It wasn’t until about a year ago that people stopped asking us when we were having another baby.
Growing up, playing house, I always imagined two children. My mother would say it’s so you can grab one in each hand. When I outgrew playing house and discovered a home of my own, I still envisioned filling it with two, though they would have to share a bedroom.
I can even remember driving home one night with my first born in the back seat, bawling her eyes out as we climbed the mountain, wondering how I was ever going to do this with two. Then it hit me–I’m not sure why it didn’t occur to me sooner–that the one who was crying in the backseat was the one who will be there to comfort the other. I wouldn’t ever be alone in this again.
But somehow, along the way, the idea of having another one simply faded. Her light in our lives grew brighter, and the part of me that imagined siblings growing up in our home was replaced with a feeling of complete completeness. As we made more and more memories together, we became more and more sure that she would be our only.
“I can’t believe you have only one,” a mom of seven once said to me. “It must be so hard. She doesn’t have anyone to play with.” She wasn’t being rude; I believe she was made to raise seven. The way she does makes it look easy, and I told her so. “Really?” she replied, “Because my sister thinks I’m crazy.”
The truth is, we’re all crazy. The ones who don’t have any, the ones who stop at one, the ones who only have two, the ones who give the world middle children, the ones who don’t seem to stop. We’re all someone’s version of crazy.
What I know for sure: I was made for one. My one. My only.
I am participating in the ninth annual Slice of Life Challenge hosted by Two Writing Teachers.
I am closely studying what makes readers respond and would love your specific feedback about what stood out to you and why.