I spent a year waiting to see if I could live with the man I married (he didn’t live in the same country until a month after the fact) before we considered having children. Three, to be precise. One to complain that they were the oldest child, one to complain that they were the youngest, and one to complain about being the middle child.
Now I have, and will only have, one child who doesn’t complain about being an only child. Torran has Autism and is completely happy with his own company.
But I’m not.
I didn’t want to be the mother who had to heap yet another diagnosis on my child. Hadn’t he been through enough already? Sure, he was thriving, but he faced a lifetime of surgical risks and life threats. Each new diagnosis set back my emotional coping for months at a time.