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I’m a mother of one, and that’s all I’ll ever be. I’m part of a snug, tightly knit circle of three – mummy, daddy and baby. We will only ever buy one cot, one baby bath, one pram, one trike. We don’t have to go through the whole sleepless-nights thing again. We have to consider only one set of schools, for one sex (a boy). And we can plan for the future with more certainty than those of our friends who want, or have, more children. It’s a lovely life, a privileged life; I know people who think it’s a perfect life. But it’s not the life I chose.
When I was younger, I couldn’t imagine not having children. I thought I would have two, or even four: not one (lonely only), and not three (wild middle child). But the very idea of having them scared me so much that I wondered if I ever would. But here I am, stuck on some ledge between that ideal family of four and the life without kids I secretly feared. And it is a common story of too little, too late.
I have never felt maternal or broody, never had that primal urge to produce. I never baby-sat as a teenager, and I felt uncomfortable if someone brought a baby into the office. I didn’t know how to pick them up – they were all floppy. I dragged my feet through my twenties, and then my long-term relationship faltered after nine years. He had wanted children from the outset, but I resisted, and my inability to commit was one of the main issues that spelt the end for us. A brief spell of fun ensued, then I met and married a man for whom children was a condition of the proposal. After a year of being newlyweds, we started trying – and I became pregnant after six months.
Three years on, I have no idea how I got that bun in the oven so easily. My menstrual cycle had always been weird. I had no idea about ovulation, bodily fluids, temperature charts or hormone levels. We worked hard and went out a lot, and we certainly weren’t “careful” – somehow that did the trick.
Early bleeding and a Down’s syndrome alarm put the fear of God into me that I might actually lose this baby, so I swiftly joined the broody camp. By my second trimester, at the age of 35, I had willingly given up the fags and booze and sunk back, surprisingly gratefully, into the chubby comfort of being an expectant mother.
I loved being pregnant. I developed a passion for wine gums and poppadoms, and spent a fortune in Topshop’s maternity department. I worried about my motherly abilities, but as my belly grew, so did my desire to meet this small, tickling thing who was making my feet and ankles swell and my back ache.
Jonah arrived two weeks early. The resulting stay in hospital was truly medieval and helped my descent into the postnatal depression I had always assumed that I would get. I took mild antidepressants for five months and had counselling for a year. I got through it, and, as a result, my love for Jonah and strength as a mother were greater than I had ever imagined possible. Jonah, of course, is truly beautiful. He slept, laughed, walked and ate well. We all muddled along, and by the time he was eight months old, I felt strong enough to do two things: go back to work, and start trying for another baby.
The months went by. Work was great, but I was part-time, and I began to dwell on other things, such as the absence of a second baby. When seven months had passed with no double lines appearing on the test sticks, I found myself sitting in the GP’s surgery, getting the results of some blood tests. She pushed a box of tissues towards me and told me, gently, that I had some of the worst hormone levels for fertility. What she meant was: you won’t be having any more babies.
How can it be that, in two short years, you can switch from always having feared something to being wholly, utterly and helplessly in love with it? If someone had told me how I would be feeling as I limped home from that consultation with wobbly legs and a heavy heart, I might never have been so reluctant to get started the first time around. But then, what use is hindsight to me now?
The doctor referred us for treatment, but the waiting list was three months long. By the time our first appointment came around, I was far, far away in a dark place, putting up with uncomfortable investigations, taking endless negative pregnancy tests and having sad meetings with medics, as my dreams drifted out of reach.
Over the course of a year, we saw the best and worst of the NHS in action. We were poked and prodded, had our hopes raised and dashed, and became consummate experts in the art of waiting. We had one round of hormone-boosting, egg-growing drugs, a treatment that was aborted when my dwindling menstrual cycle packed in completely.
No hormone, real or fake, can stimulate the production of brand-new eggs when you have none. The consultant diagnosed premature ovarian failure and, politely and delicately, sent me away from his clinic with a packet of hormone-replacement-therapy drugs to help with the night flushes and exhaustion.
