I read a while ago in my new book “I Never Metaphor I Did Not Like” (that’s really the name of the book too) that the parents of a pod with a single pea are very likely to confuse it with the Hope Diamond. I found this both hilarious, and true. And hilarious mostly because I believe in its truth, generally speaking. I have several friends with a single child, either by intent or happenstance and their parenting experience differs from that of the mothers of multiples in several significant ways.
First of all there is inherent a sense of uniqueness of occasion. Things happen in the lives of babies and toddlers and older children that are universal to us as a species. In the case of only children these milestones are heralded as events of global significance and tend to be cause for phone calls and emails and general celebration. So too are the achievements and perceived achievement of budding athletic and scholastic careers. I am reminded of a funny film I once saw in which the parents of an adult only child were berated for celebrating mediocrity. The comment was, I believe, “I was not aware there was a ribbon for ninth place.” But on the wall of the house was a shadow box displaying memorabilia of a less than stellar childhood athletic career; indeed celebrating the ninth place ribbon in a position of honor. Hyperbole and exaggeration you say. Well, may be. But not by all that much.
Parents of only children are more likely to over react when things go amiss, are ready to call in all the reserves to remedy the situation and are likely to be devastated when there is no immediate fix available. When I was a special education teacher in Miami, part of my job was to sit on a multi-disciplinary team to review testing and psychologist’s recommendations for children who were experiencing learning difficulties. The parents of only children who needed to hear the news that their child was diagnosed with a learning disability were always predictably more undone. They would typically need an extra share of hand holding and soothing words after. They would also typically be able to easily weasel my home phone number out of me – presumably so we could keep in touch on a Saturday or Sunday; the only days of the week I did not see them – either because they wanted an impromptu ten minute conference every morning or dropped in at lunch. These mothers would call me at home, at night and on the weekend because little Carlitowas unhappy. Or confused. Or had forgotten his homework at school. Again. And could I tell him the spelling words over the phone? Or because they thought he did not deserve a B and wondered what he needed to do to get an A. (At this point I would be wickedly tempted to say, wash my car and mow my grass, but I would resist). And these would be the mothers who by year’s end would present me with some lovely gift and would make a short speech, voice blurred with tears, about John never having been able to read, and now John reads all the time, and they are so proud of him, and so grateful to me, that they’ll never forget me……and on and on and on. But lest you think I am some jaded, caustic creature let me add that while this soliloquy is stammered forth I have my arms around John’s mother and I am crying as much as she is.
I’m crying, because I have walked a mile in her designer pumps; as well as mile in those of John. We will assume that John though, wears Nikes.
For four years I was the mother of an only child. There is a significant lag between Timothy and the next in line. But more tellingly, I am an only child myself. I tell my children, who all harbor fantasies of singleton-hood, that sometimes it’s not all that wonderful, being the only one. Yes it is true that there are more resources and that everything you have is new, and special, and as expensive as your parents can afford. But after the birthday party when everyone has gone home it is incredibly difficult to play Twister by yourself. It can be an extremely lonely condition. Certainly friends come over, but then have to eventually go home. And this is about more than playmates. This is someone with which to have a shared communal experience. Great for the happy times, but ever so much more important for the tragic ones.
On the night my mother died, here in our home, almost a year ago now, the boys were awakened, given the news, and taken in to see her, to say goodbye. I remember that they were strong and prepared and focused, but of course there were tears. We shared some quiet time in their grandmother’s room – we said a rosary, the children took turns sitting with her, just as they had done all those last days. Then they said a quiet good bye. I could see Timothy and Liam being particularly vigilant with Christian and Ethan, the most emotional of the four. During our goodbye they would occasionally reach out to each other and hold a hand, ruffle a head. When it was all over for the night and everyone else had left, Howie and I went to find them. They were all in Liam’s room, all on his bed, with legs entwined, arms draped about shoulders; heads nestled in the lap of a big brother. And I thought, when I could manage to formulate a thought, that this is exactly it, this is why I am so glad are so many of you. Crushing grief is best not born by a single pair of shoulders. At the funeral my friend Mary remarked to me that that they never seemed to stop touching each other. Mired in my own grief, I had not noticed. I envision then my boys, standing there with arms linked, soldiering through. The power of four.
