What No One Told Me About Having Four Children in Three Years

Posted on March 31, 2024 by Belle of the Library

I am so excited about having four children in three years, y’all. That’s not just because so many people who suffer infertility have to compromise on their ideal family, either. I have one brother, who’s three years my senior. We see each other every year at Christmas. That’s it. I have four step-siblings who are actually pretty great, but are naturally closer to one another than to me, because they grew up together, all born within four or five years of each other. Logically, I understand that the relationship differences aren’t due to our age gaps, so much as the fact that when my parents divorced, they each took one child in some kind of heartless Parent Trap scenario. Still, after a lonely childhood, I’ve always dreamt of having four children, close in age. I just never really planned on that happening in under three years.

When I tell people how old my kids are, the response is generally negative. I have my hands full. College is going to be expensive. They’ll all be teenagers at the same time. Yada, yada, yada. Yes, I have my hands full… in a way infertile couples only dream about, so that’s quite alright with Jake and me. I don’t plan to fully fund my children’s college, but instead send them to Catholic school in hopes they’ll work hard for scholarships, encouraging community college or online school while they live at home. I love teenagers and fully believe that will still be the case when my children qualify for the title. Yes, yes, I’ll see when I have them. Generally speaking, I do adore having my children all so close in age, even so young. They’re developmentally on the same level and interested in the same things, so we get more out of clothes, toys, and equipment. We don’t have to keep hitting reset just as we get a child eating by themselves/potty trained/in school, having forgotten what it was like to have a baby. No one’s ever left out, because they can all play together. Having started with twins, no one has ever expected to have either Mama or Daddy to themselves. I didn’t have to start at 33 and end at 43 to get my ideal number. Overall, it really is pretty great having our four children so close in age. However, there are a few things that do make life a little more difficult that, in all the negativity, no one mentioned. Such as…

They’re developmentally on the same level and interested in the same things.

Yes, this is a perk in many ways. At the moment, I have twin girls who will be three in June, their almost 16-month-old brother, and a new baby in two weeks. There is not a single toy in my house that doesn’t interest all of my children, from the high contrast black and white baby toys to the Barbies and firetrucks. We’re even waiting until the last minute to get out the bassinets, because the girls will want to use them for their baby dolls. The downside is that, although my twins probably have better sharing skills than most toddlers, I still frequently have to intervene, because they’re both two. There is not an older, more mature sibling. Neither of them is better able to comprehend that her sister had the toy first/gets a turn/wants to play alone… and now enter Baby Brother. For months, Jake and I had to remind his sisters that Thomas was not a pet. He has feelings, interests, and just as much right to play as they do. While they’re finally starting to understand, that doesn’t mean they’re always on board.

Yes, Violet and Scarlet are technically older and more mature, but they’re still two. On an average day, the greatest emotional regulation I can expect from anyone else in my house is that of a young toddler. They have limited communication skills, limited understanding, and the tantrums to which those limitations lead… and that’s okay. They will grow out of it. They’ll also never remember a time when they didn’t have to be considerate of each other. Already, when offered any kind of treat or toy, both girls will ask for one for their sister and brother. We’re making progress, however small. It’s still a lot, constantly playing Baby Mediator, especially as Thomas grows curiouser and more opinionated, as well.

I’m in high demand.

Jake and I started our family with twins. No one in this house knows what a single child household feels like, from the dinner/bedtime routine to family outings to birthdays and holidays. That helped prepare us for our current and future level of chaos in a big way. Still, small children need a lot of attention, no matter how self-sufficient and all of my children are small. What that looks like on an average day is one toddler getting an owie and a Band-Aid, the other getting upset because she wants a Band-Aid too, and their brother eating fistfuls of dirt from my house plants while I’m doctoring real and imaginary injuries.

Just as I don’t have a child who’s more emotionally mature and can be expected to understand that her younger sibling doesn’t know how to share, she also can’t comprehend that her wants aren’t needs and don’t take priority. Try explaining to a two-year-old (or a couple) that the the snack she was promised doesn’t rank with her brother having just fallen off the sofa. Worse, try gently setting a baby down on the ground in a public park, so you can run to rescue the screaming toddler who doesn’t realize that the only way to stop the scalding slide from burning her skin is to get off. I know adults who don’t realize that their emergencies are not everyone else’s emergencies, so I imagine it’ll be some time before my children catch on.

Doing anything is like extended deep-sea diving.

Have you ever tried to take a photo of three children under three? Even with today’s technology, it requires the coordinated effort of two people, one to repeatedly press the button as fast they can and another to dance and shout behind them in an attempt to keep their attention for .01 second… while simultaneously remaining poised to catch the baby if he falls off the ottoman.

Happy Easter from my family to yours.

Now imagine carting three small children to the eye doctor, because Violet chewed up her only pair of glasses one month before insurance would pay for the appointment. Getting everyone loaded into the car is chore enough, especially eight months pregnant. Then, I have to drive across the city, get everyone safely into the building, simultaneously psych up Violet for new glasses, while convincing Scarlet that she’s not missing out, and dragging Thomas away from all the displays within his reach. That’s typical of basically every doctor visit. Picture a day trip to the lake. We dress everyone in bathing suits and cover them in sunscreen before we leave. Each kid needs a floatie for safety and Mama and Daddy need one for comfort. Everyone has to have a towel, of course, but we’ll also need snacks, lots of water, and diapers. We’ll bring the beach blanket to set up our home base and, if we’re feeling adventurous, chairs. All of this is done with the extraordinary optimism required in thinking the day will go well, that the kids will have fun, no one will get hurt, and it will have been worth the trouble over all.

It’s not that taking my babies with me everywhere I go is a bad thing. On the contrary, I love shopping with them, watching them spin in circles while I wait for my tires to be changed, getting them Big Girl Waters and surprising them with a trip to the park. Surely, as they get older, can get themselves in and out of the car, look both ways while crossing the street, take total control of their own bathroom needs… things will get easier. Right now, however, there are just so many variables with soon-to-be four under three and it’s literally impossible to prepare for them all.

I’ve never been so anxious in my life.

People, especially mothers, worry about their children. That’s common knowledge, bordering on cliché. What no one told me about having four under three, however, is how much more I’d worry. It’s not that I care a greater amount. It’s just that more can go wrong. If I had four children in a tornado warning, ages 10, 8, 5, and 1, the 10-year-old could be reminded of her disaster prep lessons. She could take on the job of helping to get everyone to the storm shelter, while encouraging the eight-year-old to remember her lessons, as well. Mama would shoulder the biggest burden in preparing the shelter and comforting all children, but even the five-year-old could walk down the steps, however terrified, while only the one-year-old would be wholly dependent.

Despite all the negative remarks, no one pointed out that, for a few years at least, children with such little age gap are all wholly dependent on you at the same time. People ask me all the time, how I do it with so many, so little. My answer is quite honest: they get hurt a lot. In an average week at home, no matter how vigilant I am, someone’s getting injured while I’m tending to someone or something else. My Scarlet was barely two the day I told her to quit running back and forth on the sofa, only to hear screaming when I returned to folding laundry. Since that child only has the one cry, whether Sister touched her toy or she broke an arm, it took a good 10 minutes to realize how serious her injury was… and another thirty for Jake to convince me she didn’t need to go to the ER for an X-ray of her possibly broken nose.

These are just the homebound antics. Perhaps it’s because I’m pregnant or obsessively reading the news, but these days, I cannot stop thinking about what I’d do in a situation where everyone was in danger and I had limited time to act. What if we’re at the park and two of them run in opposite directions, both heading for a street? What if there’s a fire and Jake and I can’t get everyone out in time? What if I have a wreck driving on the highway? What if I get carjacked at the mall, when they’re all still buckled in? Maybe we should exclusively go to the other park. Did I turn the stove off or not? Maybe I should only take the back roads. Is the mall really even safe for children? You don’t know anxiety like “Mom Planning the Hypothetical Rescue of Her Four Toddlers and Babies in a Flash Flood” anxiety.

I have no help and it’s essentially impossible to get any.

Aside from Jake (and that is, admittedly, a big aside), I have no help. From the day we brought home preemie twins under five pounds each, their Mama recovering from a heart condition, pneumonia, sepsis, and an emergency C-section, it’s just been us. While my Gramma does buy my children a lot of toys and clothes, at 89, she’s just too old to physically assist. My step-mother, though wonderful, has four children and six grandchildren of her own. She also heads the disaster relief department of a national non-profit. Though I’ve been assured that she won’t have to travel during my scheduled C-section, I’m still petrified that a hurricane or tornado will hit and she won’t be able to take the kids while we’re in the hospital. She and my dad might watch our children a couple of times a year, while we celebrate a birthday or promotion, but otherwise, it has always been the norm for Jake and I to do this crazy life on our own.

