Last night, as we snuggled up to read your bedtime story, you asked me the question Daddy and I have been half expecting. With a slight ripple across your brow and your blue eyes wide, you said: ‘Mummy, why don’t I have a brother or sister?’
I kissed the top of your head, squeezed you closer and momentarily panicked about how on earth to answer.
At four years and four months, you are clearly starting to notice that many of your friends from nursery talk of older siblings or new babies.
Thankfully, this time, you gave me a reprieve; turning your attention straight back to our dinosaur story.
Last night, as we snuggled up to read your bedtime story, you asked me the question Daddy and I have been half expecting. With a slight ripple across your brow and your blue eyes wide, you said: ‘Mummy, why don’t I have a brother or sister?’
But I know one day soon the ‘why’ will become more persistent. Your daddy and I are far from alone in deciding to stop at one child: apparently by the time you’re seven, half of all families in this country will only have one offspring. Not that that stops me from feeling the occasional pang of guilt.
I know there will be many positives to our decision — all that undivided attention, for starters, and you’ll never know that prickly adjustment period when a new baby arrives.
But what of all the sibling rough and tumble you’ll miss out on? The constant companionship — for better or worse?
I cannot pretend it hasn’t been a real dilemma. And yes, there have been moments when my resolve has wobbled: particularly as you get ever closer to starting school — a baby no more. Who doesn’t get broody when they see a tiny newborn enfolded in their mother’s arms?
But deep down, I know we’ve made the most responsible choice. I just hope, as you grow older, you agree.
The truth is Daddy and I would have loved another child but, quite simply, we are too old. We liked the idea of two or maybe more — Daddy even hoped for twins!
We imagined you all together, nobody ever short of a playmate, bundling you all into the bath after a day at the beach or the park.
I know there will be many positives to our decision — all that undivided attention, for starters, and you’ll never know that prickly adjustment period when a new baby arrives
But I turned 44 last year, the day you and Daddy helped me devour the birthday cake I’d made.
‘That’s REALLY old!’ you exclaimed. In terms of having another baby, you were right.
More women are having babies well into their 40s and beyond but the risks are proven to be greater both for mum and baby — not least Down’s Syndrome or other birth defects.
Sometimes I do wonder if we left it too late to start our little family. After all, we’ve been together for 19 years. Will you wonder what we were doing all that time?
We met through mutual friends in our mid-20s, drawn together by our similarities: we’re both driven, determined, sociable and aspire to wring the most from life.
But like many of our generation, we chose — naively as it turned out — to let time slip by. Distracted by our careers (Daddy as a chartered surveyor and board director, and me as a journalist), we saved like mad for our future, bought property, played hard and enjoyed exciting holidays all over the world.
Sometimes I do wonder if we left it too late to start our little family. After all, we’ve been together for 19 years. Will you wonder what we were doing all that time?
Family and friends badgered us about settling down but we felt buying a home together was the greatest commitment. That there were more important things — paying off a mortgage, for example — than a wedding to spend money on.
As for having a family, I was conscious of getting older, of course, but I honestly didn’t think leaving it to my late 30s would be a problem. After all, many of our friends were in a similar situation.
In February 2011, after nearly 12 years together, we finally married at a beautiful country house in North Yorkshire. By then we were financially secure, happy, had bought a spacious barn conversion and wanted nothing more than to have a little family.
But three months after our wedding, early one cool, grey May morning, my own beautiful, adoring mummy — your granny — died. She’d had cancer for four agonising years, and in the end the doctors and nurses couldn’t do anything more to save her.
If I had just one wish in life it would be that Granny had lived to meet you. She would have been besotted by your mischievousness, love of being silly and making people smile — traits you share with her.
Losing her made me all the more desperate to become a mum. I wanted to love and nurture another little person the way she’d always loved my brother and me. I longed to watch her warmth, wisdom and trademark cheerfulness live on in her grandchild.
If I had just one wish in life it would be that Granny had lived to meet you. She would have been besotted by your mischievousness, love of being silly and making people smile — traits you share with her
Grief stricken, I barely ate or slept for months. I ran for miles at a time as a coping mechanism and lost a lot of weight despite being slim anyway.
So perhaps we shouldn’t have been surprised when, after almost two years of trying to have a baby, doctors confirmed that the shock of losing Granny had caused my body to shut down.
I was almost 40 by then so we were referred for IVF. That’s when something magical happened against all the odds.
