Over the years, many keen observers have noticed that my partner, Emily, and I have only one child. A handful of brave souls, usually strangers with no idea what they’re getting into, have even dared to ask whether we plan to have any more kids.
When I’m feeling lighthearted, I might quip, “Are you offering to sell me one of yours?” or “Sure, but I can never find the right model on eBay.” More often than not, however, my mood isn’t so cheerful, and my responses can take a sharp turn for the snarky.
For some odd reason, when you have just one child, people feel entitled to ask questions they would never dream of posing in any other situation—unless, of course, there’s a lot of tequila involved. People dodge political debates unless they’ve known each other for ages, but if you’re a one-child family, the unsolicited opinions start rolling in. These are the same folks who feel the need to rub a pregnant woman’s belly or comment on your grocery cart’s contents in the checkout line.
“Are you buying 14 grapefruits?”
“Nope, just leasing them. Now, could you please move along, Rain Man?”
It often starts with, “So you only have the one…”—a statement that carries the suggestion that we must have a valid explanation for not having more kids (children, not grapefruits—stay focused). Rather than responding in a mature manner, I often resort to passive aggression.
“Yep, my ability to father more kids stopped functioning after serving in Vietnam, but I’d jump back in if they called me. It’s tough to find authentic Vietnamese cuisine around here.”
“My partner and I concluded that the world has enough white babies, but we weren’t interested in adopting. All the good Asian infants are already gone.”
“I had to hire a street performer to help my partner conceive this one. Twice. We just couldn’t afford to pay him any more. If someone claims they’ll do it for a sandwich, they’re definitely lying.”
I’m aware that most of these questions aren’t meant to be hurtful, but they certainly come across that way. The truth is that Emily and I would love to have another child—maybe even two—but our age, finances, and existing health issues stand in the way.
Conceiving our daughter, Ava, took a long time, and honestly, I’m not thrilled about going through that process again. We tracked basal body temperatures, monitored cycles, and even resorted to some quirky rituals to boost our chances. It was a lot of mediocre intimacy with little outcome.
To add to the complexity, it turns out that the male anatomy can be quite temperamental, especially when faced with pressure. One moment, it’s ready for action; the next, it’s like trying to shove a marshmallow through a coin slot. (I thought I was clever for coining that phrase, only to discover the hilarious Al Jackson beat me to it. Oh, well.)
Ladies, take note: the worst thing you can do in that moment is to ask, “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine. I always go flaccid before I finish. If you want to help, let’s also discuss my childhood traumas.”
Emily faced her own challenges, but I’ll spare the details for decorum’s sake. Just know that the intricacies of the female reproductive system can be as unpredictable as an old car.
Eventually, we sought professional help and went through several rounds of IVF. While that story is lengthy, I can tell you that anyone who claims injecting your partner with needles brings you closer is fibbing. After four years and numerous doctors, we ended up with six viable embryos. Unfortunately, due to a mix-up, the surgeon thawed four embryos for our first implantation instead of just two. None of those took, and the remaining embryos didn’t survive the freezing process.
Ava was the result of our final implantation. It felt like a scene from Thunderdome: two embryos entered, but only one emerged later on. We were prepared for disappointment when the doctor’s call came. “We need both of you on the line,” she said. Emily and I braced ourselves for bad news.
“Emily is pregnant.”
Neither of us could believe our ears and asked the nurse to repeat it.
“Your partner is pregnant.”
Confirmation or not, it took a while for us to accept the reality. Despite our initial doubts, Ava arrived ten months later.
We’ve talked about having another child, and we’ve stopped taking precautions during those rare moments of intimacy when we’re not too worn out. However, our chances of conceiving are about as good as a Polish cavalry unit facing Nazi tanks at the onset of WWII—not great odds.
We’ve considered adoption but ultimately decided against it. I like to think I’m patient, but the truth is, I worry I might harbor resentment if an adopted child brought challenges, ultimately affecting Ava. Since most kids face issues at some point, I’ve come to realize that adoption might not be the best choice for our family. It’s a selfish perspective, but I’ve learned that acknowledging my limitations is easier than grappling with their complications later on.
IVF is similarly off the table for us. The process is too complex, too costly, and honestly, too draining for someone of my age and temperament. IVF is not a walk in the park. Along with the shots and hormones, there’s a lot of poking, prodding, and wishing involved. After all that, there are no guarantees.
After much deliberation, Emily and I agreed that we have a wonderful little girl to raise. Instead of pouring time, energy, and finances into the uncertainty of IVF, we prefer to channel our efforts into nurturing the child we have rather than worrying about the one we might not.
For more insights on home insemination, you can visit this informative blog, and if you’re considering a DIY approach, check out this essential kit. If you’re looking for more credible information on pregnancy and home insemination, the UCSF Center is an excellent resource.
In summary, while the journey to parenthood can be challenging and full of unexpected twists, we’ve chosen to focus on the joys of raising our daughter, Ava, rather than stressing over what might have been.