I come from a large family; there are seven kids: four older and two younger than me. It's comforting to know that six other people had a childhood remarkably similar to my own. When we get together, we sometimes laugh about memories or analyze the roots of certain shared behaviors. We fought often when we were younger, but now, for the most part, we share close relationships.

Elizabeth and I had a hard time getting pregnant. It took us over four years. Right now, Sonora is our only child. I think we are providing her with a good childhood. We are patient, do a lot of educational activities with her, feed her well, smile and laugh with her often, fully adore and love her. But we don't have any siblings for her.

We are trying again, but we are also in our thirties. Even if we could churn out a kid every two years (and our record suggests this is unlikely), our grand total would be about four siblings for Sonora. A full two less than what I grew up with and five less than what Elizabeth enjoyed.

Besides the biological obstacles to having more kids, I don't think we really want five. Three, maybe four. But I can't help but be sad for Sonora. She'll have more individual access to her parents than Elizabeth and I had to ours, but her world seems kind of lonely to me, so non-magical, so real. Adults don't have the same capacity for wonder, for backyard adventure, that siblings do. Hay bale forts aren't as cool to me as a thirty-year old as they were when I was ten. When I tell her about Santa and the tooth fairy, I will know that I am lying. I know that, no matter how hard I reach, I won't be able to touch the jet liner above me. Some of that lack of imagination will likely come across in my voice when Sonora asks. A sibling would be able to share in her illusions, co-inhabit a world that exists according to their changing rules. I am afraid adulthood has made me a permanent skeptic. I still love to wonder, but rationality consistently tempers my dreams.

Perhaps, though, Sonora's is simply the plight of oldest children everywhere. Regardless of whether or not Elizabeth and I are able to have more children, Sonora will never have an older brother or sister. She came first, is the John the Baptist to any possible others. Her sacrifice will be that the others will have what she did not: a young world ready for new members.

Yesterday I came home from the community college where I work and shuffled out onto the playground in front of our apartment complex to meet my wife and daughter. Several women were scattered around the play area, sometimes standing together in groups with other women, sometimes solitary--sitting on an immobile swing or on the railroad tie that frames the sandbox. Around each woman, three or four children clustered. When a woman wandered one way or another, the children would follow in an irregular cluster, like little planets searching for their sun.

The women looked tired. Their shoulders bowed forward. They wore loose clothing that for the most part could double as pajamas. I wore slacks and a long-sleeved, semi-formal shirt, and I was the only man on the playground. Ten or fifteen feet away from my wife, my nineteen-month-old daughter played in the pea gravel. She didn't see me approaching her until I was a few feet away from her. I'm waiting for the day when she throws her arms out to me and runs up yelling, "Daddy!" Today, when she saw me, she stopped playing and stood up, then ran the other way calling, "Mommy?"

I know I'm not as important in my daughter's life as her mother, and probably I won't be for several years, but I wish I were. I know the couple of hours I am around my daughter each day doesn't compare with the thirteen hours my wife spends with her, but I wish that she could understand that my absence allows one of her parents to always be present. I played with her on the playground for half an hour or so, and she laughed when I swung her or tossed her in the air, but every time her feet touched the ground, she gravitated toward my wife. Every time I moved to play with her, I felt as if I were pulling her out of her orbit. In a way, it almost felt like it would be easier to just stand and watch, to observe her and not interfere.

It's hard to always feel like the less desirable parent, to have my identity be "not Mom." It would be easier to let her be and not play with her, not read to her, not help her put together puzzles. If I avoided doing these activities with her, I could also avoid the regular feelings of rejection that I experience each time my daughter realizes I am not her mother and runs to find my wife. But then our relationship would likely always be shallow and unfulfilling. I'll just keep trying. My wife assures me that separation anxiety from Mom is normal for this age. Hopefully someday, my daughter will be excited to see me.