But a day like Siblings Day is another reminder to me of the sadness I feel about my son being an only child. I feel whiny talking about it, because I've written about it before. Instead, I celebrate my own sibling on my FB status, and share this slightly edited piece of writing I posted in its original form on my other blog a few years ago. Maybe it will provide comfort to someone who has similar feelings. Maybe it will make someone more sensitive to another person they know. If you are the best friend of an only child, remember how important you are to him or her. You're the closest thing they'll ever have to a sibling.
Why We Never Had More Children
Originally posted 10-27-14 on tryingthewritinglife.blogspot.com
Sometimes you think you are over something and you are not. Really, it is your brain trying to convince your heart that everything is alright. Or it might be the well-meaning loved ones in your life trying to soothe you and help you cope, who convince you it is all okay. It may even be the insensitive or cruel people who somehow believe your pain is unwarranted, who insist you should just get over it. But what if you pretend. You go through the motions. You lie to people and say you are okay and act like you are over it, but you're not? What if on a given day when you haven't given it a recent thought, you turn on the TV, open Facebook, or pull up an email, and Bam! It smacks you right in the face as if to say, "Yeah right. You thought you were over it? Wrong!"
My husband and I have been a couple since we were teenagers. We married after dating for about 7 years. We were sexually active before we got married (judge if you must, but really?). I am sure our son can even deduce that. We were generally responsible about our sexual activity; birth control, regular doctor's visits, and monogamy. We always, or at least I always prided myself with our peers, our son, and even the youth I worked with over the years, on the fact we only got pregnant once, and we planned it. We proved it was possible to be sexually active and responsible.
In November 1997, after almost two years of marriage, my husband and I decided we were ready to try to start a family. I was relieved to be off birth control, and we agreed to just let things happen. No counting days. No ovulation kits. Just good old fashioned marital intimacy whenever the mood hit us. We carried on like we always did just without contraception. As women usually do, I knew my cycle. Though I wasn't counting days, taking my temperature, or scheduling interludes with my husband, I did anticipate the time of each month when the question would be answered. Are we having a baby? There was little frustration or anxiety. I knew these things took time. I tried to resist the urge to take a pregnancy test, knowing if I waited just a couple of days I would either get my period or not.
For the first few months I did. Then one day in March I just got a feeling. This is going to be it. I just know it. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't that I thought I could feel myself getting pregnant as some women insist they can. It was just a feeling, probably caused more by hoping than knowing. I picked up a test from Walgreens a few days before I was expecting my period and went out of town for a couple of days on a trip for work. I made a deal with myself. If my cycle didn't start while I was away, I would take the test as soon as I returned.
It didn't. So I did. And I was.
Four months after casually trying to conceive, I was pregnant with our first child. First. I can say first while telling the story in past tense, because that's what Jacob was to us when he was born, our first baby. Pregnancy was amazing. I loved the way I felt. I enjoyed watching my belly swell, and the wonder of a growing life inside me. I experienced a little morning (ok, all day) sickness early on and sciatica towards the end. But I had a healthy pregnancy and I loved being pregnant. On the Sunday after Thanksgiving 1998, he was born. Our son Jacob came into our lives as perfect as any healthy new born baby can be. When I went to my OB for my six week check up, she swiftly asked, "So, you ready for another one?" It was her way of leading into the discussion of going back on birth control because the months following childbirth are often a woman's most fertile. Ever heard of Irish twins?
After getting over the fact that I was physically unable to nurse, I loved being a mom. I felt comfortable in my role, and I had a great deal of support. My own mother told me I was much calmer and more confident than she ever remembered being, and my friends seemed to think I was relaxed and down to earth in my parenting. I matured as a woman and developed a sense of self-assuredness. I knew I was a good mom. So it was only natural that within about 3 years I was ready to grow our family. My husband and I decided to try and get pregnant again. Though we hadn't set concrete plans, we were pretty sure two children for a family of four was what we wanted. I had already stopped taking birth control and now we would let nature take its course, just like we did with Jacob. We continued to nurture a healthy, intimate relationship and expected within a few months another baby would be on the way.
Not this time.
