One of the most overused words in advertising is “simple.” But overused for good reason. In this supersaturated world with every kind of entertainment all up in your face, simple is what breaks through the noise. So when we’re developing a campaign, we’re looking for something that’s not just creative and on strategy; we’re looking for all that in one, single-minded idea. Something brilliantly simple to cut through the clutter.
Max is my brilliantly simple. One great kid. One, not two. One.
Yet here I am about to double and shag shit up. Two? What is this twoness? It’s so… twoey… It’s so… complicated. One was so neat and compact and simple. TWO is so EW.
My befuddlement is not about having to do twice the work, or having twice the expense. It’s about the idea of it. I got used to one, one is all I know, and now I can’t quite see how this… this TWO… is possible.
Most of you probably have two kids already. And most of you had them close together, so you never stopped to think if you wanted to do this again, or if you should. Not saying having your kids close together was thoughtless, but apparently I like to take a moment (or half a decade) to decide if I want to rip my mooncup vessel to shreds for a second time.
I took five years to think about it, or not think about it, really. Five years of ONE. One son. One child. One twin bed. One small fork on the table. One small pair of rubber boots in the porch. One is neat. One is simple. One wasn’t the loneliest number. One was my number. One was everything and everything was one.
Staring into the baby browns of one child for five years, your heart and mind start to think he can be the only one, the only possible fruit of your loins. There simply can be no more. One boy was all there was and could ever be. We had made this one great person. There couldn’t possibly be another one. Another face to adore? Another pair of hands to hold? Another head of hair to comb? It just could not be.
In the wake of a couple breast cancer scares in the family, the surgeon had told me to have at least one child and breastfeed from both breasts. Check, check! I had had the one child. I had breastfeed that one mouth. I had experienced childbirth, even wrote a book about it. This was enough. This was more than enough.
And yet there will be another. Another face. A different face! Made inside my body just like last time, but different. A second person who could be the exact opposite of Max, yet I can only imagine a carbon copy of him. To be loved by us, just like last time and just as much, so I’m told. It’s true, but I don’t believe it, not yet. I can’t wrap my head around it. And maybe I won’t till he/she is lying in my arms, and Max is sitting next to us so I know for sure it’s not him shrunk back down.
The greatest slap from the universe here, of course, would be to not go from one to two, but from one to THREE. I’m having an early ultrasound on Thursday to make sure there’s just one sucker up in these guts. I am so bulbous for a mere 15 weeks, my OBGYN friend thinks it may be twins. (Or a giant fibroid.) Um, no. Three is a crowd. Three is for little pigs and blind mice and amigos. I cannot do three, because I cannot comprehend three. I can’t comprehend two! I’ll take GIANT FIBROID for $300 please Alex.