one & done

One and Done is a reflection on motherhood, identity, and the quiet spaces that don’t always get mirrored back to us. In this episode, Kathy explores what it means to be a mother beyond numbers — how care, responsibility, and love aren’t measured by how many children you have, but by how fully you show up. A grounded, honest look at parenting one child after IVF, the visibility of other family shapes.

And the certainty that motherhood doesn’t need to be multiplied to count.

hosted by Kathy Patalsky

healthyhappylife.com

IG: KathyPatalsky + notes.kathy

Transcript

one and done.

 "One child can bloom wildly beautifully, fully, with or without siblings.

I think that that's worth saying out loud. So often in  life, the norms around us tell us that that's not true." 

You are listening to Notes with Kathy Patalsky. What happens when a decision everyone has opinions about becomes very clear to you.

One and Done.

Every Morning I say goodbye to my one kid. Some days that means carpool. She hops outta the car with her backpack. The door shuts. Other days, she's already in the car with her dad. I'm standing by the doorway, in my pajamas, messy bun, warm coffee in my hand, waving as they pull away, before I go back inside.

Either way, it's one goodbye. One backpack, one lunch packed, one schedule, one wave, and that's it. There's no second drop off. There's no baby at home. No other small body to care for in that stretch of time, that space between drop off and pick up. And every single morning, there's this small, strange pit in my stomach.

Something is noticeable. The quiet. The fact that this is it. I think that's when it hits me most. Not in the big moments, in the ordinary ones.

Drop off, pick up, repeat.

Because in day-to-day life here in LA, I hear so many other parents talk about double drop offs. Or babies at home while the older kid is at school. Juggling activities, siblings fighting in the backseat or in the living room, or the absolute exhaustion of it all.

And most notably, I see all the joy in that. That's probably the first thing I notice. I see siblings playing together, shared memories. I see that whole world. It's a world I grew up with. And then I look at my life, with just one kid, and it's different.

When your version of life isn't mirrored back to you very often, that difference can start to feel like emptiness. Especially when you realize how rare it is around you.

When I really think about it, I can only count on one hand how many friends I have that have one child. I know some people on social media who talk about it. But it's not the norm I'm surrounded by. What is common is the curiosity.

People love to ask that question. "Why did you have only one kid?" And it's complete curiosity. I totally get it. I do it too. It's pattern seeking. It's social math. When I meet someone with one child, I'm curious. Why did they have only one? Especially when everyone around them seems to have two or three.

And when I'm asked that question. I could answer it a lot of ways. I could say, we did IVF second time and it just didn't work out. I could say we tried, it didn't happen. Or I could say, well, this feels good for our family. This is where we landed. This is what life gave us, and all of those things are true.

None of them are the answer I actually want to give. Because what I really wanna say is this. I'm not just a mother of one. I was affirmed as a mother, and that's the part that people miss, or at least don't say out loud. Motherhood isn't a quantity, it's not a number you add up. For some people, it's something that's always been there.

You see it in the way people care for animals, for siblings, for friends, for neighbors, for their parents, for small little creatures in their backyard. You don't have to give birth to be a mother.

And yes, there is something undeniably singular about being the mother of a human. It's the most intense, clarifying version of that instinct you can experience. For me, having my daughter didn't change who I was though, it just confirmed it.

It gave me certainty around something that I'd felt my entire life, that I am a nurturer, a caretaker, someone who leads with care, responsibility, and love.

And I think that feels controversial to some people. To say out loud that you're a mother before you even have a kid. And I do understand that part. Because birthing a human and taking care of them changes something inside of you. I have matured in so many ways. I have grown stronger in so many ways, since becoming a mother of a human.

But that part of me, deep inside me, that wanted to become a mom of at least one human child, did not change. It just got affirmed.

It doesn't fade or grow with the number of children that I have, and I think that's the ache that I feel most days, not this longing for another baby, even though I felt that for a very long time. And not regret that it's never gonna happen.

But this subtle, constant 

 📍 fear . 

Someone might quietly take that part of my identity away or say that I'm not enough of it because of the number of kids that I have.

Like motherhood can be quantified or qualified. Like having one child makes you less of something. Which is wild when you actually think about it. If you have seven kids, you're not seven times more a mother than someone with one. Yes. Seven kids might be seven times more exhausting. I totally agree with that. But you're still a mom. And yet culturally we act like this scale does exist.

I've told myself that lie many times. I have one kid, so I am one time a mother. You have four kids, you're four times a mother. I've actually said stuff like that to myself.

Here's what it feels like to me, in one sentence.

One child can bloom wildly beautifully, fully, with or without siblings.

I think that that's worth saying out loud. Since so often in life, the norms around us try and tell us that that's not true. 

So when people ask me why I only have one kid, this is what I'd like to say.

I am a mother to my child. I am a mother to other kids who need one. I am a mother in the way I show up, the way I stay, the way I take responsibility for the people and creatures I love. The way I will sacrifice myself. My motherhood doesn't need to be multiplied to count.

It's not about the number, it's about the status. And the feeling attached to that label.

And yes, there are days when I watch other families move through the world, louder, bigger messier, and I feel that familiar ache. What would that feel like to be the mother of an entire house full of children instead of just one? I think it will be fun.

But I don't dwell on what I don't have.

I try and stand firm in the gratitude of what I do have.

And I feel that ache, not for what I don't have, but for how visible their version of motherhood is.

Then I come back to my own life, my one child, my one rhythm. And I remember this, motherhood doesn't need to look crowded to be real. It doesn't need to be loud to be valid, and it doesn't need witnesses to even count.

It lives in the way I hug my daughter goodnight.

So today when I pick up my one kid and she runs to me with her arms wide open and I buckle her into her seat and I close the door on that quiet, empty space beside her. Where her pile of snacks is, instead of a car seat with a sibling, I let it be what it is.

I'll get in the car, move into our next moment, knowing this, I am living a life that fits me. I'm raising one child, with my whole heart, and that is not less.

That is enough.

 This was Notes by Kathy Patalsky

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