By the end of the year, I was starting to feel frustrated. Plenty of sex. No baby. My annual exam was normal and I talked to my doctor who encouraged me to use an ovulation calendar to track my cycle. I was in good physical health and I wasn't quite thirty. There was no reason to believe there was any problem. "You're just not hitting it," she would say referring to my ovulation window. Meanwhile, well-meaning people in our lives were starting to drop hints- some subtle, some not so much. They would say playfully,
When are you guys going to have another baby?
Jacob wants a brother or sister to play with.
How about a little girl?
We could only respond with a half-hearted chuckle and shrugged shoulders. After a while it took everything in me not to cry on the spot. Smiling and saying, "We're trying," made me feel violated and inadequate. It was difficult enough to deal with our inability to conceive, but comments from other people just made matters worse. For months we continued the same routine. I would start numbering the calendar the day I got my period. I questioned whether to begin at the sign of early spotting or when true flow began. I thought maybe I was counting wrong and that's why we weren't conceiving. We tried every recommended pattern of sexual activity to increase the probability of conception, and still nothing. Every 28 days I would get a lump in my throat when I had signs of PMS, and by day 30 I was crying with the start of my period. Alone in my bathroom trying to hide my sadness from my husband, and everyone else. I just couldn't understand why nothing was happening.
By now Jacob was getting ready to start kindergarten and we experienced some stressful events in our family, followed by some changes in our careers. We stopped worrying so much about it because maybe it wasn't the right time anyway- at least that's what I told myself. Continuing with a healthy marriage and sex life, and a lack of focus on trying to conceive we carried on with our lives. I worried despondently this was it. There would be no more babies. Then the guilt started. I worried about Jacob being "an only." My parents wanted more grandchildren. My husband would love to have a Daddy's Little Girl. And what about me? Had I swaddled my last newborn, changed my last diaper, snuggled my last baby? I was starting to mourn the loss of something I never had... a second child. These feelings would lead to even more guilt. How dare I feel sorry for myself. Some women can't have any children at all. Shame on me. Isn't Jacob enough? Guilt about guilt can be a heavy burden to bear.
A couple more years went by, and all the while we kept trying. (I haven't been on birth control since around 2000). More changes brought a move, some financial challenges, and a little boy who wanted a sibling. Every purchase of a car, our home, furniture, was done with the consideration, what if we have another baby? In 2007, I started to realize that Jacob's tenth birthday would be the following year. It was now or never. If I didn't get pregnant by the time he was ten, my husband and I agreed it would be too many years between them and it might be time to give up.
By now I was working at a local elementary school where the big joke was if you don't want a baby, don't drink the water! Baby showers were as common as faculty meetings, and we were always celebrating another teacher's pregnancy. Maybe this will be it, I wished secretly and desperately as if there could actually be power in the water or the school. We decided to go full force in our effort. That meant check-ups for both of us. Him for healthy sperm count and activity, me for possible Fallopian tube leakage. While I was waiting in the doctor's office to discuss the results, I looked on the table in front of me. You know the one with stacks and stacks of scattered magazines. I picked up the parenting magazine with the cutest baby on the cover, and while I was skimming the table of contents I came across an article titled: Why Can't We Have Another Baby? My heart rate increased slightly as I turned the pages one by one, trying to locate the article. I was scared I would find all the answers I was looking for.
Turns out there's something called secondary infertility; a couple's inability to conceive a baby, even though they've had at least one child in the past. According to the article and several others I have read since, secondary infertility (SI) affects anywhere from 1 to over 3 million couples. I wasn't sure whether to be relieved or devastated. For many, SI is caused by age or other health factors, but for others it is unexplained. My doctor confirmed mine and my husband's test results as normal, with no indication that conception should be a problem. Essentially, we were experiencing unexplained SI and we could keep trying or start considering interventions. We talked about it quite a bit, my husband and I. Neither of us is a big fan of pharmaceuticals, and we agreed I wouldn't take fertility aiding drugs such as Clomid. This was a personal choice for which I would never criticize someone else, one way or the other. We briefly discussed invitro fertilization and ruled that out too because the financial drain with no guarantees, and the likelihood of multiples beyond what we were prepared for. We came to the decision risking the financial stability of the family we had was not something we were prepared for, and for us it would have been a financial risk. So with that, it was over.
