone grows up and begins bringing families of their own? For some of us, there might even be something more cerebral or even primal — the general urge of not wanting to be alone, of wanting to experience such a fundamentally human thing as procreation. Maybe it isn’t even something you think about that deeply, just something you’re able to accept as the next step in being alive.
“What is it we mean when we say we want a family? What are we talking about, exactly — what is it we want?”
But what about the rest of the things we want? I have been working on a novel, for example. It took me years to figure out how to fit a writing practice into my life mothering one child. I also have a business, a marriage, and a million other facets of my life with their own goals. While children aren’t children forever, the time we spend managing their lives is still time we have to take from something else. Whether or not you have the capacity or the desire to give up that time to parenthood is a completely personal decision that no one else can make for you.
It’s your house, after all.
“With one, I have the physical, emotional, and financial capacity to give my daughter everything she needs, while maintaining my own identity and independence,” Hayley Smith said. “I want to be able to experience motherhood while not being too overwhelmed by it.”
What is it we want from parenthood? What are we truly able to offer, and what do we want to keep for ourselves?
The abundance of one
I loved being pregnant. I had an easy, uncomplicated pregnancy and enjoyed dressing for my belly. I slept well and had almost no morning sickness, food aversions, or reflux. I loved feeling her move — she used to get hiccups all the time in utero, and it never failed to surprise me, making me jump and yelp with delight.
My daughter’s birth was a dream as far as births go — she came on her due date, and I was so eager and excited to meet her that the mood of the delivery room was like a party. I remember getting a rush of joy when she started hiccuping in my arms for the first time at the hospital, telling my husband, “Oh, good, they gave us the right one!” She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, deeply wanted and more than I ever could’ve imagined. In almost every way, I got everything I ever wanted when I imagined becoming a mother. Which is partially how I knew I didn’t want to do it again.
“In almost every way, I got everything I ever wanted when I imagined becoming a mother. Which is partially how I knew I didn’t want to do it again.”
People were dismissive, confused, or insistent that I would change my mind in the first few years of my daughter’s life, certain I would end up having another kid. The only thing that stopped people from asking was our daughter’s diabetes diagnosis. Suddenly, there was a reason that was “good enough” to imagine why we might not want to continue breeding. (The funny thing? If I’d been on the fence about more kids, getting through this first year managing her medical needs might have actually convinced me to try. But I didn’t want another child before diabetes, and I still don’t. But I am grateful that this illness at least put an end to the questions about it.)
I know my child very well; we spend quality time together talking about the world and making art, reading, going on walks, playing with our animals, going to coffee shops to “work” on the books we’re both writing. I treasure our relationship. And because she’s my only child, I still have the capacity to be more than just her parent.
There is nothing sad or quiet about our only child household. We have a full, wildly busy life, messy and over-booked with soccer games and dance recitals, play dates, homework — the works. She is a precious, miraculous, incredible discovery every day, and I love each stage of her development more and more. And for me, it is more than enough.
It’s my house, anyway. Ripped carpets and all.
Stephanie H. Fallon is a Contributing Editor at The Good Trade. She is a writer originally from Houston, Texas and holds an MFA from the Jackson Center of Creative Writing at Hollins University. She lives with her family in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, where she writes about motherhood, artmaking, and work culture. Since 2022, she has been reviewing sustainable home and lifestyle brands, fact-checking sustainability claims, and bringing her sharp editorial skills to every product review. Say hi on Instagram or on her website.
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