The Sin of One

I sat on the floor of the nail salon where my mother was getting her nails done. Shea had already gotten her mani-pedi, and we were simply whiling away the time chatting with my mother.  Shea was being her adorable self, as always, and the ladies in the salon began talking to me about her.

"How old is she?"

"Is she your only child?"

I hate this question.  It often leads to awkward explanations and sour faces.  I said, "Yep, she's our only one.  One and done," I said, drawing my flattened open fingers across my neck in a swift, killing gesture.  This is my fallback position.  I say this whenever people ask me about the number of my children.

"Oh, no!" People exclaim.  "She needs a sibling."  Or they say, "No, you need to have two."

I don't know what it is about people and their aversion to the only child, but I have never in my life had an aspect of my personal life that people feel more comfortable criticizing.  Shea is a happy little girl, and her experience is not diminished by her lack of a sibling.  Her experience is different than other children who have a sibling/siblings, but it is not lessened.

There are many reasons my wife and I have decided not to have another child.  These reasons are our own and I don't feel like I need to offer those up to strangers in a nail salon, but, the funny thing is, I do.

I sat on the floor of the nail salon and I found myself reciting my reasoning for one child to a room full of women, some of whom spoke only in broken English.  I want to say it's none of their business.  I want to say that I shouldn't need to justify myself.  I want to say read this article by Bill McKibbon here.  I'm not sure any of those responses would be effective, but I'm once again left feeling like I've made a bad call, or a selfish decision, and I don't think that is what I've done at all.  I've made a balanced and mediated decision.  I've made a slow, careful, and thoughtful decision as the result of conversation, sharing, and debate with my spouse.

I just can't get over why I'm still talking as I sit on the floor of the hair salon, like a sycophantic flatterer sitting at the feet of a wise man.  But I don't know these women.  I don't know the mistakes they've made in their own lives, in their own parenting, but I should take comfort in the fact that I've looked at my options, I've debated the possibilities, and I've made a sound judgment.

When I turn and look at Shea, she's got a mint stuck to the roof of her mouth.  She sticks her finger in there and the peppermint pops loose from her mouth and onto the linoleum floor.  I get up from my position on the floor, pick up the mint, and find the nearest garbage can.  I talk to Shea about keeping her mouth closed while eating hard candy and she says, "But it was stuck to the roof of my mouth," and her eyes get all wide like it's the strangest thing she's ever bore witness to.  In moments like these, I realize she's absolutely fine and the anxieties belong to me, and possibly those women who can't see beyond the possibilities of their own experience.