As with many couples, it was a more emotional corner to turn for me, than it was for my husband. Though he would have been equally excited for another baby as I would have been, I think he had already begun to let go of the possibility. I said it out loud, and we agreed we were okay. But inside I was heartbroken. Each of my best friends from childhood had now birthed three children. Women all around me- family, coworkers, friends were all having babies. I was dealing with the shame and guilt I had over the jealousy and hurt I felt with each announcement, trying to be happy for them, wanting to cry for me. I started to worry and still do, about my son being alone when my husband and I die. It sounds foolish, I know. I expect he will be married with a loving family of his own by then. But the thought still saddens me. With all the love and support of my husband and my friends, no one besides my sister will feel what I feel on the day I lose one of my parents.
Over time, the sting has somewhat subsided. The ache has dulled. My husband encourages me to anticipate the next stage in our lives when we watch our son become an adult and build a family of his own. It will be a time to enjoy some freedom again. We marvel at our ability if we choose, to re-settle down as seniors wherever Jacob lands because there is no split loyalty to another child. We feel lucky to be able to afford most anything to Jacob, in time and finances, because we only have one child. He is an amazing and loving kid who makes us feel proud and fulfilled as parents.
But every now and then a pregnant friend, the baby of a colleague, my nieces and my nephews, all remind me of my latent desire for another baby. There's a little sadness deep inside me that few understand. And now, my first child 16-years-old next month is clearly my last, and I am making peace with that. As my husband once said to me in so many words, maybe G-d recognized that we made such a perfect baby the first time it became clear we couldn't possibly make another one so well. So G-d just stopped here, with Jacob. I like that theory, and I'm sticking with it.
The longing is gone now. I am still sad my son will never know what it's like to be a brother. The same anxieties are still with me about him being alone when my husband and I are no longer here. But as loving as he is, I know he will create a beautiful family of his own one day. I realized in editing this piece today, it might explain why he is so intense in his relationships with his friends and with girls. His friends are like brothers. He'd move mountains for them. I hope they know how lucky they are.
By the end of the year, I was starting to feel frustrated. Plenty of sex. No baby. My annual exam was normal and I talked to my doctor who encouraged me to use an ovulation calendar to track my cycle. I was in good physical health and I wasn't quite thirty. There was no reason to believe there was any problem. "You're just not hitting it," she would say referring to my ovulation window. Meanwhile, well-meaning people in our lives were starting to drop hints- some subtle, some not so much. They would say playfully,
When are you guys going to have another baby?
Jacob wants a brother or sister to play with.
How about a little girl?
We could only respond with a half-hearted chuckle and shrugged shoulders. After a while it took everything in me not to cry on the spot. Smiling and saying, "We're trying," made me feel violated and inadequate. It was difficult enough to deal with our inability to conceive, but comments from other people just made matters worse. For months we continued the same routine. I would start numbering the calendar the day I got my period. I questioned whether to begin at the sign of early spotting or when true flow began. I thought maybe I was counting wrong and that's why we weren't conceiving. We tried every recommended pattern of sexual activity to increase the probability of conception, and still nothing. Every 28 days I would get a lump in my throat when I had signs of PMS, and by day 30 I was crying with the start of my period. Alone in my bathroom trying to hide my sadness from my husband, and everyone else. I just couldn't understand why nothing was happening.
By now Jacob was getting ready to start kindergarten and we experienced some stressful events in our family, followed by some changes in our careers. We stopped worrying so much about it because maybe it wasn't the right time anyway- at least that's what I told myself. Continuing with a healthy marriage and sex life, and a lack of focus on trying to conceive we carried on with our lives. I worried despondently this was it. There would be no more babies. Then the guilt started. I worried about Jacob being "an only." My parents wanted more grandchildren. My husband would love to have a Daddy's Little Girl. And what about me? Had I swaddled my last newborn, changed my last diaper, snuggled my last baby? I was starting to mourn the loss of something I never had... a second child. These feelings would lead to even more guilt. How dare I feel sorry for myself. Some women can't have any children at all. Shame on me. Isn't Jacob enough? Guilt about guilt can be a heavy burden to bear.