Luckily, my husband is ruthlessly upbeat. He is an only child and proud of it, and not remotely bothered that we will be on a table for three from now on. His attitude is going to make it much easier for us all to move on.
Many things keep me optimistic, chiefly that most simple and obvious platitude that we are lucky to have Jonah. My husband tells me that being “only” is a lovely life – and I believe him. And many people I know have not even had their first child yet; some won’t ever. We are lucky.
But my son will always be known as an only child, with all the connotations that the label can bring. Will people expect him to be spoilt? Will they expect him to be insular? Will he be lonely? Will people assume we opted for a more comfortable lifestyle, rather than go through the bother of having more? Some already wonder why we don’t do IVF (using someone else’s eggs) or adoption. Given my past history of worrying about how I would bond with my own child, the thought of going through it with another person’s is too daunting to consider.
Mine is a common story: no more eggs.Why it has happened to me at 38 is something I’ve wrestled with, but, as time passes, it’s not helpful for me to wonder further. We have Jonah. We have a lovely house and enough money. We haven’t lost a baby. My husband loves me. Nobody has died.
But still I feel bereaved. I’m sorry if I sound ungrateful. However, it’s fair to say I am experiencing the death of something – the idea of more children. A planned way of life, for Jonah and for us, that will never be.
For further information and advice about secondary infertility, contact Infertility Network UK on 0870 118 8088 or www.infertilitynetworkuk.com
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To all you nasty people, how would or could you possibly understand what she is going through if you are not / haven't been there before??? Who are you to judge her and her feelings? I am in a similar position except that my son is not my husband's biological child, he is however the only child we have, after trying for four years... and yes the problem lays with ME. Yes i have the same fear, desires and needs for my son that Mo has for hers. I also envisaged a "perfect" family of four, Does that make me ungrateful? Does a girl's dream of a "perfect family" and "white picket fence" get torn to shreds by heartless persons, just because life doesn't always turn out the way we have planned, NO it shouldn't. I love my son with my whole heart. Even though like Mo when i was younger i never could never see myself as the maternal kind. The day i held him in my arms all that changed, I cannot imagine life without him, his smile, his touch, his smell.
Razia, Cape Town , South Africa
I think it is obvious from the article that Mo has a very supportive husband whom she loves very much, and that they both adore their son and know just how lucky they are to have him. That doesn't stop it being a grief that they cannot have more children. Infertility, for whatever reason and at whatever stage, is a personal tragedy - I know this from my own experience. Of course there are worse things that could happen and you have to keep a sense of perspective, which I think Mo has done, but it is not 'selfish' to wish that your family could have been larger and it is incredibly callous to say that someone should just 'get over it'.
Katherine, Oxford,
An interesting article about the heartbreak that infertility can casue... http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/uk/article756401.ece
Katherine, Oxford,
I'm 31 and trying for my first child. I think that most woman think that they will naturally start having children once they decide to start trying. To find out that it's not that easy must be hard, whether it's your first, second or bejillionth child. Thank you for writing this article. It's good to know that everything doesn't always run like clockwork.
amy, Leeds, west Yorkshire
I too am surprised at some of the comments here, I don't think Mo ever saw having more than one child as a "right", more that it was a dream, one that I guess many of us share and the loss of a dream can be devastating.
All I can say Mo is that the grieving does end and I hope it does for you soon.
PJ, Kent,
The phrase "I met and married a man for whom children were a condition of the proposal" made me shiver. The fear that your husband's love for you is and always has been conditional on your ability to produce children must be terrifying. In the face of this, there is little wonder that secondary infertility has hit you so hard.
I discovered I was infertile at the age of 27. Happily, my husband married me for me, not my ovarian function, and we have come to terms with not having children.
As a generality, I do wish women could be more aware about fertility. Are intelligent women who want four kids really kidding themselves that this is achievable if they don't have their first until 35 ? Let's face facts. 35 is pretty much in the last chance saloon as far as natural fertility goes. Women who gamble on leaving it later should do so knowing that the chances of success are slim and that for every 40 something mum there are a dozen disappointed women who gambled and lost.
