Dear Mother of Only One Child,
Don’t say it. Before the words can even pass your lips, let me beg you: don’t say, “Wow, you have nine kids? I thought it was hard with just my one!”
My dear, it is hard. You’re not being a wuss or a whiner when you feel like your life is hard. I know, because I remember having “only one child.” You may not even believe how many times I stop and reflect on how much easier my life is, now that I have nine children.
All right, so there is a lot more laundry. Keeping up with each child’s needs, and making sure they all get enough attention, is a constant worry. And a stomach bug is pretty much the end of the world, when nine digestive tracts are afflicted.
But I remember having only one child, and it was hard—so very hard. Some of the difficulties were just practical: I didn’t know what I was doing, had to learn everything. People pushed me around because I was young and inexperienced. But even worse were the emotional struggles of learning to be a mother.
When I had only one child, I truly suffered during those long, long, long days in our little apartment, no one but the two of us, baby and me, dealing with each other all day long. I invented errands and dawdled and took the long way home, but still had hours and hours to fill before I would hear my husband’s key in the door.
I cared so much what other people thought about her—they had to notice how beautiful she was, they had to be impressed at my natural mothering skills. I obsessed over childhood development charts, tense with fear that my mothering was lacking—that I hadn’t stimulated her enough, or maybe had just passed on the wrong kind of genes. I cringe when I remember how I pushed her—a little baby!—to achieve milestones she wasn’t ready for.
I lived in terror for her physical safety (I once brought her to Urgent Care, where the doctor somewhat irritably diagnosed a case of moderate sniffles) fearing every imaginable disease and injury. In my sleep-deprived state, I would have sudden insane hallucinations that her head had fallen off, her knees had suddenly broken themselves in the night, and so on.
My husband didn’t know how to help me. I didn’t know how to ask for help. My husband had become a father, and I adored him for it. My husband got to leave the house every day, and sleep every night. He got to go to the bathroom alone. I hated him for it.
When I had only one child, I told myself over and over that motherhood was fulfilling and sanctifying and was filling my heart to the brim with peace and satisfaction. And so I felt horribly guilty for being so bored, so resentful, so exhausted. This is a joyful time, dammit! I should enjoy being suddenly transformed into the Doyenne of Anything that Smells Bad.
I loved my baby, I loved pushing her on the swing, watching squirrels at the park together, introducing her to apple sauce, and watching her lips move in joyful dreams of milk. But it was hard, hard, hard. All this work: is this who I am now? I remember!
So now? Yes, the practical parts are a thousand times easier: I’m a virtuoso. I worry, but then I move along. Nobody pushes me around, and I have helpers galore. Someone fetches clean diapers and gets rid of the dirty ones. When the baby wakes up in the middle of the night for the ten thousandth time, I sigh and roll my eyes, maybe even cry a little bit for sheer tiredness—but I know it will pass, it will pass.
It’s becoming easier, and it will be easier still. They are passing me by.
I’m broken in. There’s no collision of worlds. We’re so darn busy that it’s a sheer delight to take some time to wash some small child’s small limbs in a quiet bath, or to read The Story of Ferdinand one more time. Taking care of them is easy. It’s tiring, it’s frustrating, but when I stop and take a breath, I see that it’s almost like a charade of work. All these things, the dishes, the diapers, the spills—they must be taken care of, but they don’t matter. They aren’t who I am.
To become a mother, I had to learn how to care about someone more than I did about myself, and that was terrible. But who I am now is something more terrible: the protector who can’t always protect; the one with arms that are designed to hold, always having to let go.
Dear mother of only one child, don’t blame yourself for thinking that your life is hard. You’re suffering now because you’re turning into a new woman, a woman who is never allowed to be alone. For what? Only so that you can become strong enough to be a woman who will be left.
When I had only one child, she was so heavy. Now I can see that children are as light as air. They float past you, nudging against you like balloons as they ascend.
Dear mother, don’t worry about enjoying your life. Your life is hard; your life will be hard. That doesn’t mean you’re doing something wrong—it means you’re doing it right.
I know. I was teary too, especially at 'You’re suffering now because you’re turning into a new woman, a woman who is never allowed to be alone. For what? Only so that you can become strong enough to be a woman who will be left.'
I lost it at "To become a mother, I had to learn how to care about someone more than I did about myself, and that was terrible. But who I am now is something more terrible: the protector who can’t always protect; the one with arms that are designed to hold, always having to let go."
I cynically thought this was going to be a thread about how some people say "oh, you've got it easy, you've only got one (or two or three)".
I don't like to think of them 'passing me by'.
so beautiful! and it was so true for me! i fiund parenting my first and at that time only child so tough...when DD2 came along i was amazed how much easier it was to parent both...i guess it was due to so many lessons learnt about myself in those first 3 years with just dd1 and I...
this is the line that got me...