A couple more years went by, and all the while we kept trying. (I haven't been on birth control since around 2000). More changes brought a move, some financial challenges, and a little boy who wanted a sibling. Every purchase of a car, our home, furniture, was done with the consideration, what if we have another baby? In 2007, I started to realize that Jacob's tenth birthday would be the following year. It was now or never. If I didn't get pregnant by the time he was ten, my husband and I agreed it would be too many years between them and it might be time to give up.
By now I was working at a local elementary school where the big joke was if you don't want a baby, don't drink the water! Baby showers were as common as faculty meetings, and we were always celebrating another teacher's pregnancy. Maybe this will be it, I wished secretly and desperately as if there could actually be power in the water or the school. We decided to go full force in our effort. That meant check-ups for both of us. Him for healthy sperm count and activity, me for possible Fallopian tube leakage. While I was waiting in the doctor's office to discuss the results, I looked on the table in front of me. You know the one with stacks and stacks of scattered magazines. I picked up the parenting magazine with the cutest baby on the cover, and while I was skimming the table of contents I came across an article titled: Why Can't We Have Another Baby? My heart rate increased slightly as I turned the pages one by one, trying to locate the article. I was scared I would find all the answers I was looking for.
Turns out there's something called secondary infertility; a couple's inability to conceive a baby, even though they've had at least one child in the past. According to the article and several others I have read since, secondary infertility (SI) affects anywhere from 1 to over 3 million couples. I wasn't sure whether to be relieved or devastated. For many, SI is caused by age or other health factors, but for others it is unexplained. My doctor confirmed mine and my husband's test results as normal, with no indication that conception should be a problem. Essentially, we were experiencing unexplained SI and we could keep trying or start considering interventions. We talked about it quite a bit, my husband and I. Neither of us is a big fan of pharmaceuticals, and we agreed I wouldn't take fertility aiding drugs such as Clomid. This was a personal choice for which I would never criticize someone else, one way or the other. We briefly discussed invitro fertilization and ruled that out too because the financial drain with no guarantees, and the likelihood of multiples beyond what we were prepared for. We came to the decision risking the financial stability of the family we had was not something we were prepared for, and for us it would have been a financial risk. So with that, it was over.
As with many couples, it was a more emotional corner to turn for me, than it was for my husband. Though he would have been equally excited for another baby as I would have been, I think he had already begun to let go of the possibility. I said it out loud, and we agreed we were okay. But inside I was heartbroken. Each of my best friends from childhood had now birthed three children. Women all around me- family, coworkers, friends were all having babies. I was dealing with the shame and guilt I had over the jealousy and hurt I felt with each announcement, trying to be happy for them, wanting to cry for me. I started to worry and still do, about my son being alone when my husband and I die. It sounds foolish, I know. I expect he will be married with a loving family of his own by then. But the thought still saddens me. With all the love and support of my husband and my friends, no one besides my sister will feel what I feel on the day I lose one of my parents.
Over time, the sting has somewhat subsided. The ache has dulled. My husband encourages me to anticipate the next stage in our lives when we watch our son become an adult and build a family of his own. It will be a time to enjoy some freedom again. We marvel at our ability if we choose, to re-settle down as seniors wherever Jacob lands because there is no split loyalty to another child. We feel lucky to be able to afford most anything to Jacob, in time and finances, because we only have one child. He is an amazing and loving kid who makes us feel proud and fulfilled as parents.
But every now and then a pregnant friend, the baby of a colleague, my nieces and my nephews, all remind me of my latent desire for another baby. There's a little sadness deep inside me that few understand. And now, my first child 16-years-old next month is clearly my last, and I am making peace with that. As my husband once said to me in so many words, maybe G-d recognized that we made such a perfect baby the first time it became clear we couldn't possibly make another one so well. So G-d just stopped here, with Jacob. I like that theory, and I'm sticking with it.
The longing is gone now. I am still sad my son will never know what it's like to be a brother. The same anxieties are still with me about him being alone when my husband and I are no longer here. But as loving as he is, I know he will create a beautiful family of his own one day. I realized in editing this piece today, it might explain why he is so intense in his relationships with his friends and with girls. His friends are like brothers. He'd move mountains for them. I hope they know how lucky they are.
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