It actually does not bother me that Jake and I don’t get date nights. We keep a strict schedule, which means we have the evening to ourselves by 8:00, at the latest, every night. Our hectic life means we enjoy quiet nights in, trying new recipes, watching whatever’s streaming, entertaining friends with game nights, or just playing with the kids in the living room or the yard until bed time. It’s quite alright with us not to have a “break” from our children. We both know that one day, we’ll be in our 50s reminiscing over the years when they were small. What’s tough, is not having any assistance when it’s not a luxury.

Taking babies to my appointments at the fertility clinic, though allowed, was something I absolutely refused to do, if only out of consideration for other patients. Taking the girls to my appointments a few weeks from delivering Thomas was so rough, I’ve done everything I can to avoid it this time. In both situations, Jake and I have had no one to help. We didn’t want to share the FET when we were going through the process, but even now, there’s just no one to ask. Jake has been using his leave to stay home with all three kids, so I can go alone… which is required for the high risk doctor who won’t allow them to come anyway. Additionally, as this pregnancy has become more and more difficult for me, I’ve just… had to deal. Jake has to work and things like Mother’s Day Out are simply too pricey when you have three or four kids. Even hiring a baby sitter, just for fun, costs a small fortune, because while my children are so well-behaved and so adorable, there are also so many of them. Most of the time, it doesn’t get to me, but these last few weeks, as I’ve sat in the floor crying while the girls concernedly ask “Mama owie?” I have felt a bit blindsided by the fact that, partly due to my own circumstances, but also due to the sheer number of very small children I have… help just isn’t available.

The Back-to-Back Pregnancies

Of course, people commented on the physical toll of back-to-back pregnancies. They talked about being fat for years at a time. They mentioned the discomfort. Many women, along with my doctors, talked about physical recovery in regards to everything from my uterus to my calcium levels. I was told by more than one doctor that I shouldn’t even have more children after the girls. So, yes, I was warned. I’ve been fat, though… from age nine to 24. I’ve been the kind of fat that makes existing uncomfortable. It was objectively worse than being pregnant with twins, up until the point where I almost died. As for my uterus and calcium, if Michelle Duggar could have seventeen successful pregnancies, I didn’t see why I couldn’t have three. What no one told me, though, was the emotional toll this would take, particularly already having small children under my constant care.

I got pregnant with Thomas before the girls were even walking. They were an adventure, but they weren’t particularly difficult. Tantrums were few and far between and they had just begun to get fun. As my pregnancy progressed, so did they. I do remember a few especially difficult days, like taking both girls for a finger stick blood draw, desperately trying to comfort one as she had her finger painfully squeezed for 10 minutes, screaming in pain and terror while the other looked on in horror. Naturally, I had to do it all over again, causing her to suffer, too. Still, the girls were only 17 months old when Thomas came home, so through much of my pregnancy, they crawled or toddled, only able to get up to so much mischief. Though I was anxious, I felt good, overall.

This pregnancy… well, if I wasn’t done before, I would be now. I previously wrote about feeling lost to pregnancy, having been trying to conceive, pregnant, or post-partum since before Covid-19. It’s not just that these back-to-back pregnancies have begun to make me feel like a stranger in my own body. The physical side effects are worse this time, as I stack pregnancy on top of pregnancy. The ligament pain and muscle spasms are immobilizing at times. The fatigue and difficulty breathing occasionally has me worried about something more serious. As with Thomas, I’ve been sick every day since conception, unable to function before 9 a.m. most days. I’m also just a wreck emotionally. Having begun with the frozen embryo process, this pregnancy has just been really hard from the start. Being on so many hormones, with three at home, felt impossible. I couldn’t control my emotions, with them or Jake. I was so overwhelmed. I told myself that it would get better… after the transfer, after the positive test, after the ultrasound, after the drugs ceased. That just hasn’t been true. I’ve been so anxious and overwhelmed since June. It’s become physically exhausting at this point… and I still have three beautiful children at home, who adore their Mama and want her to give kisses and play.

On my good days, I know that I’m doing pretty well, generally speaking. We do pre-packaged crafts and play in the backyard. I do home haircuts and give toddler pedicures. Even if I’m too sick to make it to storytime, we still make Target and Sam’s Club runs every now and then. I can even reassure myself that they won’t remember the times Mama snaps at them or breaks down and cries for seemingly no reason. On my bad days, though, I feel like I’m missing some of the most wonderful years of my children’s lives. Is this not the reason I quit my career, to be home with them? Here I am, though, crying in my car in a Target parking lot, as someone throws a tantrum.

I’ll be perfectly clear. Despite everything I’ve mentioned, I am so excited to have my fourth and final baby. My family will be whole, in exactly the way I imagined, in spite of infertility. My girls will have a sister, my boys a brother, and we’ll have been done within the timeline we always planned. I adore being a mom, more than anything I’ve ever done in my life. I am thrilled with the minimal age gap between my children. I was often alone as a child and my children will never feel that way. They’ll always have a playmate, a support system, a family. They are worth it… but the more or less temporary struggles of having four under three might have been a little easier, had someone told me.

Cherish the Fat Photos

Posted on March 25, 2024 by Belle of the Library

I’m officially on my 30 day countdown for baby number four in three years… and having been pregnant or post-partum since 2020, I am not loving my physical appearance. I don’t recognize myself naked. I can’t wear any of the clothes I enjoyed pre-Covid. Sex is just weird at this point. I’ve spent five years having massive amounts of hormones pumped through my body, either synthetically or naturally. I feel like I’ve been trapped in this strange body since I began my first round of IVF in July of 2020. I am just so ready to reclaim my physical self. I’m ready for shorts, sundresses, and fitted sweaters. A part of me just wants to forget this time, how it makes me feel both physically and emotionally to be this size.

Then, I remember the last time I was happy with my body… and how it felt to be a size 8/10, but wonder if I’d ever be a mom. I looked cute in all those Christmas photos, surrounded by nieces and nephews, fearing that’s all I’d ever know. I could wear a swimsuit without shame, show my legs in cute dresses, wear fitted sweater dresses that skimmed the length of my body, fit my feet into cowboy boots without filling them with blood. I could get out of this recliner on the first try. The sexual positions were contortionism by today’s standards. I felt so good physically, though I never appreciated it… but I wasn’t a mom and the thought of that never happening was absolutely unbearable. I didn’t get out of bed for days at a time. I never slept, staying up to Google adoption and infertility treatment statistics. I thought realistically about how long I’d want to continue my life if there were no little Jakes or Belles and the answer was “not very long.”

When I was working on my 2021 family photo album, there were so many pictures of myself I hated. I was so sick after the girls were born and it shows in every photo. Even then, a part of me rebelled against deleting them, though. Nearly three years later, while I don’t especially love my appearance in that ugly hospital gown, in an ICU bed, I am so glad I have photos of the first time I held my daughters. I looked as bad I felt, having nearly died in childbirth. My hair was limp and unwashed, as there were no showers in the ICU. My skin was pale, my whole body swollen with the fluid retention that caused my heart failure…. and I don’t care anymore. The body I hated was the one that brought my children into the world. I didn’t get to see my girls for two days after they were born and holding them for even just a few minutes, knowing they were real and mine, got me through the next five in the hospital. A few years removed, I will always treasure those photos, fat or not.

By the time I got home, I was 40 pounds lighter, though I wouldn’t say I looked much better. I could barely stand long enough to shave my legs and risked passing out to feel just that much more human. With an ejection fraction in the 40s (normal is 55-60), I was always tired and had dark circles under my eyes. Still, I cherish those pictures of myself, laying on the couch, looking gaunt and exhausted, with my tiny girls on my chest, certainly nowhere near ready to enter a beauty pageant.

Over the next few months, my health improved, but my energy lagged behind. A first-time mom, I had two new babies and a long recovery. While I tried to walk and use the elliptical, I didn’t feel anything close to normal for at least seven months. Two months later, my Thomas was conceived. Just as I was feeling capable of losing those last 10-15 pounds before starting the process for a frozen embryo transfer, my body was hitting reset on its own. By my girls’ first birthday, I was staring in the mirror, reminding myself that this was only temporary, that the end result would truly be a miracle. I was getting the elusive post-IVF miracle baby. Despite being somewhere between not pregnant and showing, I forced myself to stage the first birthday photo with my girls that mirrored the one my own mother took with me on mine. I immediately swiped through them and hated them all. Today, however, the best one sits framed beside the original from 33 years ago. I adore it.

My pregnancy with Thomas saw only slightly less enthusiasm than the first, as I took the weekly belly photos, but shared fewer on Instagram. I rarely wore my maternity dresses, opting for the shorts and jeans. Having never lost the last of my baby weight with the girls, I wasn’t exactly comfortable with my appearance, but I wasn’t miserable either. It was easy enough to pose for the photos, take the selfies, and include myself in videos. In fact, I was far more pleased with the hospital photos this time. Just a few weeks later, I made sure Baby’s First Christmas captured plenty of Mama footage.

