My closet has been a mess lately, and I spent some quality time clearing things out this week. Most of the clothes that I haven't worn in ages already made their way to Goodwill a few months ago, but I still had one bag of regular clothes that I wanted to donate. In addition to that, I made a pile of all my maternity clothes and started at them for a while. I shook them out, folded them nicely, arranged them in a bag next to my Goodwill clothes and have found them a new home.
I've been asked often enough why I don't want a second, but that isn't the question that I asked myself. I asked why I would want a second, and I couldn't come up with a good reason. It isn't pregnancy or having a newborn that dissuades me. I often miss my pregnant body, full of hope and expectation, and the ensuing warmth of holding a tiny baby whose life depends on you. But that only accounts for one year of the future, and it is the remaining 30, 40 or 50 that aren't extremely compelling to me.
I've heard some wonderful reasons for having a second child: companionship for children, a default support group during difficult times in each other's lives, two people instead of one who can share the burden of caring for their aging parents later in life. I think these are all great reasons. I could add future god parent, future baby sitter, etc to the list. But then I wonder, which of these has been or will be relevant to my life.
If I had stayed in India, in the cultural setting I grew up in, there is no doubt in my mind I would have had more than one. Firstly, there is a lot of social pressure to have two. It is seen as somewhat of an ideal number. There is also a tendency to equate only children to being spoilt. But beyond all that, society actually enables you to have more. You have grandparents who can watch the kids, you could probably drop the kids off at your sibling's place for a week and go on a vacation. You would spend long summer vacations with all cousins gathered at grandma's home, eating fresh mangoes and playing hopscotch. And in the adult years, family truly rules stronger than everything else. You will always choose to help your sibling, no matter what choices they made in life. Nobody is overheard saying "I hate my mom" or "My sister is not welcome here". Aging parents often move in with their children, and your kids are real investments in your future (maybe I'm wrong about this, because with emigration a lot of parents are in fact alone).
I left that life behind and I chose a different path. I meet my sibling so infrequently that Ro will know his friends much better than he will ever know his cousins. We'll never spend long summers with grandparents because MrM and I can't take summers off every year or bear to pack him off internationally for so long. I feel like Ro can get his emotional and play needs met with having a consistent set of friends in his life. Then, there is the cost to our lives. It is tough working full time, taking care of a baby (even if we have the easiest baby on Earth), trying to do something for yourself to feel like a smart adult, trying to do something for your spouse to feel like you are still in a healthy marriage, trying to care for the dogs and trying to go to bed sometime before midnight so that you don't crash and die on your next day's commute. I thought we lost spontaneity with dogs, but having a child takes it to a whole new level. If on a Wednesday night I feel like going out to a coffee shop with MrM at 9pm, I can't, because there is nobody to watch Ro. I can't get a babysitter by calling them at 8:30 and asking "Hey, my baby is asleep, can you come watch him?". Every time you go out, you have to ask yourself if it is worth the $50 you are going to pay a baby sitter to feed your child and watch him sleep. I just flipped through my calendar and I can't find a single day in the last 2 months when MrM and I went out and spent time by ourselves. I stopped flipping pages beyond August because it was just too depressing, and I am one of those people who cares about stuff like that. (Granted, this aspect of life isn't affected by having a second child.)
As I sat in my closet with these thoughts, sifting through my maternity clothes, I recalled a mental image of having worn each of them. A sweet memory accompanied every outfit, how it draped over me, and how my heart and belly both swelled with pride as I carried my little RoRo inside of me. With each outfit, I felt happiness, I felt accomplishment, and most importantly I felt a sense of closure as I gently folded it and put it away. Perhaps now I can finally list our car seat on Craigslist and clear up floor space in Ro's room. He can remain my extremely well-loved, but not spoilt, only child.
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