White Lie

Sammy asks for "another kid" for our family every week. On Monday, he asked again for one so that he would "always have someone to play with when you can't play with me". It breaks my heart, every time, but it's getting harder, as well. I hate not being able to give him something he so very much wants. It kills me inside every time and yet? I smile. I play up how WONDERFUL our little family of three is. I tell him how great it will be to have friends at school to play with and still be able to come home and be alone and have his stuff. I tell him how PERFECT and HAPPY we are (we are!) and list all the great things. I never say that this isn't normal. I never say anything negative. I simply say that this is our family and we aren't getting another kid and how wonderful it is to be him and have all of mommy and daddy's attention and love. And I joke away the despair on his face. I kiss away the hurt. I hug the sorrow out of his eyes. And I assure him that we're ok. We'll be just fine. Everything is right and just how it should be.

And then, when I can, I find a quiet place to sob. I plead to have some measure of peace for him. That I'm not screwing this thing up too badly. That I will somehow, by a MIRACLE, know what to say next time. And pray a little harder there will never again be a next time. I've never felt badly for myself; not really. Mostly the hurt is for Sammy. I realize that even if we felt as though we COULD have another kid, the timing has passed. There is too big a gap, now. And we would be doing it to appease him. Not because it is right or true for us.

I know having a sibling isn't a fail safe. I KNOW that. We could have another kid who hates doing Sammy stuff. Or wants to be left alone. Or is mean. They could simply not like one another. And grow up not talking. I know. I KNOW! But I hate that Sammy has to deal with being lonely so young. I hate that he just can't understand right now why this is how it has to be. But what I hate most is that I'm so very alone in navigating these waters. Because there is NO ONE who knows. No one who can say anything to make it all better, make it different, make it all go away. No one knows what it is like to parent an only Sammy. But still, I so desperately wish I weren't writing the only book on Sammy as I go.

So, in the meantime, when I put Sammy in the cart at Sams and he looks at the empty seat beside him and asks, again, if we could PLEASE have another kid, I'll keep smiling and reminding him that we're OK. That we're the perfect family of three. That it would be too many kids for us if we had more. And tell him that this is the perfect way for us to be. And keep kissing him until the subject is changed. Because I don't know what else to do. And there always seems to be a next time. Prayers be damned.


(cuts you up, peter murphy)