- After losing two pregnancies, my husband and I decided to try one more time.
- People often ask why we just have one child, and they can be judgmental.
"With all due respect," she said, "You have no right to leave her alone in this world."
I froze. Stuck in the extended position on the leg machine, I couldn't believe small talk at the gym could go so awry. Did a total stranger really just say that to me?
"How many kids do you have?" is a question I dread. The blunt gymgoer's response was by far the most original. It stung, but I've had plenty of warm-ups. The overly enthusiastic, "Oh! Wow! That's great!" The comically awkward, "Will you get her a pet?" And the micro-jab, "Such a cute little family!"
They all sting. And they're all uttered because it's easier than asking for my story.
Pregnancy was not easy for me
In June of 2015, I had my first ultrasound. We hadn't planned to get pregnant and relocate for my first college teaching position at the same time, but that's how it happened. We were thrilled. It seemed odd that the technician didn't say much, but I thought nothing of it. When she went to speak to the doctor, my body knew: it was over.
My mind had to catch up. The doctor told me the egg was not in the uterus. Inexplicably, I asked, "Where is it?" I'll never forget the way she sucked back her lips in surprise. After that, I blacked out in the just-found-out-they-have-cancer movie scene type of way. I don't remember what happened next. At some point, I had surgery. I spent the next three weeks in bed, arising only to go teach one summer class, then returning home to bed.
The move and the new job kept me going. We were excited about this new chapter. We'd try again when we were ready. It happened again, and it happened fast. Pregnant in October. Not pregnant in November.
This one was natural; I didn't need surgery. I gave a presentation on mindfulness during that time, of all things. I could feel the life draining from my body as I stood at the front of the lecture hall, smiling and encouraging my music students to relax in the present moment. I was a hypocrite. Crushed that my body couldn't do the one thing it was supposed to, all I wanted was to escape.
I started to envision a life without children. We'd be OK. We could focus more on our careers, have more adventures together. It would be a sweet consolation prize.
Then, in February 2016, we agreed to try one more time. We knew we couldn't bear alternative journeys to parenthood after all the grief. This was it — and I got pregnant on the first try. Assuming it wouldn't last long, I enjoyed the hell out of it. A conference in San Antonio, every meal outside in the sunshine with ice cream for dessert. All the while, I was bleeding.
I called the doctor. "It's the wrong color," he said. "It's not new blood. Let's get you in for an early ultrasound."
This time, there was a heartbeat. We couldn't believe it. We went out for greasy burgers to celebrate. We held our breath for the next six weeks, and she was still there. Our Olivia.
She's seven years old now. And she's our only child.
We have an only child for a reason
It seemed almost quaint to decide whether to have another child after the grief of losing two pregnancies. To weigh the pros and cons. To read about the options: Pop out another real quick? Wait until she's older to try again? We considered our finances, thought about the climate crisis. We had tearful, late-night conversations.
On one of those nights, we were finally ready to make a choice. It was the choice we knew we'd make all along: we would rather offer our best to one child than anything less to two.
The decision was both excruciating and natural. It took tremendous courage to admit we were already giving all we could. But it was easy to put social expectations aside and do what was best for our daughter. In a culture that demands too much of parents — too much of us all — we said, "Enough."
In a perfect world, I would have told the gym lady, "With all due respect, it's none of your business." But I was so stunned by the rudeness that I froze. After a moment, I gathered myself. I calmly told her we made the decision that was best for our family.
And then she really shocked me. She apologized. She said she could see the anger in my eyes when she said that, and she wished she hadn't. She said now that she thought about it, she doesn't even speak to her siblings.
Remaining calm allowed us to connect, even if just for a moment.
I'm proud of our decision. We took the extraordinary path of embracing what we had and wanting for nothing. It's why "How many kids do you have?" is a loaded question for me. Judgmental interactions — the gym lady; the mom who tells me, "There's still time;" the parent at drop-off who blurts, "It must be so much easier" — bring me back to a 3 a.m. trip to the emergency room, the kindness of nurses, the M&Ms my mom brought to the hospital.
These moments fortify my gratitude for the precious gift of life that awaited us. A young girl who is happy, healthy, and already braver than I'll ever be. We must be doing something right.