C S, Coventry,
I hope that none of the contributors of such vile comments have ever have any health problems that they had not planned for. You must all have such perfect lives to expect someone to just get over any issue they might be dealing with. This article doesn't talk about children being a right - it's about an aspect of life that not all of us experience or have thought about.
Being a responsible 30 something and waiting till your student debt is paid off, you have a roof over your head, are in a stable relationship, and are financially stable means that this is an issue for more and more people.
Of course she will be a great mother to her son, but that doesn't mean there's no grief about having more children. It's called being human!
Louise , London, UK
What a truly touching story.
Secondary infertility must be so hard to comprehend when you can conceive perfectly easily and naturally one year, and then just a short time later be told that it can never happen again.
It's obvious how much she loves her son, worries about him growing up an only child, and all the things attached to such a label, but I'm sure Mo and her husband will make his childhood a happy one.
K Davies, South Wales,
This is a piece of writing that comes from the heart.
As a mummy of 2 with only one here with me i know exactly what it is to have a loss - whether it be your fertility or a child.
I take my heart off to Mo for having the courage to write this piece and i wish her and her small but perfect family well
fiona w , perth, scotland
My husband and I are an infertile couple so I understand Mo's feelng of loss. But I find her attitude confusing and a bit immature - e.g., she always envisioned having children and dreamt of an "ideal family of four", yet was also reluctant and never felt maternal. She should worry less about what others may think of her child and, indeed, of her. I am only child and never encountered the sorts of prejudice she foresess. I do think she is selfish not to consider adoption. Her worries about bonding with her child appear to have been unfounded ... so I think the only thing standing between her and an adopted child is her negative attitude. Ultimately, I find it incredibly hard to truly feel for her. At least she has had the gift of being able to have a biological child. She acknowledges how much luckier they are than other couples and how happy her son makes her, yet there is a a big "but" immediately after such statements ... I hope her child never has to read this.
Rhiannon, Toronto,
Good Lord, do people STILL think there is some hang up with being an only child? Unless the writer is planning on avoiding all contact with other children there is no more reason that an only would be more lonely than a fourth child tucked away when parent's attention is spread thinly. And how can an only child be both spoilt and lonely?
Vanessa, London, UK
I really empathise with this woman. I was only 20 years old when our first child was born and over the moon that we'd had a beautiful little girl.
After I completed university we started trying again for our second child but after 6 years I started to give up on the idea. I focused on building a new career but deep down I felt like a failure. Our love life became a series of planned sex sessions just to get pregnant. I had a perfect 28 day cycle and was the envy of my friends. But nothing happened.
Deperately unhappy I began to withdraw from my family and friends. My relationship began a downward spiral & my husband stated that it was fine to have an only child. I didn't want to accept this. I kept on asking myself why me? I wasn't old and I was naive enough to think that this problem only happened to the over 30's group. 10 years later I had a second baby after a very difficult pregnancy. Our children are very precious and I don't take anything for granted anymore.
Shoma , Dubai, UAE
Graeme, btheis and Mrs Doubtfire, can I suggest you read the article again? I don't think you have understood what Mo is saying.
Mo, I really enjoyed reading your article, you sound like a perfect Mother to me. Don't let these heartless fools upset you.
VJ, SoS, Essex
What a fantastic article! I haven't suffered secondary infertility per se myself, in comparison I have been very lucky being pretty fertile but I have had three miscarriages in the last year or so and am now pregnant again and awaiting the dreaded 12 week scan to see if it's still alive and not died three weeks ago like I found out at my last scan.
I have that exact same longing for a second child and know exactly where Mo is coming from. The first child is so fulfilling and fantastic to have two would be great, for us as well as for them to enjoy each other.
My heart goes out to Mo.
E Smart, Penzance, Cornwall
What nauseating drivel. Please thank your lucky stars that you have a super son and a loving husband. Why always want more than what you have?And why did you assume that you would get post natal depression?Methinks you think too much about yourself..
