The Only Child

The Only Child
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Baby number two is only a few weeks away.  Strangers are starting to stare when I do errands and say, “how are you doing?” with a look I can really only describe as horror.  Like they think a leg is going to pop out in the cereal aisle.

Although I have high hopes of fitting in my pants and am looking forward to things not bouncing off of my stomach, I’m nervous.

I’m an only child.  No one to whack, no one to whack me, it was just a party of three at my house growing up.  I used to play Hungry Hungry Hippos ALONE.  Left hand on the pink hippo, right hand on the green, who’s going to win?  I can tell you, it was intense.  Have you ever tried to use a Ouija board by yourself?  It’s not very successful.

As lonely as it is to Ouija alone, being an only child wasn’t all bad.  I have a very close relationship with my parents, which I’m not saying I wouldn’t have had with siblings, but I know that it would have been different if it wasn’t only the three of us.  There’s a stereotype about only children being spoiled.  While I was certainly fortunate, I wouldn’t say that my parents were overly indulgent, but I probably was spoiled with the amount of attention that I received.  However when it’s only you and your parents at dinner, and they’re talking about your math final, you WISH there was any other kid around the table for them to zoom in on.

I’ve always known that I wanted to have more than one child, and I think that my determination to do so has to do with me being an only child myself.  I wish I had a sibling.  I’m excited for my daughter that she has one on the way, but I’m also realistic.  I know that the chances of her and her brother peacefully playing Hungry Hungry Hippos is certainly not as likely as them pounding each other with the marbles.

But I am going to hold on to the hope that one day, whenever it may be, they are going to know how lucky they are to have each other.  Fingers crossed.

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