My One and Only

One of my sisters-in-law just announced that she is pregnant. This brings the tally of pregnant women in Jason's family to 3; both of his sisters are now expecting, and one of his brother's wives is due any day now. This soon-to-come baby will be child number 5 in that family. Which leaves our little family as the only one among married members of the clan to have an only child.



I am happy for these women and their larger families. But a part of me always shrinks a little when I hear the stork is bringing a new baby to another of the brothers or sisters; it makes me feel a little like I don't belong. Like I'm not a member of the club.



Jason is one of seven kids, and it seems as though most of his siblings want to continue the large-family tradition. I am one of just a pair, and with my sister my elder by an entire decade (I was a surprise, to say the least) I grew up essentially an only child. My sister married before I was even out of grade school and was more a second mom than a sister. I came into our marriage accustomed to solitude and having my parents' attention (and also their needs) almost to myself, while Jason was used to sharing and compromise and having other people around constantly. We made it work, and when we discussed our own family we decided we would like to have just 2, but have them be close in age so that they could grow up together and be closer than my sister and I were. I didn't sign on the dotted line or anything, but this was sort of a contract of our marriage. We even talked it over with a priest during our pre-marriage counselling. Of course we wanted two kids; aren't those the ingredients for an all-American family?



In the months following Ainsley's birth, I still planned on a younger sibling. Ainsley was a very colicky, fussy baby who didn't let me sleep until she was five months old, but I still knew I wanted to do it all over again. I even had it worked out in my head: when she got about 18 months old, we would start trying again. Hopefully, there would be no more than three years between the kids, and our eldest would be potty-trained and in a big-girl bed right before the new baby arrived. It was a solid, well-thought-out plan. Which made Fate laugh. Soon after, I got sick.



With my medical history, I have no idea whether another child is going to happen for us. My oncologist has said I should wait until I have been in remission for five years before we even think about it, and my fifth anniversary is a year away now. I have some chronic health concens that are a result of the chemo and radiation, and these are also issues that would make a second pregnancy a little scarier. Some guidelines have also changed since my diagnosis, and the 5-year remission mark is no longer the be-all, end-all "all clear" it used to be. I will need life-long monitoring and yearly scans and mammograms. Those tests can't be given if I'm even trying to conceive because of the radiation risks for the baby. I am keeping an open mind and not closing any door, but I am also being realistic. Ainsley may very well be our one and only.



Most days I am OK with this. I've made peace with it. I can even be happy with it. Ains is at an age now where she is doing a lot for herself and is easier to care for. I actually have time to exercise, watch a few TV shows, and write. We can usually find a willing sitter in the family when we want one, and more often than not that sitter offers for Ainsley to spend the night. We're starting to have fun planning family vacations now that she's old enough to sit in a car for more than an hour. And there are days when I am run so ragged working and taking care of our little family of three that I can't imagine how people do it with 2, 3, 4, and 5 kids.



Other times it's a struggle. I feel only-child guilt. I think about how lonely our house must be for her with only two adults to play with and talk to. I think about what a help my sister has been when Dad was dying and with my mom's needs. I think about things no parent wants to think about, like something happening to Ainsley and Jason and I being left alone and childless. Finally, I feel like I am going back on a promise if I decide that even if I can bear more children, I shouldn't.



When there's another pregnancy in the family, I feel like an actor playing a silent bit part on stage who suddenly and unexpectedly has the spotlight focused right on him. I can almost hear the whispers, wondering when it will be my turn to walk again in the baby parade. Sometimes a pregnancy in the family will make someone come right out and ask when we're having another one. I've been healthy for so long now I think even those I'm close to forget that 4 1/2 years ago I was getting pumped with horrible drugs and enough radiation to practically make me glow in the dark. It's easy to assume that our only is an only because we had a choice in the matter.



What I have to keep coming back to is this: I am extremely fortunate to have been able to carry a child at all. I shudder when I think about how I had cancer when I was pregnant with her, but didn't know it. I realize the hand of God was at work; what if we had waited another month or two to try to get pregnant? What if the cancer had been discovered early in my pregnancy and I had been urged to terminate it so I could begin treatment? My only child is a gift. Regardless of whether or not Ains is indeed my one and only, I am as blessed as the mother of a dozen kids. I have the daughter I always wanted; who am I to ask for anything more?