Over the following months, it became clear that Thomas was not going to be my last baby. In time, Jake agreed to one more. Knowing a frozen embryo transfer would be difficult, I couldn’t bring myself to lose the weight. I think a part of me knew that, were I to do so, I might just have compelling enough reason not to go through with it. IVF was so unbelievably hard that even the thought of more fertility treatments just left me drained… and I had no idea how difficult it would actually be on me, both physically and emotionally. Still, I took all the photos, be they at the park, the lake, the zoo, a family walk, or just snuggling in the recliner. If the occasion was a special one, I was adamant that no matter how bad the pictures were, I’d make sure Mama got representation. Even after the hormones started last June, I chronicled everything, as I’ve been doing since the ninth grade. This time around, however, I’ve made far fewer attempts at “cute” pregnant” in favor of “I’ve been done with this since before I was pregnant” pregnant. For the last nine months, I’ve lived in my maternity pajama pants and oversized t-shirts… and I’ve still taken photos, including the weekly bump pictures.

With my C-section scheduled, these past few weeks, I’ve been scrambling to meet extraordinarily high expectations set by no one but myself. This includes compiling all of my cell phone videos from the last half of 2022 and all of 2023 into watchable home movies and making sure my family photo albums are current before I bring home another baby. In doing so, I’ve noticed something. Just as I no longer care that water retention made me look chubby in the first photos I took with the girls… or that I definitely look like I just haven’t lost the baby weight in their first birthday videos, I don’t especially care about all of the unappealing pictures and video clips that followed. Sure, Thomas’s first Christmas saw me looking semi-pregnant less than three weeks after giving birth. Those Easter photos didn’t showcase the most pleasing mid-section. I hated my arms in the lake shots. I also just looked so happy to be young, reasonably healthy, and enjoying my ecstatic babies, who will never again be this small. Yes, I despise the pictures I took today, last week, the week before that. The ones of Thomas’s birthday, the girls’ first craft, and our family Wizard of Oz Halloween costume, though? I’m just thrilled I captured those memories. So, though I may never look at all the pictures from my five-years-long pregnancy and consider them #GOALS physically… while I frequently joke that I can’t wait to starve myself after this baby is born… I will continue to take the unflattering pictures. One day, how I looked in these memories just won’t matter. I will, in fact, cherish these fat photos.

The Pregnancy from Groundhog Day

Posted on February 5, 2024 by Belle of the Library

Four hundred years ago, Jake and I did two back-to-back rounds of Pandemic IVF… and I have been pregnant ever since.

I am neither a woman who hates pregnancy nor one who reveres it. After our infertility struggles, I tried my best to enjoy it with the girls. I was so fortunate to be getting not one, but two children. I knew there was a chance it might be my only pregnancy. I wanted so badly to treasure every kick, roll, and hiccup… and I did, to an extent. It was just so stressful, enduring a high risk twin pregnancy during a global pandemic. Every ultrasound had me fearing I’d hear only one heartbeat or none at all. I thought my miracle pregnancy with Thomas would be different, having come the easy way. On the contrary, this one felt like I somehow cheated the system and it could be taken from me at any moment. It had been made clear that Jake could not get me pregnant naturally. Furthermore, I wasn’t exactly given the all clear to proceed with another. I believe the words used were “very cautious green light, more like a yellow light.” Surely, I wouldn’t get through the ordeal safely and with a healthy baby. Now, here I am, having been pregnant for portions of 2020, 2021, 2022, 2023, and 2024. I’m 27 weeks with what appears to be another healthy baby boy… and it’s so much worse.

I read all the time about women feeling lost in motherhood. They don’t know who they are anymore, after having let their hobbies and interests go for babies. I’ve literally never felt that way. I still craft, listen to audiobooks, even read on occasion. I host two bi-weekly DnD games at our home every other weekend, sometimes even changing it up for a random game night. I watch my favorite shows during naptime, while working on my family photo albums. I obsessively read the news and can discuss anything from local politics to which celebrities are related to Queen Elizabeth II. I love being a mom, but it doesn’t make me feel like I’m any less me. Pregnancy, however…

After I had Violet and Scarlett, I was so focused on finding my footing as a twin mom and getting my health back, that getting my physical self back really wasn’t a priority. I was so sick that the girls were seven months old the day I realized I could lift their stroller into the hatchback without becoming short of breath. Two months later, I got pregnant with Thomas. While my pregnancy with him was ideal, I clearly remember holding my new baby in the hospital, less than an hour after my C-section, thinking that I only had to go through this one more time. I knew then that I’d do anything I could to get Jake to agree to a fourth. While that did hinder my motivation, I admit that a part of me didn’t want to physically return to normal before that final pregnancy. I had enough reasons not to go through with an FET and my fourth baby in three years. I feared feeling as though I’d finally reclaimed my physical sense of self… be it through personal style, flexibility and stamina, or just weight loss… only to consider losing it for one more pregnancy, might just be the closing argument.

I feel obligated, especially having gone through infertility, to clarify here that I want this baby. I am so thrilled to be able to have my Four, two girls and two boys. I would not change a thing… except that I feel like I don’t know who I am anymore, outside of pregnancy, not motherhood. It’s been so long since I’ve just been me, as opposed to a vessel for the future. I don’t know if the anxiety I’ve felt for the last five years is because of who I am as a person, as a mother, or just pregnant. Feeling as though everything I’ve wanted is just within my grasp hasn’t offered any clarity. Am I now someone who cries at forgettable movies and TV shows from 10 years ago or is that just wonky hormones? Am I actually this much of a homebody or do I just find it utterly exhausting to leave the house with small children because I’m worn out from pregnancy?

While I cherish every miraculous kick this baby makes, I don’t recognize my own body anymore, nor do I like it. It doesn’t feel the same or move the same. I get sore and out of breath so easily. Is that because of symptoms of pregnancy and post-partum, just the new me after three back-to-back pregnancies, or is it just the difference between being 33 and 36? The clothes I bought during Covid-19 have barely been worn. Are they still in style? Am I too old for them? On that note, should I change my hair or how I do my makeup? Do I need a new skincare regimen? Can I go back to the old me or do I have to create a new Belle? I’m living the pregnancy from Groundhog Day, but I don’t know if I just pick up where I left off or I have to jump ahead five years.

I’ve always excelled with delayed gratification, y’all. It’s what got me through seven years of college… and not the fun kind. It’s how I lost 100 pounds in approximately 18 months in my early twenties. It got me through working two jobs with a master’s degree, desperately awaiting the chance to promote to full time. It saw me through my dating years and the nightmare year I worked as a library manager. My mastery of delayed gratification dragged me through two rounds of pandemic IVF and it’ll get me my Four. As happy as I am for to have this dream realized, though, for the last five years, I’ve only either been pregnant or post-partum. I have a baby or two and before my body can even heal, my emotions can regulate, or I can pull out my favorite pre-pregnancy clothing, I’m at an ultrasound for the next one.

I love being a mom. I don’t hate being pregnant. I still love Cheaper By the Dozen and Yours, Mine, and Ours. I always enjoyed those TLC shows and Instagram accounts following families with 10 plus children… but those women are absolutely bananas, because I’ve woken up pregnant, post-partum, or trying to conceive since July of 2020 and I am so ready for a new song.

A Lenten/New Year’s Renewal… With a Little More Room for Grace

Posted on February 1, 2024 by Belle of the Library

Nearly every New Year, since I started this blog in 2012, I’ve opened with a New Year’s post, because I love New Year’s!

I know, I know. No one loves New Year’s; New Year’s Eve, maybe, but New Year’s Day is, for most, the beginning of a lot of annoying gym, exercise equipment, and weight loss service ads. For me, however, this is a time of reflection and renewal. I get to look back on how my life changed in the previous year and look ahead with excitement and optimism about what’s to come. This year, however… well, reflection and goal setting have taken a backseat to creating another human and keeping the ones I’m already charged with alive and well.

I started with good intentions. I really did. My New Year’s resolutions were as follows:

Swear less
Control my emotions better
- Eat healthy until this baby arrives and then starve myself until normal
- Attend Mass regularly
- Listen to Father Mike’s Bible in a Year and Catechism in a Year podcasts every day
- Actively engage with my children more, instead of doing chores or running errands
- Catch up on my family albums and have them printed
- Catch up on my home video editing
- Spend less time on my phone

I tried, y’all. I really did, but getting ready for this new baby, by making sure I do everything for him that I did for the others…. chasing my twin toddlers and their suddenly very mobile baby brother around the house… potty training, coping with family-wide RSV and Jake’s vasectomy recovery… and now transitioning from cribs to toddler beds… has meant that a good day is one where Mama isn’t crying. I’ll be honest. Those are pretty rare lately.