The burden on only children can be immense. It is a difficult row to hoe, being the receptacle of all someone else’s hopes and dreams. They are held, typically, to a higher standard. Which certainly can be a good thing sometimes. But when presented with a somewhat obsessive parent, such as…well, I don’t know, let’s just say ME, the results can be precarious. I have said often that the best gift I ever gave Timothy was a sibling. For four years he was my hobby. He had to have everything and it all had to be perfect. Even though we were poor, and this is not an exaggeration, when I first started teaching when Tim was one, he had a nanny, not day care. His toy box was filled with every new fandangle educational toy I could get my hands on. His closet was filled with beautiful and highly coordinated outfits, some of which he would outgrow before the tags were taken off. He had lavish birthday parties for which I once paid almost a hundred dollars for the cake- because it had to be an exactly rendered copy of his party invitation featuring not just Pooh and Piglet, but all the denizens of The Hundred Acre Wood. And God help the bakery if they got it wrong. We went shopping for books at Borders every two weeks, after his Saturday music class and after I got paid. I taught him to read when he was three- something that I would never do to another child. I taught Christian at four, because I suspected he might have trouble learning from anyone else unfamiliar with an attention span of nanoseconds. The summer Liam turned five I gave him a crash course in Hooked on Phonics which he completed mostly alone, with the tape. When it was Ethan-Jonah’s turn to start school I figured I’d let the highly qualified and well paid teachers of Hamilton Southeastern Schools earn their keep and teach him themselves. No more free rides from the O’Sullivan household, because Mama, quite frankly, is really tired. Ethan did not go to pre-school because he did not like it and I did not make him. He preferred to stay with Grandma and I am so happy now, that I let him. The summer before he started kindergarten I made sure he could unzip and re-zip his pants without help. And that was it. I read to him of course, all the time. And if he wanted to know a word, I’d tell him but there was no instruction whatsoever. I have to say that Ethan’s toddler years were some of the happiest of my parenting career. And I have to say the I see no noticeable difference between Ethan’s reading level at age eight as compared to that of his brothers at the same age. He seems to have triumphed over the neglect of his early education. My job, as I see it now, was to play with Ethan, raise him, and keep him out of the arms of misadventure. And love him. And that’s it. I am a teacher, but not his.
All my standards I am happy to say have generally eroded. Everyone has a room, which I have decorated to the best of my ability and my resources. Those rooms are not mine however, and as long as no public health regulations are broken I can live without everything looking like it did in the magazine that inspired me. My children are required to look very nice for mass, for the theatre, for outings, and family occasions. For school they need to look clean, and reasonably coordinated. The rest of the time, especially in the summer, they tend to look like characters from a Dickensian novel, or the cast of Oliver. Clad in a mismatched set of worn out hand-me-downs they play outside, roam the woods, haunt the zoo, and go swimming. Every now and then I intervene and snatch away a pair of jeans that is more hole than leg, throw away a t-shirt that all four children have worn and is shamefully threadbare. But that’s about it. Lord knows what the neighbors think.
I let the baby have sugar. I let him taste candy. I allowed him, at a party, to drink red Kool-Aid (RED Kool-Aid….the one with the scary dye). Christian and Liam cheerfully ate cookies and things with (eek) preservatives and MSG. Timothy had started school before he ever tasted candy. One year I stuffed his Easter basket with apples and pears. He’d never had red dye, or MSG, or a Cheeto. And was a problem eater for most of his early childhood, probably as a result. The younger three, exposed to their fair share of junk, eat all manner of fish and seafood, love artichokes and asparagus, falafel and hummus, and anchovies and kalamata olives, radicchio and sushi – they dip bread in olive oil- and they can tell when it’s not extra virgin.
Birthday parties are still a huge deal – but now it’s about the fun not the glitz. Nobody cares where the cake came from or if anything’s a perfect match. It took a few years but it finally occurred to me that these parties were not for me. Occupational hazard of being an only child. That slightly altered world view. I have to continually remind myself that to most of the planet, I am supporting cast, not the headliner. Although if you have ever heard my mother talk about me, you would understand my confusion. After she’d gotten done I’m certain that you would have trouble recognizing the brilliant, lovely, talented, and let’s face it, very paragon of virtue she described, as just plain old me. So my standards have fallen- I have learned to make do and really just let a lot of things go. But in my heart, if I could, I’d opt for longer days, more energy and double resources so I could only-child parent each of my four. What an absolute luxury to be able to savor moments, do one thing at a time, give your full attention to a single child without other competing voices, without another pair of sticky little hands trying to pull you in the opposite direction. The point is I suppose that there are so many ways to do anything – get to Rome, skin a cat (ick), raise a child. This has all been very much trial and error. And it took me four c-sections to come to these realizations, so listen raptly. This is the view from here, and these are the things I’ve learned. Mostly by accident.
It is the nature of everything to devolve into imperfection so trying to keep things perfect is not just exhausting, it’s also futile.
Children are meant to be loved and appreciated, not idealized. Very lofty expectations can burden a child, make him anxious and spoil all the fun.
All Hope Diamonds need a support network of cousins and aunts and friends in order to survive their parents. The parents of the pod’s single pea need at least one true and trusted and brutally honest friend to readily supply reality checks.
I heard this once and liked it and remind my children continually – that they are more fortunate than many, but better than no one.
Sometimes scrambled eggs are perfectly acceptable for dinner.
Children do not need everything they want. And nor should they have it all.
Sometimes, on a Friday night or when it’s very cold, or you are very tired, its ok if they skip a bath and just go to bed.
Take pictures of everything.
Do not feel guilty for needing time away from them. Your sanity needs to be preserved.
Happiness rates higher than accomplishments. Provide opportunities, but don’t push.
Polite, well-behaved and gloriously average, beat obnoxious and brilliant, any day.
Most importantly- relax and enjoy the ride. It will be over all too quickly.
Raising Cain 