The Second-Child Decision

When I was a wee whippersnapper, I daydreamed complex fantasies in which I was not an only child. Instead, I had two siblings. The first was a strapping older brother who would surely introduce me to his handsome friends once I got to high school. I think maybe he could fly, too. I also was blessed with a delightful older sister, a girl whose laugh was like the gentle yet powerful tinkling of a fountain (think Rainbow Brite mixed with a little She-Ra, Princess of Power), who would braid my hair with unconditional love and smooth my foray into seventh grade.

Instead I had a dog, a terrier mix positively overflowing with unconditional love who nonetheless chewed my glasses almost beyond repair. Needless to say, wearing duct-taped glasses is not an entrée to the In Crowd.

Over the years, I adjusted the dream. If I was not to have brothers or sisters, my children would.  It would be shoulder-to-shoulder in my house, the children (all ruddy-cheeked and delirious with siblinghood) merrily fighting over turns in the bathroom and the chance to help Mommy wipe down the kitchen counters. To be clear, each child would have no need whatsoever for orthodontia and would excel at academics, sports, and the creative arts. If one fell a little short of expectations, I would simply sell him or her.

I harbored the Five Kids or Bust! dream well into adulthood. As my immediate family grew smaller and smaller, the idea of a full house retained its appeal. I wanted a packed dining room on holidays, complete with mini-wreath napkin holders and tastefully mismatched candles in varying heights. (I get a lot of catalogs.)

MarthaStewart.com swears that I can whip this up in seconds.

Then I got pregnant. As it was, Adam lost the power of speech for five full days after I showed him the positive pregnancy test, so shocked was he that we were going to have a baby after a mere seven years together. (It was a quiet, peaceful time, during which I had complete control over take-out options, it being tricky to voice your opinion on pizza vs. Thai when struck mute.) But when a very early fetal screening showed that we had stunningly high chances of having a baby with Down’s Syndrome, my full-house idea was shuffled off, somewhere else. I suddenly knew what every other parent-to-be has realized at some point or another: To have a single healthy child is a blessing, a stroke of amazing luck unmatched by any scratch-ticket win or raffle prize.  Of course we were happy and excited to meet our baby girl. She was ours and she would be perfect in her own way, whatever that might be. And later screenings failed to show any worrying markers. Still, when Aura popped out screaming and healthy and perfect in her own way beyond any description we could have come up with, we thanked God and the stars above and anything else we could think of. It was unspoken that we would try not to be too selfish; we had one healthy child and perhaps that was just enough.

Even more perfect when asleep.

And the work. GOOD GOD, THE WORK. Forget abstinence promotion or sex-education classes.  All people need to do is paste a teething baby on the back of birth-control packages and no one would ever go off those suckers. The sleep issues, the cleaning, the mind-boggling amount of patience required. If it’s this numbingly exhausting with one child, how do people do it with more? When I attend my mommy potlucks, I always sidle up to the mothers of two or more, furtively eyeing their Chinet plates in hope of locating clues to their stamina. Does an extra helping of broccoli-slaw salad help? Perhaps three stuffed shells instead of two? I have to actively resist the urge to pat these parents on the back or at least bow down before them.

I really, truly don’t know if I have enough Momness in me to do it all over again. I think it is very possible that I give nearly everything I have to Aura and that a second baby would just be screwed. Aura agrees with this hypothesis. The other day, on a whim, I asked her what she would do if she had a baby brother or sister. She thoughtfully sucked her thumb, toed a Polly Pocket on the floor, then announced, “I would leave it upstairs.” And, honestly, I’m afraid I might, too.

We could, however, search for the forgotten sibling with these Bendaroo glasses.

Because when you get right down to it, we’re happy. Really happy, actually. The three of us get along fantastically, except when we don’t and that’s of course Adam or Aura’s fault. Off and on, I undergo bouts of stabbing guilt that Aura has also been born into a small family. Now and then, I worry that she too will sometimes regret her only-child status and long for more people in the house, more noise, bigger Thanksgiving dinners. I look at all of our friends who have had a second or third child and I understand that it is doable, even wonderful. But for right now, Aura is enough; more than enough. She is still perfect beyond description. And really, that’s all we want and need.

Except when she wakes up at 2:00 a.m., again, to “chat.” Those are the times I stumble downstairs, power up the laptop, and research the going rate for a three-year-old. Turns out we could get at least enough for a week-long vacation in Jamaica and maybe a used Volvo.

Tempting.