I don’t know what it is about this pregnancy, but it has been hands down the roughest of my three in the last four to five years. I’m sure my three under three are a contributing factor, but I’m also just so tired of being pregnant and scrambling to get ready for a new baby. About a year ago, I told Jake that I wanted to do an embryo transfer as soon as possible, before I changed my mind. I am nothing if not self aware. There is zero chance we’d be having this baby had we waited six more months… and I’m thrilled we’re so fortunate as to get our two girls and two boys. I’m just ready for this to be over, so I can move forward and feel like myself again. I want to stop crying and feeling like I can’t keep all the balls in the air. I want to get out of a chair on the first try. I want to look at myself in the mirror and like what I see.

Regardless of my current mental state, I firmly believe there’s always time for self-improvement. I tried for a Lenten reset, after I heard my Violet say “bag of dicks” from the backseat during a frustrating traffic moment and vowed to give up swearing entirely. I’m sure I failed by the end of the day. So, here I am, tomorrow being March 1st, pressing reset once again… with perhaps a little less ambition.

Don’t swear in front of the kids… even while driving
Eat healthy enough not to feel sick during this pregnancy and then starve myself until normal
Attend Mass when no one’s hurt/sick/just had an ugly-crying mental breakdown over the Christmas ornaments the girls strung all over their play yard
Control my emotions in front of the kids as much as possible and take comfort in the fact that they will not remember this
Spend more time with the kids, even if it’s just looking at and naming animals on Instagram, while snuggling in the recliner
Reallocate scrolling time to things I enjoy more, like working on family albums and videos and just listening to an audiobook
That’s it. Pregnant with my fourth, with three under three, is just not the time to clean up my language when the children are out of earshot. This is, apparently, my largest baby yet, so I’m going to eat what I want, within reason. If I just can’t make it to church, for mental or physical reasons, then I just can’t. Breakdowns are officially allowed. I’ll try my best to limit them to nap time. As much as the girls enjoy trips to the park and being chased around the yard, it’ll have to wait until Daddy can do it or Mama has recovered from her C-section. It is okay to count the low-key moments as quality time. If my mind is fried and scrolling is all I want to do, so be it. Cuz, that’s all I’ve got in me until 2025.

A $5,000 Christmas Stocking

Posted on December 21, 2023 by Belle of the Library

The year Jake and I got married, we spent approximately $400 on Christmas decorations. At 32, Jake had been a bachelor his entire adult life. His duplex barely had furniture, let alone holiday decor. I, however, made a deliberate effort to enjoy my single girl apartment to the fullest every year, by gleefully putting up the hot pink, six foot Christmas tree I got from Borders when they went out of business. When we married, Jake and I… compromised I suppose, though the process didn’t seem quite so simple at the time. Ultimately, I sold my glorious pink tree on Facebook Marketplace, Jake accepted an agreed upon amount of glitter, and we invested in classic decorations to be used year after year. I bought fabric, sewed a matching tree skirt and his/her stockings, had our names embroidered on the latter, and we celebrated our first Christmas as husband and wife.

The next Christmas was our first in our own home and the only thing we were missing was stocking holders, a purchase I approached with the same long-term intentions as the previous year’s decor. Though Jake would eventually realize my tendency to buy holiday items months in advance was not just out of excitement, but an understanding of availability, in 2018, we were not yet there. So it happened that, as late as December, I hadn’t bought stocking holders for our new mantle. Since Hobby Lobby stops receiving Christmas inventory in October, I couldn’t find a matching set there. Angry at Jake for making me wait so long, I dragged him from city to city, visiting Target after Target, to collect six identical holders. Surprisingly, he humored me, though he couldn’t understand why I needed so many. Though we’d previously talked about having three children, maybe four based on gender, I was holding out for the latter. I’d always wanted two boys and two girls. If I was fortunate enough to get my way, it seemed disproportionately important to me at the time, that we not have to repurchase our stocking holders. If I didn’t get four or we changed our minds, I figured we could always use the extras for the pets.

After two cycles of back-to-back pandemic IVF, Jake and I found out in 2020 that we were having twins. Our difficulty getting pregnant meant that these might be our only children, despite having frozen embryos. Still, when I bought the fabric for their stockings, realizing the dye lot was slightly off from ours, I not only purchased enough for four, but cut the patterns in advance. Just over a year later, I got the news that I’d need one more stocking, having naturally conceived our miracle baby. So it was, last Christmas, I saw five out of my six stocking holders filled above my fireplace. In both the world of infertility and the general public, I had the perfect family with my two girls and one boy… but I still had one more stocking holder.

I thought I’d change my mind, y’all. Everyone said I would. After one child, I’d only want two. After two, I’d be done. After three, I’d realize we were already outnumbered and couldn’t even fathom another. I waited for the feeling that four was an idealistic dream, that my family was indeed whole. It never came. In March, when my Thomas was barely four months old, I broached the topic with Jake, unsure how he felt about the issue. We’d already scheduled an embryo transfer the day I found out I was pregnant. That embryo was a child we had planned to have and raise. Under those circumstances, a fourth was unlikely, if only for financial reasons, but Thomas’s conception didn’t cost us a dime. If we’d once agreed to consider four solely based on gender, how could we give up an embryo that we’d originally planned to have as part of our family? I did try to avoid emotional blackmail while discussing the topic, but as I held my tiny son, I burst into tears at the thought of never meeting the child I might have held had things been different, at the thought of things having been different and not having my Thomas. After a month or so of consideration, Jake agreed. He wasn’t far from the age we’d agreed we’d no longer intentionally get pregnant, so it was now or never. We would proceed with a frozen embryo transfer, or FET, over the summer and find a way to pay for it later. I quietly told myself that if it failed, I would drain my retirement using my remaining embryos until I had my fourth; the max number of children we’d ever planned for or thought we could handle, two more than we were ever recommended to attempt after the complications during the birth of our girls. Only then would I donate my frozen embryos to another heartbroken, yet hopeful couple, who desperately wanted a family.

I shared pieces of my FET story as the process unfolded. It was far more difficult than I ever expected. In fact, had it indeed failed, I’m not so sure I could have gone through it all again. The birth control hormones alone had me completely off-kilter. The estrogen pills made me utterly insane… and possessed my little Scarlett with at least six demons the day she got ahold of one. Poison control assured us she would be fine as her head rotated 360 degrees. The progesterone shots weren’t only painful, but made me unbearably sick and caused nerve damage I still feel today. I went through it all, with three under three at home, who had no understanding of Mama’s sudden short temper or erratic tears. I gambled $5,000 on one modest income for a family of five… all for a 50/50 chance of success… and it worked.

Today, few can say that they got the family of their dreams, as they compromise for their partner, who wants fewer children… for their career, because childcare costs are too high… for a poor economy, because they fear they can’t afford it… and of course, due to infertility, because they’re lucky to have children at all. With that in mind, I am so truly fortunate to be able to say that, although we never tested our embryos and couldn’t have known gender, we’ll be getting the two girls and two boys of which I’ve always dreamt. In April, Violet and Scarlett will be thrilled to greet another baby brother, two months before they turn three. Thomas will have his buddy, his teammate, his partner in crime only 16 months his junior. I’ll have been pregnant every year since 2020 to have four under three for a total cost of $35,00 before labor and delivery fees. I already know it will all have been worth it, though, because I’ve already filled those stocking holders with my fourth and final Christmas stocking… which cost me just $5,000.

My Baby Boy is One

Posted on December 6, 2023 by Belle of the Library

On February 13, 2020, Jake came home from his consultation with a urologist with bad news. In the exact words of a medical doctor, when asked point blank if he could get me pregnant, my husband was told “Miracles happen.” Now, y’all, I might get most of my knowledge of MD’s from random episodes of House and Scrubs, but it’s my understanding that they don’t heavily advocate for miracles.

There was a lot of technical data and explanation involved, of course, but the condensed version was that Jake and I were unlikely to conceive naturally… ever. At 32 and 35, this meant IVF was our only option, unless we wanted to take on the gamble that is adoption in the U.S. We did not.

Exactly one year from that fateful day, after back-to-back rounds of pandemic IVF, Jake and I spent Valentine’s Day weekend iced in, painting one of our spare bedrooms pink. As far as we were concerned, that urologist was right. Miracles do happen. Through the work of God and science, we brought home twin baby girls in June of 2021. Though we’d planned for more children, medical complications suggested it would be unwise, so we spent the next several months trying to come to terms with the possibility that our family might already be whole. Comparatively, we were lucky. Healthy twins are the dream of couples suffering infertility. Still, we hoped for good news from the cardiologist as we tentatively planned to move forward with a frozen embryo transfer. Indeed, we got our “cautious green light”/”yellow light”… exactly four days after finding out that we were already pregnant.

