And when he found out she was a the only childgave me that unwanted instruction.

Honestly, I was surprised. I didn’t expect a short, and until then completely pleasant, interaction at the bus stop to turn sour so quickly.

But things went from bad to worse when the stranger’s teenage niece intervened.

“Otherwise, he’ll grow up spoiled and horrible.”

Two women from different generations with the same very outdated opinion – and so persistent in their ignorance that they approach a perfect stranger in public with no idea what they’re going through.

I was too shocked to say anything at the time. I normally have an answer ready for the question, but I didn’t know what to say to a stranger who insisted that they just “have to”.

And I’m not the only one who has had to deal with such confrontations.

Some of my friends and family members who finally became parents after years IVF and heartbreak, are asked in a few weeks after birth when they have another – as if it were that easy.

The first time I was asked, I was in the postnatal ward and the question came from another brand new mum – Melody wasn’t even 24 hours old.

Since becoming a mom, I’ve seen a lot of parenting posts Facebook groups asking for reassurance and validation about what is the “best” number of children to have.

I strongly believe that what works for a family is entirely unique to them and therefore seeking advice on this topic is largely pointless – so being given “advice” you didn’t ask for is not it’s spectacularly good, especially if it questions the character. of my existing child.

My husband, Bradley, and I are both second children, with one older sister each. Both parents are the older of the two.

I’ve always felt extremely maternal, and I was certain that I wanted as many children as financially and biologically possible. My husband was more reserved – unsurprisingly, he felt two was the magic number.

I’m not sure why I always wanted so many children, but I suspect it had something to do with a prejudice I had in those days, that only children were, indeed, spoiled and difficult .

We met in the middle at three and started trying for baby number one shortly after turning 30. I found out I was pregnant three weeks before our wedding and we were beyond excited.

I enjoyed a healthy, fit pregnancy with lots of swimming, walking and I was glowing.

However, my pregnancy ended with an inaccurate growth scan, a rushed but unsuccessful induction and (as it turned out) a completely unnecessary induction. caesarean. I was desperate to breastfeed but my milk was delayed due to the drugs and I gave birth to the hungriest baby in the world.

What followed was unimaginable. Postnatal depression hit me like a ton of bricks. i had aversion to breastfeedingwhich I had never even heard of.

I couldn’t feed myself. I couldn’t connect. I couldn’t sleep and I couldn’t stop crying. I begged my husband to say it was okay that I had changed my mind – I never wanted children again, assuming I would survive this one.

I saw that he was disappointed, but I calmed down, she was enough, and I was enough. We didn’t have to go through anything I didn’t feel okay about, and he never pressured me to change my mind – not then or now.

With treatment, time and some much needed sleep, I recovered. But I’m still mourning the effortless mother of a brood in a seven-seater that I always thought I would be. I find motherhood beautiful and joyful and so enjoyable – but much more difficult than I ever imagined.

I didn’t make the transition without effort. I haven’t yet.

I’m not ready to face that possibility yet, and Melody was only recently two years old. That the cost of living crisis keeps getting worse, I meet more and more families who have only one child, whether they intended it or not – and they are happy. They are satisfied.

And their single children are delightful – certainly not “horrible”.

So much research has been done to disprove the inaccurate stereotype of the spoiled only child; one who cannot share and see the world beyond his own nose – is cruel and false.

Imagine explaining all this to a stranger and her niece at a bus stop who I didn’t know from Adam.

People I meet in public often ask me immediately after saying hello to my daughter and I if I “have anything else.” I’m always confused as to why I immediately assume she was an only child – I could have had three more kids at home playing with another babysitter.

I also take issue with the way this stupid question is phrased – since I fell pregnant with Melody in November 2021 I have seen a devastating number of friends try and fail to conceive, spend thousands of pounds on failed fertility treatments and suffer miscarriages. .

My mother went through menopause in a flash at 41. I am 33 years old. I know well that the fertile window is finite. I don’t know if I will, mostly because it’s not up to me.

Assuming the planets align this way, having more children is still a person’s (or couple’s) individual choice. I don’t say no to other kids, and my husband doesn’t book a vasectomy in our immediate future.

But it’s not a conversation I feel I need to have with strangers at a bus stop, and I can only imagine how much worse it must be when someone has suffered losses like I’ve seen elsewhere.

Melody is enough to make me cringe – how about telling us how lucky we are to have her instead of instantly brushing her aside to tell me she’s not enough?

She is enough, just like all of us.

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