And yes I have more than one child but also one whose life has been well and truly blighted by meningitis. Now that is another type of enduring grief. And no I didn't sink into depression either. There are women out here who don't have the time to reflect on what could have been but just get on with the loving. Please get on with loving your husband and son and be thankful.
M Thornton, Edinburgh,
You can only say "get over it" if it hasn't happened to you. It sounds selfish to anyone else unless you have found yourself in that situation. I, too, have one absolutely adorable little boy who I worship and love. But one is not what I had planned. 20 months after his birth, I lost what would have been his little brother very late on in pregnancy. And then was unable to conceive again. The doctors think my body has put up a kind of natural contraception to prevent it going through a similar trauma again. It has torn me apart.
It is not self-pitying. It is for my child as much as me. I want my son to have a sibling. I want him to have a bond with someone that you can't get through friendship. I want him to learn how to share his parents/grandparents and their attention and lives. I want him to have some blood relative when me and his father are no longer around. None of this can be understood by people that haven't desperately wanted to expand their family and can't.
Beth, Strasbourg, France
I cannot believe some of the callous comments on here.
To be told you are infertile is a devastating blow, regardless of whether you have any existing children or not.
Julia, UK,
Having lived through the emotional rollercoaster of 5 unsuccessful fertility treatments I feel Mo Lawson has no right to complain about her situation. She comes across as someone who is selfish and so incredibly out of touch with reality. She is the epitome of what is wrong with todayâs âwant-it-all, must-have-it-nowâ society. She has been blessed with the most precious gift that any human being could wish for and rather than looking at her child as something amazing, she is more concerned with the fact that her table will only ever have three seated around it. I do not understand why you gave this woman a two page spread to write her negative, self-absorbed story when you could have used the space for an article that gives encouragement and hope to those that will never experience the joy of natural motherhood but will spend there lives trying to achieve.
D Wilson, Horley, England
What a callous remark from Mrs Doubtfire. I'm sure Mo's main concerns lie with her son and worrying about the possible lonliness a lack of siblings may bring him, and her desire for a second child isn't just about fulfilling her own "selfishness".
M.Sanders, Bristol, UK
Ever heard of adoption? Or fostering?
Think you should be happy with your lot, Mo, and stop "mo"-aning.
Beyond selfish!
Mrs Doubtfire, London, UK
Writing this article has probably done a lot of good. Now, don't agonise about it any more. Enjoy your child, your husband and your life, and forget about unfulfilled expectations. Your family is lovely and precious and they think that about you.
I am an only child too and I will never have children but I have found that there are lots of of good things even though they are not what I was expecting - really. Believe your husband and have a happy life.
M. Grey, Newcastle,
Adoption?
Millions of kids are already on this world with no parents and will never have any ...maybe one of them is perfect for you.
Pia, uk, uk
I am sorry to hear of your loss. Anything we have hoped for, to only discover we cannot have, is a loss. With that, there is grief and its entire process to go through.
Though nothing can change the outcome, or your concerns for your son being an only child, i want to mention, there have been recent studies released to the public, regarding the child's birth position within the family, and in particular regarding the personality of the only child.
I am the mother of an only child, and have always shared the same concerns you have voiced in your article. Yet, recent studies reveal, the only child is more likely to be the most well-adjusted child of all. They are often the most independent, are emotionally mature in a fashion that makes them healthy, caring people, have good communication skills, and are good with problem solving. They like to share, at all levels.
My only child is 18, and a shining eg of all the above. I'm often told by people how admired she is.
Best of luck.
Vanessa Kee, Bayfield. On, Canada
I am a mother of none, and that's all I will ever be. I have had every test and treatment possible over the past 5 years and cannot get pregnant.
This woman should be so thankful that she has a child at all and consider herself lucky, being 'involuntarily' childless is horrible - I would not wish it on anyone.
H, Cheshire,
What a self-pitying piece. Children are a blessing not a 'right'. There is no 'label' attached to 'only' children - I pity Jonah for the seemingly inadequate mother he has been landed with.
btheis, London,
Get over it - you were lucky enough to have one kid anyway.
Graeme Carter, London,