It was on May 5th, 2022 that I begrudgingly took another pregnancy test during the girls’ naptime, knowing the fertility clinic would make me take one the next week regardless. I sat on the toilet lid, Googling uterine cancer and early menopause as possible explanations for a late period, only to glance at the $1 test before trashing it… and receive the news that an entirely unique miracle had happened. I’d spent over a year rolling my eyes at anecdotes about the daughter of a cousin’s neighbor who got pregnant naturally after years of infertility. Now I was that obnoxious anecdote. Two rounds of IVF, $30,000, and an extremely rare postnatal heart condition aside, I was pregnant… and despite all my stress and worry, it would all go smoothly.

After declaring the silver lining of infertility to be the ability to avoid holiday birthdays, December 6th, 2022 saw the scheduled birth of my utterly perfect Thomas. It was night and day compared to the horror that brought the girls into the world. Jake and I woke that morning, dropped the girls off with Gigi and Papa and checked into the hospital. Folks, a scheduled C-section gone right is like having a tooth pulled. I was ushered into a room, given prep instructions, and wheeled into an operating room. An epidural numbed me up and after some anxious moments, I heard the little cry that sounded exactly like the quacking of a duck. My son had arrived and I was not so near death as to barely notice. Jake was asked if he wanted to cut the cord, a privilege he did not have as his wife nearly bled out during the birth of his daughters.

Nurse: “Daddy, would you like to cut the cord?”
Jake: “What? No, that’s okay. You can do it.”
Me: “Yes! He wants to cut the cord. Just cut the damn cord, Jake.”

The nurses handed me my beautiful baby and I held him all the way back to the room, staring into his eyes the whole time. Funnily enough, I’d worried endlessly that I’d struggle to connect with a boy. I’d so desperately wanted a girl, that after a year and a half with two of them, I feared I wouldn’t really know what to do with their brother. I needn’t have even considered it. After years of scoffing at the entire concept of love at first sight, I’d finally discovered it in a 6lb 3oz baby boy.

Though the hospital stay certainly left something to be desired, we were sent home after only three days. The girls stayed with Gigi and Papa for another night, while we enjoyed our first and only night with just one baby. I’ll tell you, having one newborn feels like playing with a Tomagachi in comparison to twins. I got a good night’s sleep while Jake stayed up with Thomas. Then they both slept a good while during the day, while I snuggled my baby. Our girls came home the next evening and it was seemingly love at first sight for them, too, as they both immediately reached to grab their brother’s head. There was never any real jealousy, just adoration. They bring him toys to keep him entertained. They hug and shush him when he cries. Violet would give him every bottle if she could. Scarlett loves to make him belly laugh. They both strip and jump in whenever they realize it’s Bubby’s bath time. In our precious son, Jake has his future gaming, hunting, and fishing buddy. I have my mama’s boy, because despite “Dada” being easier to say, Thomas’s first and only word thus far has been “Mama.” He lights up whenever I enter a room and the feeling is mutual. He is cherished by all.

The first year with Thomas has been full of snuggles, giggles, and the most adorably ineffective tantrums, during which he looks like a cuter version of the Chucky doll. He is just like his dad, even keeled and easily amused. I won’t say Thomas has completed our family, but I will say he’s filled a hole I didn’t even realize had been forming from the day I learned I wouldn’t be able to have a child naturally. I can’t believe I’ve been so fortunate to have the elusive miracle baby after IVF. I wasn’t sure I’d ever have another child at all after the birth of my twins. Today, I have a virtual clone of Jake and it took no drugs, shots, or invasive procedures to bring him into the world. I was able to experience pregnancy and even childbirth, to some degree, just as they were meant. I have the son I could once only theoretically imagine wanting. After one year… even after one minute with him, I could not, nor do I want to, imagine life without my Thomas.

George Bailey: The First Millennial

Posted on December 4, 2023 by Belle of the Library

It’s a Wonderful Life has long been one of my favorite Christmas movies and remains so, as our holiday film selection becomes increasingly over-saturated with emphasis on a depiction of Santa Claus, that no more resembles the historical Saint Nicholas than Disney’s Pocahontas resembles the 17th century twelve-year-old of the Powhatan tribe.*

This is a 12-year-old.

As a religious person, the overwhelming focus on Santa, by others of the Christian faith, baffles me. I’m not even sure I want to do the Santa thing, because I feel the emphasis has become so skewed in favor of a cartoon character and materialism over the birth of the Messiah. Several years ago, I told my grandma Kay that I wasn’t playing Dirty Santa at the family party.

Me: “It’s just not fun for me and it’s expensive.”
Grandma: “Well, that’s what Christmas is about, you know… giving each other gifts.”
Me: “No, it’s not. Christmas is about Jesus and family.”

My 82-year-old grandmother told me Christmas is about things, y’all. That should horrify you, even if you’re not religious. Santa can go jump in a lake.

So, I’ve really grown to appreciate the old Christmas movies that aren’t afraid to broach faith, family values, and societal responsibility, like Miracle on 34th Street, A Christmas Carol, and It’s a Wonderful Life. Despite this, every year, as I watch this favorite Christmas classic, I have some… issues… with George Bailey and the fact that he’s… well, kind of a tool by the standards of his time and mine. I’d even go so far to state that in 2023 George Bailey would fit several of the prevailing stereotypes of Millennials that I’ve been hearing all of my adult life. For example…

He’s selfish.

The opening scene of It’s a Wonderful Life, depicts three stars discussing a man on earth who is dangerously close to taking his own life. Ultimately, Clarence AS2 (Angel Second Class, which doesn’t even make sense as far as acronyms go), is assigned to intervene, as we listen to the prayers of George Bailey’s family and friends, one of which clearly declares that “He never thinks about himself.”

Never thinks about himself?!?!? The only truly selfless thing George Bailey does in this movie is to save his brother when he falls through the ice, ultimately losing his hearing in one ear, an action and a consequence he never again mentions. As wondrous as that behavior is from a teenage boy, it’s also the moment little GB peaked. Just a few weeks later, we see him arrive late to his after school job in a drug store, before providing terrible service to the only customers present.

Violet: “Help me down?”
George: ” Help ya down?!?!”

George: “Make up your mind yet?”
Mary: “I’ll take chocolate.”
George: “With coconuts?”
Mary: “I don’t like coconuts.”
George: “Don’t like coconuts? Say brainless, don’t you know where coconuts come from? [pulls out a National Geographic magazine] Look-it here, from Tahiti, the Fiji Islands, Coral Sea.”
Mary: “A new magazine! I never saw it.”
George: “‘Course you never. This is just for us explorers. It just so happens I’ve been nominated for membership in the National Geographic Society.” ::puts coconut on the ice cream, anyway::

Spoiler alert: by “explorers”, he means “men.”

Rest assured, my girls have already received a lecture about falling in love with boys who call them “brainless.” Immediately following this scene, we see George approach his boss, Mr. Gower, who’s just lost his son to the flu epidemic of 1919 and is drunk, devastated, and ill-tempered. Realizing that the impaired pharmacist has mistakenly filled some capsules with poison, George risks his ire to correct him, ultimately taking quite the boxing of his sore ear. We’re lead to believe that this is another truly honorable moment; but I think it’s worth considering the fact that this kid just showed up late to work and treated Mr. Gower’s only customers like dirt, prior to pestering him during his grief. While he might not have deserved to be hit, it was a reprimand appropriate to the times. Furthermore, I’ve worked with teenagers and I just don’t consider it a stretch to think that any one of them would speak up if they thought someone was about to poison some children, no matter the consequences. I feel like the average American is only impressed by this “heroism”, because they have such devastatingly low expectations of teens.

As the movie continues, we see George grow into a man…who speaks incessantly about what he wants. Even his last words to his father, for which he shows no remorse, are entitled declarations about how he deserves more.

– “Oh, now Pop, I couldn’t. I couldn’t face being cooped up for the rest of my life in a shabby little office…Oh, I’m sorry Pop, I didn’t mean that, but this business of nickels and dimes and spending all your life trying to figure out how to save three cents on a length of pipe…I’d go crazy. I want to do something big and something important.”

After his father dies and the board votes to keep the Bailey Building and Loan open, in response to George’s passionate defense of the community, they only have one condition: George must stay on and take his father’s place.

– “Let’s get this thing straight. I’m leaving! I’m leaving right now! I’m going to school! This is my last chance! Uncle Billy, here, he’s your man!’

