I am an only child, and so is my son. And we are not weirdos | Polly Hudson

Selfish, lonely, maladjusted – the prejudices against only children persist, as well as of their parents for just having one child. But we are an army on the rise

Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me ... must be a saying thought up by somebody extremely privileged. For everyone else, words wound, and there are certain groups that are seemingly, bafflingly, forever considered fair game. No matter how PC the world becomes, they’re immune from progress, and it apparently remains permissible to make comments, assumptions and jokes about them, and to attach outdated stereotypical attributes. Only children aren’t unique in having to tolerate this, of course, and they won’t enjoy that. After all, they don’t like sharing anything, do they?

Badoom-tish! Hilarious, no? Well, no, not to me. I am an only child with an only child, so colour me double-offended. Actually, not offended – bored. As anybody would be, hearing the same tired, lazy “gags” over and over again.

This discourse is especially tedious because the only-child army is growing. New figures show that 50% more generation X women are having only one baby than their OK boomer mums. The proportion of women who have one kid rose to 18.5% for women born in 1979, from 12.4% for women born in 1953, and the Office for National Statistics predicts that those born today will have even fewer offspring. In the EU and Canada, one-child families are now the most common.

One of the annoying things about the only-child generalisations is that the opposite is often true, but pointing it out sounds like protesting too much. You know, like a bossy only child would. Studies and research have repeatedly shown that the idea only children are selfish, lonely, and maladjusted is inaccurate, and also that only children are no different from their peers when it comes to character and sociability. In my personal experience, it’s much easier to be generous and wait your turn out in the world when you rarely have to at home. Being an only child makes you more inclined to be magnanimous, but who would ever believe that? My 11-year-old son also has a veritable fanclub of his friends’ younger brothers and sisters, thrilled and amazed that, unlike their siblings, he gladly gives them the time of day.

But still, in much of society’s eyes, he and I are proper little weirdos. And I struggle with the level of interrogation I am subjected to. I would never dream of grilling another human being on their life decisions or family setup – “How come you got divorced then?” – but all bets are off when you’re a trio. People regularly demand an explanation, and often seem personally affronted by our dynamic, as though we did it purely to annoy and confuse them. It’s always framed around the “just” – I see my husband and I as having one kid; they see it as “just” one. I’ve been cross-examined by vague acquaintances, strangers on public transport, and an extremely concerned Sainsbury’s cashier, all of whom had absolutely no idea if the topic was open to discussion, private, fine, painful, a choice, circumstance, ongoing, or resolved. This was irrelevant – they needed to know why. Whyyyyyyy? Why just one? An alien recently landed from the planet Zorg would be under less suspicion than me, with the scarlet just on my back.

Listing the advantages of being, and having, an only child would probably come across as defensive, but there are many. There are also some drawbacks, unlike with having any other number of kids, which is obviously a constant perfect dream.

But an unexpected benefit is what happens when you meet another only child out in the wild, or cross paths with a fellow parent of one. There’s an immediate bond, an understanding, like between war veterans or survivors of a natural disaster. They get it. They’ve endured endless Spanish inquisitions too, heard all the jokes, been good sports about the cliches. There’s an innate, usually unspoken solidarity. We almost sense each other in advance. Not because we’re lonely, or selfish, or spoiled, but because we are united in our difference, and knowing it’s not really that different. And that’s something we’re very happy to share.

• Polly Hudson is a freelance writer

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