I’m putting all my eggs into one basket - from now until menopause - all my hopes, dreams, and genes. I’m stopping at one. I’ve done the soul searching. I don’t want another child. I’m more than happy and satisfied with the one I’ve got. I hear no higher calling except the one from the top of the stairs saying, “Mom, I need to go pee-pee.” I don’t want to go through the stress. Is there a double line or not? Is the jellybean’s heart beating? Does the baby have Down’s syndrome? A genetic disease? Is the cord wrapped around its neck? I am still in awe that any babies get born at all. I still can’t believe that DNA aligned for me even once.
And what if I do have the baby. What if the second isn’t as good as the first? What if it’s harder to find things to love? The first is such a novelty will I be bored doing it all again? What if it's a boy? I’m a single mom and I’m just so happy that I don’t have to deal with the boy in the girl’s bathroom kind of a thing.
And, yes, I could have another if I wanted and I wouldn’t need to go beg for a house on national TV.
Will my one be lonely? She might but who among us hasn’t been lonely. I have two sisters and I’ve been lonely. But then I think, what if. What if the worst happened. I don’t even want to think about that but the thought does creep into my mind like an unwanted rat in the garage. I won’t have a fallback, a number two. But then again, we never really do. No one will ever be my Penelope but my Penelope and it would be unfair to think that anyone could ever replace her.
Penelope is my one.