That’s right. George’s first consideration when his father’s legacy, his community, is on the line, is what he wants. The next four years apparently offer little growth, as he tells Mary, the night he calls on her:

– “Now, you listen to me. I don’t want any plastics and I don’t want any ground floors and I don’t want to get married ever, to anyone! You understand that? I want to do what I want to do!”

“He never thinks about himself”? That’s the entire premise of the first half of this movie. All George Bailey does is think about himself, about what he wants, what he deserves, because…

He’s entitled.

As a millennial, I literally hear about the entitlement of my generation, weekly… but no matter how many participation trophies I received as a kid (because I certainly didn’t earn any legitimate ones), I have never, in my adult life, compared to the entitlement of George Bailey.

In 1940, only 5.5% of men had completed a college degree, compared to 3.8% of women, not because it was a time of equality, but because a college education was so incredibly rare.* That’s eleven years after George sits at his father’s table, in his very nice middle class home, and tells him he’s better than the Bailey Building and Loan, a year when only 68% of American homes had electricity.* Just weeks later, after his father’s death, George even ridicules the man’s failure to have paid for not just his, but his brother’s education.

– “You are right when you say my father was no business man. I know that. Why he ever started this cheap penny-ante building and loan, I’ll never know. but neither you nor anybody else can say anything against his character, because his whole life was… why in the 25 years since he and Uncle Billy started this thing, he never once thought of himself, isn’t that right Uncle Billy? He didn’t save enough money to send Harry to school, let alone me.”

He does so to a room of men who likely went no further than the 8th grade, themselves, because in 1940 less than 25% of Americans had completed high school.* If you’re wondering why all these stats are about 1940, that’s because prior to that year, the surveys weren’t interested in levels of completed schooling, but literacy. A healthy chunk of the country couldn’t read the day ol’ GB haughtily declared he was turning down the position of executive secretary of his own business to go to college.

Yeah. I’m entitled.

It’s not just his demand for a college education that made George Bailey insufferably privileged, by the standards of that time and this one, but his general disdain for his hometown. I get it, he wanted to travel the world, in a day when men were lucky to have jobs at all, but the lack of exoticism in Bedford falls certainly didn’t earn the level of contempt George had for it.

– “It’ll keep him out of Bedford Falls, anyway.”

– “Homesick?!? For Bedford Falls?!?

– “… stay around this measly, crummy old town.”

This “crummy old town” has an indoor swimming pool under the high school gym. The only rundown house is eventually transformed to a glorious Victorian mansion by Mary Bailey, herself, with just a little elbow grease. Even George declares the falls are beautiful in the moonlight, when he tries to petition Violet to climb Mount Bedford. The dystopian version still has a successful library.

The citizens of Bedford Falls aren’t completely without their struggles, of course. George mentions to Sam Wainright that “half the town” was recently put out of business when the tool and machinery works was closed down. Does that stop him from criticizing anyone who works for Mr. Potter, though?

– “In the whole vast configuration of things, I’d say you’re nothing but a scurvy little spider… and that goes for you, too!”

Well, George, not everyone was just handed their father’s business, at 22. Zetus Lapetus, much of this movie took place during The Great Depression! Choosers were literally doomed to become beggars, which brings me to my final point of our “hero’s” entitlement. George Bailey was 12 in 1919, born in 1907. These years weren’t exactly known for the wealth of choices they provided. Throughout the entirety of It’s a Wonderful Life, however, George is constantly choosing his path. He chose to stay and run the Bailey Building and Loan after his father died. He chose to give his college money to Harry and let him take another job, when he was more than willing to take over. George chose to marry Mary, immediately after stating that it wasn’t what he wanted. He chose not to invest in Sam Wainwright’s business despite the fact that he’d apparently saved two thousand dollars for his travels. That’s thirty thousand dollars, today and ol’ GB chose to forfeit it to keep the Building and Loan open.

In a time of rampant polio and domestic violence and 25% unemployment, George had the luxury to choose his path and each and every time, he was an absolute martyr about it. He didn’t do these things, because he was selfless. He did them because of societal expectation, because of his image, and we know this, by his perpetual bellyaching, because…

He’s ungrateful.

It’s been argued that this was the point of the movie and I’ll allow that. However, in the opening scene, it’s heavily implied that George Bailey is only presently forgetting how good he has it, as he faces financial ruin and scandal on Christmas Eve. I mean, who wouldn’t see the brown spots on their lawn, in that light? For our “hero”, though, the grass has perpetually been greener. The entire movie highlights his general unhappiness and lack of appreciation from the moment he sits in his father’s home, served by a maid, and insists he can do better for himself. He somehow begrudgingly inherits his own business and marries a beautiful woman, who’s been in love with him her whole life. He has a respectable excuse to avoid the war and make beautiful babies, yet still finds something to complain about, while other men are dying and losing limbs. All the while, Mary Bailey remodels their home, cares for their children, and runs the USO, without a word of complaint. You the real MVP, Mary Bailey, because if this movie is an accurate indicator of your husband’s daily behavior, I’d have smothered him with a pillow in the first month of marriage. I mean, you could have been a librarian.

As the years go by, George Bailey lives in a beautiful home in a wealthy little town. He’s a respected member of society, by everyone from the town tramp to the bartender to his arch nemesis’s financial adviser. Still, his days are ruined by such inconsequentials as a loose newal cap on the staircase.*

Dude, even Zuzu was like, “Paste it, Daddy.”

Is it that much of a surprise, when things really go sideways and he says:

– “…It’s this old house. I don’t know why we all don’t have pneumonia. Drafty old barn! Might as well be living in a refrigerator… Why do we have to live here in the first place, and stay around this measly, crummy old town…”

– “Wrong? Everything’s wrong. You call this a happy family — why do we have to have all these kids?” (“all these kids” cost some people $35,000)

– “What kind of a teacher are you, anyway? What do you mean, sending her home like that, half naked? Do you realize she’ll probably end up with pneumonia, on account of you? Is this the sort of thing we pay taxes for, to have teachers… to have teachers like you… stupid, silly, careless people who send our kids home without any clothes on?”

That last little remark earned him a busted lip, and despite the general disagreement of the community of Bedford Falls, I’d say it was well-deserved. It’s at this point, that Clarence the angel reminds George Bailey just how good he has it, with a glimpse through the most self-centered lens of all time. Looking into the eyes of his loving wife, adoring children, and loyal friends wasn’t enough to convince George that life was worth living. Nope. He could only see value in his life when someone put a gold star next to his every good deed. His existence was only worth the effort, once it was proven that just by being alive, he changed the world for everyone he knew. Folks, if that ain’t a participation trophy…

Pictured: The Original Millennial

Citations

https://www.history.com/topics/native-american-history/pocahontas

https://www.statista.com/statistics/184272/educational-attainment-of-college-diploma-or-higher-by-gender/

Click to access 10_Education.pdf

https://www.diydoctor.org.uk/projects/staircase-parts-and-terminology.htm

Modern Mom’s Most Thankful Mentions

Posted on November 22, 2023 by Belle of the Library

Our world today is full of so many stressors and complaints. While one might think a time of year when we emphasize good will and gratitude would dampen that effect, that’s not necessarily the case during the holidays… especially for moms. This is such a busy, expensive, exhausting few months, it’s easy to forget how good we have it. We take for granted so many luxuries for which our foremothers would have happily killed, from dishwashers to Roombas to Baby Brezzas. So, in honor of Thanksgiving, I give you my list of my most loved modern treasures.

Fast Dry Nail Polish
When Jake and I met, he used to comment that my nails were a different color every time he saw me. I’ve never paid for regular manicures, but even working two jobs at the time, I loved painting my nails when I could get a free hour or so. I felt so feminine and put together. After I had my girls, I actually did get my nails done a few times, but found the appointments just took too long and gave them up even before quitting my job would have necessitated it. Until recently, I’ve only managed such a privilege as an at-home manicure for special occasions, if that. I’ve really missed that little thing that was so very me, though. So this summer, I decided to give fast drying polish another go. Surely it had improved since the early 2000s, when it inevitably looked thin, matte, and tacky. Indeed it has, because today I can give myself a decent manicure for $5 a bottle in under five minutes during nap time. Not only that, I’ve already taught my two-year-old daughters this little bit of bougie self-indulgence. At the first sight of a bottle of nail polish, they hop right up onto their little picnic table and hold out their tiny feet, calling ordering me to “Paint!”

Online Shopping
Online shopping is my go-to when adults complain about how difficult life is, today. While we all have our trials, procuring everything from household necessities to custom birthday and Christmas gifts has never been easier in the history of time. I can choose stocking stuffers or restock toothpaste and toilet paper from the comfort of my sofa while Jake and I watch a sitcom after dinner. I can schedule regular deliveries of phthalate-free laundry detergent on Amazon so I never even have to order it myself. I can stock my grocery cart throughout the week and schedule to pick it up without even getting out of my car. No matter our other woes, Samantha Stephens would have given up her magic for the ability to shop online.

