“Oh, why didn’t your parents want more than one kid?”
Please, let me first explain. I am indeed an only child. To be quite frank, it’s a miracle that I was even born. My parents, a happy-go-lucky and cute couple, got married in 1989 with the hopes of starting a family that would blossom right away. But as they began to try, nothing happened at all. Their hopes were crushed all too soon by a doctor that informed them that having children would be a near to impossible feat. My mother had endometriosis—a disease in which tissue that normally grows inside the uterus grows outside of it instead. The main symptoms are pelvic pain and infertility. She had surgery to correct it, but she was still deemed infertile after it was all over. So my parents watched and waited for six painful years as their friends got married and had babies left and right. Life moved normally around them, even though they felt as if they were stuck in a cruel and unfair time-warp. In those six years after their marriage, my mom lost her father. She took it incredibly hard because she had expected to have a baby before he passed away. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out that way.
Every time they heard the news that people they knew were pregnant, they had to act blissfully happy and cheerfully congratulatory. But at home, my dad held my mom as she wept. She cried because it was a star being born in somebody else’s sky. No one seemed to understand how excruciatingly difficult it was for them. Of course my parents were happy for their friends, but could you imagine being told the one thing you want most in life is simply unattainable, then having to witness it happen to everyone else around you? It certainly was NOT easy. What also wasn’t easy were the times when her period stopped showing up and she held her breath, only to be brought to tears a few weeks later as she realized she was having a miscarriage in the toilet bowl. It killed her inside that she couldn’t have a baby. So to help their cause, my mom underwent the painful process of getting injections into her thighs in hopes she’d get pregnant. My dad was the one who gave her the shots. He’d cringe from the pain that quivered through her body as she gripped the bedsheets, waiting for the burning to subside.
But nothing worked.
At this point, my mother was forty-one years old and my dad was thirty-nine. After coming to terms with the fact that having a baby of their own simply wasn’t in their cards, they decided to get in contact with an adoption agency. They met with the agency workers; did and said what they had to in order to get the ball rolling. It involved the start of LOTS of paperwork and contact cards.
Then, out of the clear blue, it happened. Her period stopped and didn’t return for nine months. To this day, she still has the contact cards stowed in the pouch of the pocketbook she took with her to the adoption agency. It’s a reminder for her to be thankful for what she currently has.
“Gosh, being an only child means you must be so spoiled! Lucky you!”
No. Again, this is wrong. Sure, I may’ve gotten more gifts than other kids did for Christmas and my birthday—but my parents brought me up to be humble for everything I receive. Unlike an uncanny slew of people in this day and age, I was actually raised with manners. A lot of people tend to stereotype only-children as isolated little brats that get whatever they want from mommy and daddy. I’m here to stake the claim that this couldn’t be farther from the truth. My parents always made sure I understood what it was like to work for things, and they never granted me rewards void of a purpose or handed me things on a silver platter. And let’s be honest: an only child is no brattier than a child with siblings who is vying and crying out for attention.
“Aw, you poor thing. It must’ve been so lonely growing up without any brothers or sisters.”
As I grew up, I craved to have a real sibling. I depended on my wild imagination to keep me company as played by myself in the basement. I threw an indigo colored rubber ball from the drug store against the wall so that it would bounce back to me and seem as if I were playing catch with someone. I wanted a little playmate with the same last name as me. All of my friends had siblings, so why couldn’t I? Now that I’m older, I know it must’ve pained my parents each time I asked for them to have another baby. I would like to apologize for that now. At one time, I blamed them for making me an only child. But I didn’t realize that it was by no fault of their own, and they would’ve loved to have more children if the circumstances were suited as such.
In the grand scheme of things, I never felt lonely as an only child. Luckily I was blessed with three older cousins who are just like my sisters, in every sense of the word. After getting over my initial phase of wanting “real siblings”, I began looking up to them with glittering eyes because I wanted to be just like them. No, I don't simply use them to compensate for the fact that I am an only child, but I grew to realize how truly wonderful it is to be so close with them. They’ve served me as perfect role-models. When I was six years old, their father (my uncle) died suddenly and unexpectedly. My dad stepped in to help them cope with the loss, and I realized at a very young age that it was an incredibly heart-wrenching kind of joy to be able to share my daddy with them. I have no problem calling them my sisters because it feels too informal to call them my cousins. We have unbreakable bonds and I go through the same things with them as all people go through with their natural-born siblings. They drive me crazy. They make me laugh my ass off. They are there to comfort me through everything. They make me pissed off and mad. They eat my food. They take my clothes. They set me straight. They are the ones I’d sacrifice my own life for, if it came down to it.
So, to answer your questions: my parents didn’t choose to have just one—it’s the hand they were dealt, and they’re graciously accepting of the way things turned out. But even if it was by choice, who is anyone else to judge them for that? And no, I’m neither spoiled nor lonely. These are all common misconceptions on the parts of those who don’t understand what being an only child is really like. I appreciate the extremely tough trials and tribulations my parents had to undergo in order to have me, and I’m alright with the fact that I’m an “only child.” I cherish my life even more because I know my existence was a basic impossibility that left the doctors elated but stumped. You begin to look at life in a different light when you sit down and contemplate the ways that very well could’ve prevented you from even being alive. And I feel so fortunate to have my cousins—my sisters, who’ve helped me to realize I was never alone in the first place. At the end of the day, I will always have them and the endless love of my parents. Now, does that sound so bad to you?
With love, by Ari.
