Photo courtesy of Molly Brennan

Trolling through this site recently I re-read the article, “Does Having Kids Equal Happiness?” and found a particularly interesting nugget of information: “According to a new study by Dr. Luis Angeles published in The Journal of Happiness Studies, children have a significant and positive effect on life satisfaction, an effect that only increases with the number of kids.”

Satisfaction increases with the number of kids? Dr. Angeles should come to my house for dinner. This finding is so contrary to my personal experience that it’s hard to swallow. The quality-of-life changes that we have undergone from one child to three children are dramatic, and not in a positive way.

When I think about my days with one child what I remember most are those quiet moments just sitting and holding my daughter, gazing into her eyes or reading her a book. Giving her a bath was practically meditative it was so relaxing and enjoyable. We went for countless walks and brought her out to restaurants for leisurely meals (truth be told, restaurant meals with a baby were stressful at the time, but only because we didn’t know just how bad it could be!) It was easy to bring her along to run an errand or go away for a weekend to visit friends.

Granted, our second child turned out to be twins, so our family’s experience would skew this study, but no matter how I look at it, I can’t say that life has gotten better with three kids than with one. It’s louder. It’s about 7,000 times more complicated logistically. It’s occasionally more fun. But has it made me happier? I don’t know if I can honestly say yes.

That’s tough for me to admit, because I have always been adamant about wanting a big family. Growing up as a single child I would have given anything for a sibling. I made lists of the names I would give the even dozen children I planned on having. By the time I was contemplating real motherhood, I was convinced that three was the right number, but my husband firmly disagreed. Charlie—the youngest of three—felt strongly that we should stop at two. Guess I got my way on that one, huh?

Here are just a few of the complications multiple children bring that I didn’t fully anticipate:

There are not many cars we fit in, and thanks to the rules that require kids to be in booster seats until they are practically eight years old, this is for the long haul.

Waiters and waitresses don’t greet you with a friendly smile when you walk into a restaurant with three young kids.

We had to stop visiting some friends because there literally wasn’t enough floor space in their guest room for three portable cribs.

Running to Target for a quick errand with three little people? A descent into hell.

But what’s been hardest for me is feeling like I can’t ever give them enough of the attention they deserve. I’m often frustrated and overwhelmed by their individual needs because when they add up, they are too much for me to fulfill. I see this in both small and large ways. Those moments when all three are having a meltdown and I am physically unable to curl each of them into my lap and comfort them are sad, and at the same time, maddening, because I know I could solve whatever the problem is if I could just have five minutes of uninterrupted time with whomever needs me.

I’ve also noticed that there is a clear survival-of-the-fittest element that has developed, that allows the biggest and most cunning to get the most attention. Finn gets attention by being the biggest, loudest, and worst-behaved. Eliza gets it by being clever and doing things like coming up to me with a sad little face and saying, “I miss you so much, can I cuddle with you?” I just wish she didn’t have to ask.

And then there’s Silas. Sometimes on the way home from school he starts to tell me something from the back seat, pauses a second to gather his thoughts or search for the right word, and his moment gets stolen by one his siblings. It infuriates him, and he forgets about what he’s saying and instead starts shrieking, “It’s my turn to talk! It’s my turn to talk!” until he’s so worked up he has completely forgotten about whatever it was he was trying to tell me.

A good friend of mine was convinced that she never wanted to have children, then changed her mind at 40. Luckily, she got pregnant quickly, and her son is almost three years old. She worries about the fact that he won’t have a sibling, that he’ll miss out on a critical life experience, or worse, will grow up to be lonely and/or spoiled. I fiercely wished for a sibling growing up, and I do feel like I missed out on an experience that could have made my life richer, but I think what I missed, and what I dreamed about having with my own family, is an idealized version of what it means to grow up with siblings.

I’m still sorting out how that completely unrealistic vision of a large family differs from my real life experience, and how I feel about it. But I think that one thing I can say with certainty at this point is that my happiness has definitively not increased with the number of children I’ve had. Everyone I’ve talked to tells me this will change, that we have given our children an amazing gift of siblings that they will be thankful for their entire lives. I guess I just wish it didn’t cost me so much.

ODDS FACT: The odds a child younger than 18 lives with at least one sibling are 1 in 1.26.

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