Industrial Carpet Cleaner
Long before I met jake, I dreamt of the day I would own a Bissell Green Machine, just like the ones I used to save up to rent at Lowe’s one or twice a year, when I lived in my apartment. Yes. That’s right. While all my twenty-something gal pals were gettin’ some strange, I was fantasizing about an industrial carpet cleaner… and in 2021, my dream came true. Jake’s brother gifted us a $200 eBay gift card he surely won at a rodeo to celebrate our twin girls. After some cajoling and providing a bit of proof that eBay doesn’t actually sell much baby equipment, Jake made me fall in love with him all over again. Folks, there is nothing more disgusting than children, no matter how adored. So this holiday season, as the weather keeps us inside and we host numerous gatherings in our home, I am so very thankful that, unlike my foremothers who scheduled professional carpet cleanings only when budget and time allowed, I can deep clean my rugs and sofa as often as my heart desires. That is, indeed, quite often.

Dungeons and Dragons
Hear me out… in early 2020, I wanted to start a DnD group at the library for my teens, but had no idea where to begin. I knew that my old friend Niki’s husband, Percy, was really into it and he agreed to serve as Dungeon Master. That was almost four years ago and our bi-weekly game night as grown into two separate campaigns led by Percy and Jake. It also now includes three former co-workers I’d never see otherwise. As a somewhat introverted stay-at-home mom, I don’t require a lot of socialization, but these games have been my lifeline to adult interaction that doesn’t center around my children. Every two weeks, I enjoy a weekend of junk food and gaming with friends, without all the hassle of scheduling a get-together, sending invites, collecting R.S.V.P.’s, and planning an engaging evening of fun. The date is set. The activity is set. I might be pretending to be a gorgeous elven sorcerer while doing it, but I get to bask in scheduled grownup time amidst a life of diapers, laundry, and tantrums.

Smartphones
As a millennial, I’ve had a smartphone for most of my adult life. While I’ll admit that they’re often misused and abused, a smartphone makes Mom Life so much easier. I can listen to music and audiobooks all day long. I easily keep up with local, national, and international news. I find recipes online and can reference them while cooking. I’m able to take amazing photos and videos I can post to my family-only Instagram so my Gramma feels like she’s a part of our every day life. I video call Jake at work to show him something cute (or horrible) the kids have done. I can even chat with the women in my romance Discord for some daily adult interaction. Yes, I do utilize blocking apps to keep myself from constantly reading about world events and stressing myself out, but in so many ways, my smartphone is the mother’s assistant previous generations desperately needed.

Photo Album Software
I feel like I have to make it clear here that I am not a paid blogger when I say I’ve been using Mixbook.com to create annual photo albums since 2010. All those pictures I take with my smartphone actually do end up in an album that I work on pretty much constantly throughout the year. I carefully choose my photos and upload them into my project, where I organize them and add captions. The result is a collection of fairly expensive (but totally worth it) photo journals to remember my life… as a single college student, a Girl Boss, a newlywed, and now a wife and mother. Earlier this year, I finally gained possession of my mother’s old boxes of photos. As I’ve been going through them, scanning the pictures to make Mixbooks of them, I’ve struggled to sort the years from the mismatched stacks and albums into any chronological order that makes sense. Though I’m not sure she’d have ever been organized enough to use it, I’m certain my mother would have adored the option to preserve her memories so easily. I can even compile my short phone videos into a longer, more watchable, home movie… when I get the time.

Good Earbuds
Again, not a paid blogger, but earlier this year I searched desperately for good earbuds, comparable to my beloved (but discontinued) Samsung Galaxy Buds +. After trying and returning what had to be half the different options in existence, I found a pretty great alternative (Soundcore Space a40s, if you’re curious). Y’all, if my parents had had the option to turn on “noise cancellation” when I was a kid, I’d probably remember them as being much more tolerant and patient. While this technology only goes so far, it does dampen the sound of non-urgent background whining and fits to a level that makes them far more tolerable. While I’m always aware enough to notice a real emergency, listening to trashy romance novels over the sound of my girls fighting over which identical pink chair they want makes me a kinder, gentler Mama. I’m certain we’d all be much more compassionate toward our boomer parents if we knew what life was like, exclusively at full volume.

Assisted Reproductive Technology
It must be said, as miserable as our infertility journey has been, were it not for science, Jake and I wouldn’t have our family. The stress, tears, debt, awkward appointments, injections, pills, and invasive procedures have all led me here. IVF was always a fear of mine and I’d never wish it on anyone, but my mother having been adopted in 1960 when my grandmother couldn’t conceive, I am so very grateful to have had the options we have today. I’m also thankful for the innovative (though admittedly quite pricey) medical technology living in the U.S. affords us. God, love, and science were in the creation of my precious children, wheras 50 years ago, I’d have had to accept a life without them. I will never forget that.

An Amazing Husband
I will never claim to have the perfect marriage, but I do have a pretty terrific husband. Not only has Jake given me literally everything I’ve ever wanted, he’s done so with little to no complaint. When we got married, he was making $11 an hour, while I made more than half that, because I asked him to leave the oilfield. I’d grown up with a blue collar dad who worked non-stop and simply did not want to be an oil wife. I wanted a family and for my husband to be there to help raise them. I didn’t need luxury clothes or designer purses. I needed Jake and he obliged. He also obliged when it was time to buy a house, pay off my student loans, spend $35,000 to have children, and become the sole bread-winner when I just could not handle being away from my babies. He’s found a way to get us a gently used minivan, decorate cute and comfortable bedrooms for our children, and keep us all clothed, fed, and entertained. He comes home during every lunch break and every night. He’s never, ever, been one to leave everything to me, just because I stay home. He changes diapers, bathes babies, cooks, cleans, and gives me breaks when I need them. He even took on the brunt of twin potty training when it began to overwhelm me. That’s more than any of the women who came before me can say… in fact, it’s more than many of the women in 2023 can say. He’s pushy and overly opinionated and kind of a terrible listener, but Jake is an amazing husband and father. Without him, none of the above would matter, because I wouldn’t be a mom. Those perfect little people wouldn’t exist. This Thanksgiving, I am most thankful for him and the family he’s helped give us.

WHERE IS MY GLITTER?: The Things We Block Out

Posted on October 27, 2023 by Belle of the Library

It started with conception. Jake and I found out that IVF was our only realistic hope for a family one month before the Covid-19 lockdowns. What followed was a period of time that I largely blocked out. Only with deliberate effort can I recall what it felt like to wake up each morning, every day exactly the same, and picture a life without a family. My hobbies felt meaningless. My favorite shows brought me to tears with even a tertiary motherhood plot. I could take solace in no one but Jake, for the sake of social distancing. I went days at a time without sleeping or eating. It was one of the hardest times in my life… and pursuing IVF under the threat of a canceled cycle wasn’t any easier. I previously wrote about how it felt revisiting the fertility clinic for my frozen embryo transfer. I sat in the lobby, looking at photos of my babies as I fought off wartime-style flashbacks of an election day where Jake waited in the car while I underwent another solo egg retrieval, woke up alone and in pain, and finally broke down over the idea that I might never be a mom. So it goes that I became familiar with The Things We Block Out before I was even a mother. While the moments have certainly become less dramatic since my girls’ conception, I’ve realized that this selective amnesia is a staple of sorts among parents, even a survival tactic, because if we remembered everything, there would be far fewer siblings. For example…

The Fourth Trimester and The Newborn Phase

My best recollection of the newborn phase is of sitting on the couch or in the chair, while snuggling a tiny baby on my chest. Tiny they were, with Violet weighing 4 lbs 15 oz and Scarlett weighing 5 lbs 3 oz. Even Thomas, born at a scheduled 37 weeks only weighed 6 lbs 3 oz. When the girls were newborns, I’d lay on the sofa with both of them on my chest or trade back and forth with Jake. When it was just Thomas, I’d wear a robe and let him lay on my chest to skin to skin while Jake entertained the girls, with Christmas music playing in the background. It’s as undeniably sweet a memory as it is an edited one.

If I dig a little deeper into my recollection of the fourth trimester, I was an absolute wreck with the girls; terrified I wouldn’t live to see them grow up after their utterly horrifying delivery by emergency C-section at 35 weeks. Jake and I’d planned on maintaining a two-income household, not yet realizing how very much it sucked to do so. I cried every day, feeling like I didn’t see my babies at all, despite all I’d gone through to get them. When Thomas was born, I’d stay up and stare at him, consumed with anxiety, desperate to make sure he was breathing. Everything Jake said was wrong, though only half his fault. A week in, I burst into tears when he joked that our family Instagram seemed to be all photos of Thomas, after I’d spent months worrying that the girls would feel replaced. Idiot. Still, I loathed being so oversensitive and feeding a newborn every three hours did not make it any easier. I worried about everything from whether or not the girls were getting enough attention to Thomas’s weight. The surface memory might be sweet, but the actuality was indeed less so.

