Five Again

I just spent a delightful afternoon walking down memory lane. My five-year-old niece is visiting. 

My niece and my teen daughter are very close. They are both only children, so they refer to each other as "sister cousins." Now to some, this phrase may evoke a backwoods clan with a rather loose interpretation of intermarriage. But, for all of us, it just reinforces a special bond the girls have despite nearly ten years difference in their ages.

Alas, my daughter is in the throes of an extended date with one David Copperfield. Yes, Charles Dickens' autobiographical novel was assigned as Summer reading for ninth grade Honors English. (There's nothing quite like lugging a 7 pound, 950 page book to the beach, is there?) 

So, what's a visiting sister-cousin supposed to do? Play with her doting aunt, of course!

There was no need for me to plan ahead. A sentimentalist at heart, I've kept many of my own playthings not to mention my daughter's. It's not entirely my fault. Our school district's thrift shop won't accept toys anymore and neither will the local children's hospital. So, they sit here in fairly pristine condition, safely housed in labelled storage boxes, just waiting for young guests.

First, I got out the paper dolls. I adored paper dolls as a girl, spending hours cutting Betsy McCalls from my mother's magazines, then setting up a boarding school for them with decor and accessories clipped from the Sears Roebuck catalog. (Remember that massive tome?) My daughter was less than interested, despite a fairly impressive collection which included Jo, Beth, Amy and Meg from Little Women, great scenes from the ballet, Madeleine and Mary Engelbreit, among others. Which classic figures did my niece immediately gravitate towards? Barbie! Yes, that famous blonde's infamous curves are available in paper as well as plastic. And, her outfits? Let's just say that she should be able to make an excellent living on the Vegas strip.

When the paper dolls ceased to amuse, I sent my niece up to the little playroom under our eaves where my daughter keeps her American Girl doll collection. My niece insisted on undressing and re-dressing each doll, piling up elaborate hairdos and then putting them to bed. I surveyed the chaos (the room had been perfectly organized mere minutes before), and sighed with satisfaction. I firmly believe that toys — even overpriced "collectibles" — should be played with.

Next, we moved on to coloring books. We happily decorated flowers and fairies. Until, she found a fabric crate filled with Polly Pockets. The one in black boots and cropped blonde bob was Gwen Stefani. The rest of the dolls were her backup singers. I kid you not.

From there, we made necklaces and suncatchers with a never even opened tub of Perler beads. For the record, arranging the little plastic beads on the pegboard is a challenge for fifty-year-old fingers as well as five-year-old ones. And, the instructions say to iron the finished design for ten seconds on medium. Ha! Through much trial and error, I am here to tell you that it's more like ten minutes on high. 

Finally, I pulled out a card deck and we played "War." It's a quick and easy game, and a great way to reinforce counting and math basics. (For the record, she whooped my sorry butt — then laughed her little head off because we said "butt.")

At this point, I was fairly wiped out. My daughter needed a break from Mr. Dickens and I happily handed off my charge. The last thing I saw was the two of them, curled up on the couch with goldfish crackers watching Scooby Doo.

My niece is a bright, verbal, energetic little thing. She can exhaust her parents with the best of them. But, while my brother and his wife were probably happy to have a bit of a respite, I had to warn them to treasure every minute. The time does fly.

And, whether they believe it or not (and I'm quite certain they do not) ... it's going to get so much harder.

Only the Lonely

One day, when my daughter was about four years old, it suddenly occurred to her that she didn't have a brother or a sister. I think this must have coincided with a growing awareness of her preschool playmates and how their families were similar and different from ours. She asked us to have another baby so she wouldn't be an only child. But, she had misheard the expression and said, "I don't want to be a lonely child." It was a sweet and funny mistake — her juvenile logic was irrefutable and a little bit heartbreaking.

When I was pregnant, my husband and I agreed that we only wanted one child. It's not because I had all-day morning sickness for 21 weeks (although I did). There were other more strategic reasons. First of all, by the time we had our daughter, we weren't exactly "spring chickens" (my hospital record at the Salem Birthplace listed my condition categorically as "advanced maternal age" — nice). We were doing well financially, but the idea of multiple concurrent college tuitions was downright daunting. Plus, we really liked our life; we especially enjoyed traveling, entertaining, eating out, going to the theatre. And we assumed, correctly I think, that limiting our family to only one child would enable us to continue to do these things. There would just be three of us where there had once been two.

We aren't alone in seeing the advantages of having an only child. Here's some census data for you. There are an estimated 20 million only-child households in the United States; that number has more than doubled in the past twenty years. In fact, both in the U.S. and in most Western European countries, only-child families are the fastest growing family households.There are several factors, such as timing (working couples are waiting longer to start families), and economics. It costs on average between $200-$300,000 to raise a child and that's before you add in any college. Both of these factors come into play big-time in New York City, my hometown, where over 30% of children are "onlies."

The typical family has certainly changed since the 19th century when G. Stanley Hall, the so-called "founder of child psychology," said that "Being an only child is a disease in itself." A disease. Ouch.

We made our decision, and fortunately, because of where and when we live, it was ours to make. But, over the years, I've often wished for another child.

Princess Diana was expected to produce an "heir and a spare," and the Duchess of Cambridge will probably follow suit in the near future. I confess, even as a commoner, I see some sense in that approach. My daughter is not in line for any throne that I know of, but there would be comfort in having a more diversified family portfolio. In terms of my maternal affection, all my eggs are in one basket.

I've heard new mothers wonder how they could possibly love another baby as much as their first one. Yet most of these mothers go on to have a second and sometimes third. Clearly, the heart is infinitely expandable. Having loved my own baby, to this day, I find that I love all babies. Forevermore, I am part of a great sorority of mothers.

Lately, I've found myself wishing for a second child when I find I'm out of favor with my first and only. This happens often (oh, so so often). I feel sorry for myself and think, 'Maybe if I had gone ahead and had more babies, at least one of them would appreciate me.' But with my luck, they would meet in secret, share their grievances, band together and stage a coup.

Mother-tween conflicts aside, there are indisputable good things about being an only-child family. I'm able to give my daughter more of my time, more attention, more homework help. As expected, we do indeed still travel and go to the theatre and eat out. There's better cash flow for things like designer jeans, riding lessons, state-of-the-art cell phones and over-priced, under-nutritious junk food. And, quite honestly, I believe that my daughter has benefited from all the adult company over the years. I'm proud of her high grades, her attention span, and her ability to hold her own when she's the only short person at the table.

But what about that little four-year old's concern? What about the loneliness?

It's a matter of semantics. I encourage my daughter to think of "family" in broader terms. It's not just the three humans (and one tiny, neurotic dog) that live in our house. She has two BFFs she's known since she was two; she literally can't remember a time when they weren't in her life. She has six older cousins on my husband's side who are all smart and beautiful and athletic, who set a good example for her in so many ways. She has one younger cousin on my side, the sweetest little girl who is also an "only." They call each other "sister-cousins." And, she's about to celebrate her thirteenth birthday (we're calling it her "shiksa-mitzvah") with my best friend's teenaged daughter, who is as beloved as any blood cousin or sister could possibly be.

So, G. Stanley Hall, we're going to have to disagree. Being an only child is certainly not a disease. According to Mother Teresa, it's a disease "to be nobody to anybody.”

My daughter is somebody special to an awful lot of siblings.