"How many children do you have?” is an everyday question I’ve come to dread. “One,” I reply, humbly. “Only one?” Eyebrows shoot skyward. Uncomfortable surprise turns to downright horror when it is established that my only child is nine, and therefore I’m unlikely to be planning another baby. “Oh, a lonely only,” one mother commented, with a devastated sigh.
Having only one child works for me, but my decision is obviously hard for some to understand; I seem to defy logic. My husband and I both work from home, we have flexible careers that would accommodate a baker’s dozen, and we both adore our nine-year-old son, Conrad. Yet one is enough for us.
Mothers of more sometimes appear to disapprove of my choice. Besides the “lonely only” comment, complete strangers have felt compelled to tell me my decision is selfish, damaging to my son and — this takes the biscuit — that “being a mum to an only child must be a part-time job”. There’s nothing part-time about my relationship with my son. It’s an overwhelming, all-absorbing experience; everything I ever wanted. I’m a 24-hour parent. We all are, whether we have one child or five.
There’s nothing part-time about my relationship with my son. It’s an overwhelming, all-absorbing experience It’s not only mums who make such comments. Once, at a party, a man to whom my husband and I were chatting told us we were selfish (it transpired he was a father of three, with three different mothers; he didn’t live with any of his children; and yet he still felt he had the right to pronounce on our parenting choice). These remarks are rude, annoying and small-minded. I can only imagine what ill-judged comments are endured by women who choose to remain child-free. Why can’t we live and let live?
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Personally, I’m yet to be convinced those children with siblings are necessarily happier. For every adult who adores their brothers and sisters, there’s another who is jealous and bitter.
I’ll never have a favourite. Conrad will never have to compete for affection or time at home. I’d never make this comment to a mum who has chosen to have more than one child, because I’d trust she was aware of this; it’s obvious, isn’t it? But I’d also imagine that, as a loving parent, she’d naturally be hoping that her particular brood would grow up to be close and supportive, rather than taking the elder daughters of King Lear as role models. The world needs compassionate networks and families can be just that, but the world also needs diversity, even where family size is concerned.
I’m a working mum, and my belief that I’m entitled to a full and happy career partly informed my decision to have only one child. Not that I put my career before my son — just the opposite. With one child, I can ensure that I give my best to my career (and therefore feel satisfied and fulfilled — a great thing for any parent to be), but still give my son absolutely all the attention he needs and deserves. Conrad is an individual; he’s not the “big one”, the “middle one” or the “little one”. I don’t even think of him as my “only one”. He’s Conrad — a person, not a number.
Crucially, my husband doesn’t want any more children. His view is that the planet is bursting at the seams and recycling alone isn’t going to be enough to halt that. We discussed and established our preferred family size before we married. Agreement on such a fundamental issue is essential for a happy marriage. My heart breaks for couples where one person wants more children than the other — a baby is a difficult thing to deny someone who longs for it; it’s a hard thing to give if you don’t.
While my family and friends understand and respect my decision, the wider social pressure to have more than one child does not go away. I have been asked whether I’d have another baby if I could “guarantee a girl”. And it has been suggested that a girl would be more useful to me when I’m old, because boys desert their families and girls, apparently, spend every Saturday shopping with their mum. I find the idea of having a child to act as some sort of comforter in old age truly shocking and self-centred. When I’m old and frail, I plan to be financially and emotionally independent. I don’t want Conrad to come on Saturday-afternoon shopping trips — he should be doing something much more exciting with at least 90% of his time, because I hope I’ve helped to instil a sense of curiosity and independence. Maybe he’ll use the remaining 10% of his time to visit us.
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Sadly, the belief that only children are unsociable and spoilt abounds — a prejudice that’s allowed to remain. For the record, Conrad is great at sharing: his toys, my time, his ideas. One child does make it easier to afford all the necessities and most of the luxuries we desire, but that’s not as important to me as the fact that there is enough time to ensure round-the-clock parental care and to answer those endless “why?” questions enthusiastically.
Naturally, I make sure he sees other kids (I send him to school, don’t I?), and he goes to fencing class and Cubs; not much more than that, because I don’t think he needs a squillion other activities — it’s exhausting (I know, another unfashionable view). The thing is, we like to play board games, make models, chat and watch television together after school. He especially enjoys the TV bit — just like kids with siblings.
Why, when it comes to this deeply personal issue, do people feel they can pass judgment? I don’t know. But I do know that there’s always a story as to why a family ends up the size it does, and that story isn’t owed to every impertinent stranger.
What’s it like to be an only child
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Sonia Hully
People always assume that only children are spoilt and have had it easy. Of course, there are narcissistic types who grow up getting their own way, but that doesn’t apply to all only children. I was an accident, so my parents stayed together when perhaps they shouldn’t have. It wouldn’t have been right for them to have had more children. I knew they both loved me, but I wasn’t spoilt. We weren’t wealthy, so both my parents had to work, while I was home alone, using my imagination.
Without siblings to share my feelings with, I thought for myself and learnt to rely on my own logic. I gained my independence and matured quickly — I think being with other children encourages you to be naughty, but I realised being childish was irresponsible. “Hold on,” I would think, “I want to be a success — this is not a good idea.” I’m now confident about making my own decisions.
I felt lonely as a child, as friends would be busy doing things with their brothers and sisters, but being used to my own company means I now work well alone. Professionally, being an only child has helped me to be strong — it’s natural for me to be an entrepreneur: I’m not afraid to take risks.
Emotionally, however, I’m needy. It has made me insecure about relationships. I don’t like to be single, and I crave the attention and care of a boyfriend. I like to be surrounded by people — I’m sociable and have really close friends. It’s rare to find an only child who says they liked being alone. I always dreamt of having a big family, and all my best friends were one of many. But being an only child has made me stronger in every way — except emotionally.
Sonia Hully is the founder of lovedefinitely.com