Illnesses

For the two months the girls attended daycare, it seemed they spent the majority of their time at home with various illnesses. Since then, however, I’ve been blessed to be able to report that all of my children have been relatively healthy. Regardless, illnesses come with the territory, more so for a mother who has never known life with just one baby. There was that first Christmas, when Jake and I were pretty sure we all had Covid-19, but tests were unavailable. We rode it out watching New Year’s episodes of our favorite shows, as our six-month-old twins fussed and cried. There were the twin teething days full of tears, fevers, and infant Tylenol. It seemed every time one baby finally cut a tooth, the other found she was getting a new one, too. There was the epic diaper rash that saw me, six months pregnant and unable to hold a one-year-old for too long, laying on the hardwood floor while singing and holding a naked and screeching baby. That one prepared me for the doctor’s visit two months later, when I lay on the table holding a sick Violet, my back sore from pregnancy and my desperately clingy daughter.

Folks, since the early days, I’ve championed the glory of twins. I love 99% of being a twin mom. My girls have always had someone to entertain them, to play with them, to comfort them, to keep them company and it hasn’t always had to be me. These days, I can do laundry while Violet and Scarlet play in the living room. If they don’t want to sleep during naptime, they can babble and put on performances for each other. Reports from moms of singletons have me feeling as though I’m not spread nearly as thin with twins. It’s not just for my benefit, though. My girls (and now by extension, Thomas) are never bored. They adore each other and have so much fun. It’s a beautiful thing to see their relationship grow… until they’re sick. Even if I’m lucky enough to have only one child sick at a time, the other is still going to start fussing just as the first is feeling better. If it hits them simultaneously, I cannot peel them off of me. Reminding them that I have to take care of Brother too, does not seem to help… though it’s still the case. While my children are blessedly healthy, just last week, Thomas showed signs of his first real cold, followed by the twins, who were both diagnosed with strep. Ironically, Thomas was spared simply for the fact that he doesn’t share their sippy cups or food, but I still had three sick babies in my house all week… and I’ve already blocked it out.

The Injuries

When I was pregnant with twin girls, all anyone could talk about was how much glitter would be in my life. Our house was going to look like the set of The Labyrinth just from the play dresses alone. I thought ‘Awesome! I love glitter!’ Then, I gave birth to two little bear cubs.

For about 10 days there, following an incorrect guess from my OB, I was certain I was having two boys. Though I felt horribly ungrateful for my disappointment, I just kept thinking of all the stories Jake told about growing up with his brother… the childhood wrestling matches, the revenge pranks, the wrecked pickups, the binge drinking… just the idea of all that comprising the entirety of my parenting experience was exhausting. I wanted a girl to raise and mentor the way my mom wanted to do with me but couldn’t manage… someone to strut around the house in plastic heels, sit on the bathtub to watch me do my makeup, let me paint her toenails… and so far, I’ve gotten all that doubled… along with so much rough housing doubled.

Despite the claims I hear from Boy Moms, I cannot imagine my life would involve any more injuries if I had had two boys. Why is everything they come up with so dangerous? Every week, my girls create a new game bound to end in bandages and tears. Violet will hardly go down the slide on her bottom, opting to for standing, sideways, or backward and upside down. When Scarlett joins in, she stands at the bottom of the slide so Violet can try to knock her over with her feet. When they’re bored of that, one of them lays on the couch while the other yanks her off by her feet as hard as she can. Even bath time is fraught with danger, because it is apparently the bees knees to purposely slip from a standing position in the tub and go flying into your sister like a rogue bobsled. This week, I told Scarlett not to rough house on the sofa, just 30 seconds before I heard screaming from the living room. The next hour consisted of singing, wiping away blood, calling Jake to tell me if X-rays were needed, and Googling how to tell if a toddler has a broken nose. As the bruise is fading, I’m glad I took photos, because it’s just one more blood-filled day I’ve already begun to forget as I repeatedly wonder where is my glitter, y’all?!?!

Potty Training

I fed newborn twins every three hours while recovering from a heart condition, pneumonia, and sepsis. I had multiple echocardiograms in my fourth trimester as a first time mom. I was 13 weeks pregnant on my twins’ first birthday, barely able to get out of bed before 9:00 a.m. as they were becoming more and more active. I was sick every single morning of my pregnancy with Thomas until delivery, yet still wrangled twin toddlers in the doctor’s office while massively pregnant. I recovered from a C-section with clingy 17-month-olds and their newborn brother, only to turn around a few months later and take on a frozen embryo transfer (FET) while managing all three… and none of that pushed me to the brink like potty training twins.

I don’t know what it is about potty training, but each time I tried to sit the girls down in the beginning, they would protest or get bored; I would hear Thomas crying from the other room, feel pulled in two directions, and just break down. Perhaps I’m just used to quick success, over-achiever that I am. Maybe I’m not accustomed to having goals that depend on the willingness of stubborn and not especially communicative toddlers. Surely, the hormones I began taking in June for the FET frayed my nerves and made me more emotional. Whatever the reason, just the idea of potty training two children completely overwhelmed me from the very beginning. This was something in which I had zero experience. I didn’t have a mom to consult. I couldn’t research my way to potty trained children… and it broke me.

Folks, I love my husband. He’s a good man. He is not, however, a perfect one. He can be bossy, patronizing, and dismissive. His assertiveness can cross the line into bullying. He says the wrong thing most of the time… but my stars has he come through on the feat that is potty training twins. Starting at 22 months, Jake has spent four or five intermittent weekends encouraging the girls to sit on their potties with stickers and M&M Minis. The first weekend, Violet was all for it. Scarlet was utterly traumatized by the idea. I was simply too post-partum to take on the task, emotionally. The next few weekends took place over the following months and saw Violet just as eager, but Scarlet just not ready. Though each time, it fell to me to intervene and declare that we’d need to try another time, Jake did all the heavy lifting until that point. Now, here we are, Violet and Scarlet not quite two and a half. We’re finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, and I have to record somewhere that it has all been due to Jake… because I am already beginning to block it out.

Another Birthday and Another Blogiversary

Posted on September 12, 2023 by Belle of the Library

You know that feeling, when you meet someone who shares the same birthday as you? It feels like the sweetest little coincidence, assuming it’s someone you like. Well, a friend just sent me a graphic listing the most common birthdays in the U.S. and mine is number one. I fact-checked her, of course, so feel free to fact check me, but I’m torn between thinking this is a special little detail and thinking it’s the very opposite. The defining feature of something being “special” is, naturally, scarcity and we September 9thers apparently have the least of that in the U.S. So is the burden of the over-thinker.

Eleven years ago, on my 25th birthday, I started this blog. Last year marked 10 years of writing, fairly consistently, about grad school, my dating life, my career, married life, being a homeowner, undergoing infertility, and finally being a stay-at-home mom. Only during 2020 did I take an extended break, while I dealt with the heartache of pandemic infertility. Even then, I told my tale on a linked page at Belle of Infertility. I wanted to record my story and feelings, for myself and anyone else suffering, but I didn’t want to turn my beloved blog into a depressing ode to infertility.

It’s been more than ten years. That’s longer than I spent in college, longer than I worked in my library system, longer than I’ve known Jake. I’ve gone from working two jobs and wondering when my life would start, to the #girlboss and teen librarian, to Just Wife and Mama. Blogging may not be as in fashion as it once was, but this is the closest I’ll ever have to time travel, as I revisit different versions of myself and my world. It’s been a wonderful adventure, growing up and keeping track of the funny, sad, frustrating, infuriating moments. I look back over the last 11 years and I see that it was all worth it: the grad school drama, the financial struggles, the missed job opportunities, the bad dates, the toxic friendships, the stress of moving to a new city, of buying a home, the devastation that is infertility, the heartbreak of losing my mother, the fear of nearly dying in childbirth, and the confliction of leaving my career. Every tearful prayer, every moment of wondering what would be, every scream of rage brought me here… and here is really good.

As I start a new year, at 36, I look forward to a thousand more adventures with my husband and our hard-won babies. I’m certain the next year will bring even greater chaos, but I’m optimistic it will also see the completion of our family. This year, we hope to add one more, our fourth and final, rounding off the stage of life that is growing our family and moving into the stage that is raising it. We aim to put infertility behind us once and for all, pull ourselves out of the debt it’s inevitably led to, and enjoy our young family with a little less stress. We won’t be traveling the world or enjoying expensive luxuries, but all the same, on my 36th birthday, I’d say I am very much living my dream.

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