One and Done: What Parents of Only Children Want You to Know
At a fall festival last October, a woman I’d met maybe twice asked me the question I’ve learned to brace for. “So is it just the one?” I said yes. She tilted her head, the way people do, and said, “You’ll change your mind.” My son was three then, sitting on the curb eating a powdered donut, watching two brothers wrestle over a plastic dinosaur. I remember thinking, I could just say nothing. Instead I said, “We’re happy with one,” which is true and also the version of the truth that fits in a five-second exchange.
What I didn’t say was this: I’d spent the drive over wondering whether we were making a mistake. Whether he’d be lonely at Thanksgiving in thirty years. Whether I was being selfish, or scared, or both. I don’t think that woman meant any harm. Most people don’t. But the question “how are you doing?” is rarely asked of parents who choose one child. It’s assumed we’ve either not started yet or given up.
So here’s my honest answer.
I’m doing well, mostly. And also still figuring it out.
The Loneliness Question Comes Up First
The first time someone raised it, my son was two. A grandmother at the library, watching him line up plastic animals in a neat row while other kids ran in circles. “Only children get lonely,” she said, not unkindly. I nodded and changed the subject. But I went home and thought about it for days.
Here’s what I’ve noticed since. He does get lonely sometimes. He also gets overstimulated, tired, and hungry, like every child I’ve ever met. Loneliness isn’t a condition unique to only children. It’s a signal. And signals can be answered.
In our house, that means a few specific things. Tuesday afternoons, a neighbor’s daughter comes over for two hours. No structured activity. They just build forts and argue about who gets the good blanket. Thursday mornings, we go to a park where I know at least one other parent will be. I don’t hover. I sit on the bench and let him work out the social negotiations himself, even when it’s awkward.
His preschool teacher told me something last spring that I’ve held onto. She said, “He talks to adults the way he talks to kids. You can tell he spends most of his time with grown-ups.” That landed hard. It wasn’t criticism, exactly. But it told me something I hadn’t seen: he was comfortable with adult conversation, which is lovely at a dinner table, and less useful when you’re five and need to join a game of tag already in progress.
The Script for Joining In
We worked on that at home. Not with a workbook or anything. Just practice. I taught him one line: “Can I play too?” and we rehearsed it on the couch. I played the kid who says no. He’d look crushed. I’d say, “Okay, now what?” We’d try again. It took maybe six or seven tries over a couple of weeks before he used it at the park without prompting. He got a no the first time. He got a yes the second. He came back to the bench and sat next to me, breathing hard, and said, “I did it.” I said, “You did.” That was it.
What I’ve learned is that the social piece doesn’t happen by itself. It has to be built, on purpose, with repetition. Parents of multiple kids get that practice for free at the breakfast table. We don’t. So we make it happen.
The Guilt Is Mine, Not His
The harder part isn’t him. It’s me. There’s a specific kind of guilt that comes with deciding not to have another child. It shows up in strange moments. When he asked, at four, why his friend Nora has a baby brother. When my mother said, “It just feels unfinished.” When I see siblings at the pool, splashing and shouting, and I feel a small, sharp pang I can’t name.
I’ve stopped trying to argue with that feeling. It’s there. It doesn’t mean I made the wrong choice. It just means I made a choice, and choices close doors. That’s not a tragedy. It’s just true.
What helped was getting honest with my husband about it once a year. Not a big conversation. Usually in January, over coffee, one of us will say, “Still good?” and the other will say yes, or we’ll talk about it. We’ve said yes four times now. I don’t know if we’ll always say yes. I’m not pretending we will.
The Everyday Logistics Are Genuinely Easier
I won’t pretend this isn’t part of it. One child means one bedtime, one set of school forms, one college fund. I can sit on the floor and build with him for an hour without checking a clock. We can take a trip without a spreadsheet. I have time to read, and to sleep. These aren’t small things. Parents who say they chose one child purely for philosophical reasons are probably not telling the whole story. Some of us chose it because we were tired, or because our bodies said no, or because we did the math and it didn’t work. That’s fine. That’s a reason.
What I’d Tell a Teacher or a Friend
If you’re teaching or caring for an only child, a few small things help. Give them jobs that involve working with other kids, not just beside them. Pair them with a chatty peer for group work; they’ll often hold their own once someone else starts the conversation. Watch for the kid who talks like a small adult. They’re not showing off. They just haven’t had much practice being six.
And if you’re the friend or relative asking the question, “Are you having another?” you can ask instead, “How’s it going with one?” It’s a different question. It gives room for an actual answer.
Last week my son was drawing at the kitchen table. He drew four people. Me, my husband, himself, and a dog we don’t have. I asked who the fourth was. He said, “That’s for when we get one.” So we’re getting a dog, apparently. That’s where we are. Not a resolution. Just a Tuesday.
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