Despite my tomboy nature, I had a strong suspicion that "Army" would turn into "Prisoner of War", and I immediately said no, not giving the idea the briefest moment, and running for my own room, careful to lock the door behind me. Curling up on the small cot, I opened my book and began to read - it was here, with my books and my stuffed tiger, that I could indulge the desperate fantasy of being an only child. In recent times, I've wondered if this might not have been the beginning of my distrust of and cynicism toward people and the start of what would often be a reclusive lifestyle. I still retreat when threatened and sometimes, just for the pleasure of it, even when I'm not.
Only children seemed to lead more peaceful lives, I imagined though I had no idea whether it was actually true or not. They were more appreciated, more tolerated, certainly more indulged and protected. I couldn't see a real downside to one child families - from my point of view, children were an extravagance, more trouble than reward, and one to a family was more than adequate. It seemed I'd known for as long as I could remember that they were not in my future. My mother enjoyed telling tales of how much she'd sacrificed for us, how impossible we had been to raise and teach, how much she'd given up in order to be a parent and how she feared it would never end. Trying to make sense of this only gave me a headache and a hazy sense of guilt - I would never, I promised myself, bring a child into the world, never punish myself and give in to something I didn't want, as I was sure my mother had done. This was a decision, as my daddy patiently tried to convince me, that could make marriage something of a problem - if marriage was something I wanted, he was quick to add - but I knew, just flat out, without a doubt, deep in my heart, knew that he was wrong.
I managed to meet and marry two like minded men, one who shared my feelings and one who already had grown children. I was happy to leave the issue of grandchildren to my youngest brother, who in no time at all, produced two boys and took up parenting with energy and enthusiasm. My own parents were delighted if a little distant and I only hoped that my nephews would be raised differently than we'd been. Cycles can be hard to break and we often teach what we learn.
When both my marriages ended in divorce, I remember feeling fortunate that there were no children to quarrel over - there was limited damage on both sides, although more so the second time around - a custody battle would've done me in.
My mother began her family ingrained with the belief that children were necessary accessories, required add ons that would guarantee her acceptance and happiness. She came to see them as burdens - imperfect, demanding and constantly in the way. Right or wrong, I was convinced that whatever mysterious parenting gene was lacking in her was also lacking in me and I knew as surely as I knew anything, that children would've been an irreversible and fatal mistake.
The friends I have with children are caring, committed parents - born to it, it seems to me, as naturally as grass grows, unable to imagine life without them. But for me, even an only child would've been one too many.
Simply having children does not make mothers. ~John A. Shedd
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