In late January 2013, I went to a fertility clinic on the outskirts of Nottingham for some initial scans before we could start treatment.
After a couple of minutes, the sonographer took off her glasses, wiped a tear from her eye and said: ‘You’re not going to believe this . . . you are already pregnant!’
Grief stricken, I barely ate or slept for months. I ran for miles at a time as a coping mechanism and lost a lot of weight despite being slim anyway
I was only around five weeks, but there you were on the sonographer’s screen, a microscopic dot. I cried, too, and couldn’t wait to tell Daddy.
We were elated when you arrived in September that year by planned Caesarean section. I adored you in an instant with your cute little face and love of a cuddle.
But I admit I struggled emotionally for a long time. Within the space of under two and a half years, I’d been through the two most significant events in a woman’s life: losing my mum and having a baby of my own.
Not having Granny around at that time was heart-wrenching.
During the three days that you and I were in hospital, I longed for my mum to walk in, beaming and saying: ‘Aren’t you a clever girl? He’s absolutely gorgeous!’
When Gramps came alone to meet you for the first time, he hadn’t seemed more solitary since Granny’s death. In the months that followed, I’d take you for seven-mile walks in your pram along the canal paths and country trails close to our home and tears would roll down my cheeks as I daydreamed about Mum walking by my side.
When I delve into my handbag for a lipstick and instead pull out a toy car or a dirty twig from the park that you’ve put there, it makes me smile
What I’d give to have just one photograph of her cuddled up cheek-to-cheek with you . . .
Daddy was wonderfully sensitive and supportive. But at times I felt very alone, as many women do after having a baby.
The impossible sadness was juxtaposed by the unrivalled joy you brought to Daddy and me. You make us laugh uncontrollably every day with your funny little ways and your constant chatter and wonder at the world around us.
I was 40 by the time I had you
When I delve into my handbag for a lipstick and instead pull out a toy car or a dirty twig from the park that you’ve put there, it makes me smile. You’re as affectionate and loving as you are boisterous and wilful (you were destined to be strong-willed given our own personalities!) and even when you’re throwing a tantrum we wouldn’t want it any other way.
I know that watching you with a little brother or sister would be a delight. But another baby now? I was 40 by the time I had you. We quickly decided it was more important to enjoy you, rather than focus on trying for another simply because the clock was ticking.
After all, there are so many couples who’d give anything to have just one child.
And who’s to say it would have happened a second time, given how long it took us to have you?
Plus, at what point do you draw a line under the disappointment of trying and failing? Besides, we’d found that being a family of three suits all of us. I am still able to do the job I love while you’re at nursery three days a week. More importantly, Daddy and I are able to focus our attention on you rather than feeling torn between more than one child.
Also, your energy knows no bounds and I have to run you like a dog every day to expend it. I’m not sure I could cope with another little one fizzing with such effervescence.
I know that watching you with a little brother or sister would be a delight. But another baby now? I was 40 by the time I had you. We quickly decided it was more important to enjoy you, rather than focus on trying for another simply because the clock was ticking
You have always loved your sleep, too: imagine if you had a sibling who wailed all night for months . . . That said, I can’t deny the occasional well of sadness: the ‘what ifs’ and fear you’ll miss out on the fun of having a sibling.
Especially since I’ve always been so close to my own little brother — your uncle Robbie, 42, who loves to tickle and dangle you upside down. Daddy and I have often looked wistfully at our friends with four kids: they’re never without a ready-made playmate. On the other hand, we know plenty of siblings who fought terribly as children and barely speak as adults.
We also know lots of gloriously happy, well grounded, sociable, selfless only children — including your brilliant cousin, Saffron, who’s five years older than you. It was adorable watching you playing together on the beach and in the pool on a recent family holiday in Spain. How I chuckled listening to the two of you animatedly discussing your favourite (or not!) vegetables in the back of the car.
Nobody has ever questioned our decision — although there are friends who still tell us: ‘Go on, have another!’ Some people assume things of an only child — that they are spoilt because they don’t learn to share. Or that they miss out on so much.
But Daddy and I will ensure you never feel isolated — nor become spoilt. We are bracing ourselves for hosting lots of play dates and sleepovers. And we’ll do everything that we can to encourage you to continue to be the sociable, caring, confident little boy that you already are.
What I’ve realised more than anything is that there is actually a much shorter answer to your question. Quite simply, Daddy and I feel enormously fortunate to have one healthy, happy, hilarious little boy who fills our lives with magic every day. We have never been left wanting more.