"When I had only one child, she was so heavy. Now I can see that children are as light as air. They float past you, nudging against you like balloons as they ascend."
I feel so incredibly lucky to have my girls to hold in my arms, I also feel really lucky that i have the chance to recognise that this time with them is so fleeting.
Here's a poem I wrote that sort of goes with this
Dear mother with a living child
I’ll try and explain how I feel inside
What life’s like without my child now
I hope you’ll understand somehow
I don’t have my child now you can see
So we’re very different you and me
My darling baby died so very young
While you kept your daughter or your son
I never had the chance to be
With my baby in my arms with me
I only got one day to hold
Her close to me but she’s still with me I’m told
You’ve had the tears the smiles and such
It probably doesn’t surprise you much
That I wanted that in my life each day
This shouldn’t have been my lonely way
I’ll ask you to remember how
You feel when your child’s not with you now
Do you worry about them and think that they might
Be feeling quite sad without you tonight?
Do you think of all the problems that befall?
A child on their own without a mum they can call?
Do you worry they might cry without you there?
Do you care they might hurt themselves without you near?
A mother with a living child
Has many fears, or so I’m told
She has so many worries for her children’s lives
It’s a wonder she doesn’t develop hives!
A mother who’s like me you see
Never can see where her baby might be
She never holds them again in her lap
Or soothes their fears when they get in a flap
Every day without them and every long night
Is spent wondering where they are; are they alright?
Every waking minute is worry and fear
That they’re hurting or needing our love to be near
So I’m sure you have worries for your kids each day
But when you see them again you know they’re OK
You know that they’re living and learning to grow
And although it’s scary they’ll come home, you know
My baby however will never return
To my arms and my life or the place she was born
I’ll always be worrying is she OK?
And this is the difference; each in our own way
For you can always return to your child
And know they are OK and watch them with a smile
But for me it is different to you every day
I cannot see my child so I worry away
I will never know if my kid’s doing fine
If they’re crying or smiling or playing in sunshine
If they’re having a good day or this one is bad
I can’t know if my child lives in joy or is sad
So try to imagine for a while if you can
That your baby’s not with you that you cannot plan
To help them when they’re needy; just tie up their shoe
Try to imagine not having them right here with you
Try to think how you’d feel with your baby not here
Put yourself in my shoes and imagine my fear
Of never quite knowing your child is alright
Now imagine how I feel trying to sleep at night
I know it’s impossibly too hard to believe
But this is the world in which I try to achieve
Some understanding from this trouble and strife
This is the way now I have to live my whole life
Oh mothers with live children hold them close to you
And share with them, care for them and keep love true
Don’t for one day imagine it’s too hard to go on
For without a child in your arms the feelings are still strong
So mother with living children I hope you see
How sad and difficult life is for me
I know life is tough with a growing young one
But without baby with your life just comes undone.
And my dark, bitter response to this (as it didn't make me happy or joyful or appreciative or any emotion that you normal BBers felt):
Dear mother of many children.
Wow, nine children. I'm allowed to say wow. But your life isn't harder than mine. It's different.
My child is not heavy, he is great (well, OK, he is heavy if he's tired and I've carried him in my arms for a mile because we've packed the baby carrier away now). I enjoy time spent with him. Sure, I miss adults and would love for him to have a sibling to play with, but he is a great person and I don't miss seeing him develop. When my 6-year-old wakes at night I used to say "this will pass", right from the start, now I just ask "when will this pass?" as I'm sure you would if you had a non-sleeping screaming school-age child. There aren't that many of them, from anecdotal evidence. Aren't I blessed with a lovely rare gift? You cry from sheer tiredness? When you have "only one" child, and that child is at school, suddenly the sympathy of "baby kept me up all night" goes. I miss the sympathy. And I don't give a damn what others think of my parenting skills (I know they're great - despite my son not sleeping, which is clearly my fault) or my son (he's awesome, if they don't see it they miss out).
You know what is harder in my life than yours though? I want more children. Each day that goes past I see what I have and the so much more I should have. I'm a mother of ONLY one, and I will use the word only. Cos I should be the mother of many. And don't you dare take that away from me with your little platitudes and how great your life is when you have nine children. I can only imagine and turn green. You have a husband who loves you and wishes to make your life fulfilled. Wow, I do look like the wicked witch of the west now.
Sincerely,
A bitter, twisted and unfulfilled woman.
But those aren't my feelings. I acknowledge they may be the feelings of the majority. But not mine. As I said, I didn't have the normal response. But I did have a response, and it's still valid, even if I'm the only person in the whole world who has it.
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Dear Mother of Only One Child
So do not want to think about that stuff yet!!
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