… the musings of an overly organized thirty-something, married, southern librarian turned stay-at-home-mom with too many opinions, too much ambition, just enough kids, and a stubborn, mouthy, redheaded country boy to accompany her through life.
I'm a former teen librarian with my Master in Library and Information Studies. After years of dating, I married my perfect match. I am my Gramma's best girl and now I have my own two precious baby girls. I sometimes reach a point where I figure I may as well make everything worse. I often say the wrong thing. I don't always pick up on conversational subtleties. I'll never be dainty or poised. I am a hopeless indoor girl. I read, shoot, craft and BLOG.
When I was a kid, my dad worked as a lineman for the electric company and my mother as an RN. It was the 90s and the economy was strong, so we were pretty firmly middle class… on paper. In actuality, though my parents had to have been making pretty good money for our low cost of living state, they were just terrible with it.
Now, as a Millennial, I feel like I need a disclaimer here, because my generation is absolutely insufferable when it comes to judging Boomers. Sure, they had their faults as parents, but Millennials are not the first group of people to love their children. While my own parents certainly weren’t perfect, their financial irresponsibility doesn’t even make the list of their transgressions. It did, however, result in a pretty contradictory childhood. We lived in a trailer with Astroturf on the porch and Christmas lights hanging down on the Fourth of July, but we also had a speed boat, a couple of jet skis, a motorhome, a four wheeler, a pony, and a ridiculous number of expensive farm animals at different times.
On top of my parents’ financial illiteracy, my Gramma lived next door and worked as a supervisor for the phone company, giving her quite a bit of disposable income. While I don’t really subscribe to the concept of Love Languages, because people are more complex than that, it would be entirely accurate to say that my Gramma shows her love through gift giving. Even today, if I mention I want something for myself or the kids, she’ll buy it 80% of the time. So, as a child, my brother and I had essentially every thing we ever wanted, from the newest game consoles to a literal horse. It should come as no surprise that most of our Halloween costumes were purchased from a store or catalog.
Today, one of the many cycles I hope to break, is that of irresponsible and frivolous spending. Before I met Jake, I almost never ate out, because I couldn’t afford it. I bought my clothes from Goodwill, drove a used car, and did everything I could to stay out of debt. After we married, it was easy enough to continue that behavior. I’ve never been one to get my nails done. I cut everyone in the family’s hair, including my own. While the girls wear new clothes, because they like matching, Thomas and Sullivan mostly wear hand-me-downs from family and friends. Our own clothes come from Sam’s Club, Old Navy, and Amazon, while we save our splurges for new tech. We do have some debt to pay off, but that’s primarily because it cost us $35,000 to have children. Thanks infertility.
I’m not going to lie. It can be difficult to maintain our frugality in a society obsessed with social media. I’ve previously shared my confusion as to where everyone is getting all their money, even without four kids. Every week, it seems a family member is taking their children to Disney World or Florida, showcasing their new car, or sharing the results of expensive facials and eyebrow treatments. This is especially prevalent during the holidays, when my parents take their annual Thanksgiving cruise, my cousin buys her toddler a new iPad or designer dog, and my step-siblings pay $300 to take the family for a one hour ride on a train designed to look like The Polar Express. It all starts with Halloween, though.
For the past week, family, friends, and high school acquaintances long since forgotten have been sharing pictures of store-bought Halloween costumes of varying degrees of quality. Some were clearly purchased from a local Big Box store, others were inflatable and came complete with fans on Amazon, and a few appeared to have been special ordered for their higher quality. Meanwhile, I was putting the finishing touches on our family Ghostbusters costume compiled of a costume tee I bought Jake for his birthday, a $6 beige dress I found on clearance and cut to t-shirt length for myself, clearance uniform dresses for the girls, and temporarily altered pajamas for the boys. The showpiece was their Ectomobile, created from a Little Tikes Cozy Coupe I bought on Facebook Marketplace.
I’ll admit, as I spray painted clearance water guns and cut felt, I became a little insecure. I worried our costumes looked cheap and homemade, that that’s what people would see at the church Trunk or Treat and what our children would see when they looked back at pictures. It took me a bit of fretting to remember that Halloween is comprised of a few fun family events at most. Were it Our Thing and we saved up for elaborate costumes or if we had a lot more discretionary income, it might be fun to splurge and go big… but it’s not and we don’t. We have four children under four, who aren’t even familiar enough with any characters to choose a costume for themselves. We don’t go to fancy Halloween parties. We go to the church carnival, library storytime, and Momo’s house for treats. There is absolutely zero reason for us to dial up our Halloween efforts at this stage of life.
I can tell you several Halloween costumes I wore as a child and the ages I wore them… because I have a freakishly vivid memory. Truly, there’s probably a condition associated with it. Still, what I remember most from my favorite years isn’t the costumes. It’s the fact that, once upon a time, my dad was enthusiastic enough about family life to come trick or treating with us and “test” his favorite candy to make sure it was safe. My mother was once normal enough to bring festive treats to my class. She used grocery store face paint kits to give my brother brutal wounds or blood trails from his vampire fangs, to paint my entire face orange, because that was the only convincing way to dress up as a pumpkin. What I remember more than the costumes was that, even after my dad had lost interest in the holiday, my mother took us trick or treating with my aunts and cousins and eventually by herself. She drove us from house to house as we sat on the back of her Jeep, so we wouldn’t have to walk too far in the cold. I had the fancy store bought costumes, but the memories I cherish are those of family. The ones I mourn are those that came after dysfunction settled over our home life.
Overall, I grew up with all the things I wanted… and I’d have given them all for parents who loved each other, had fun together, and could be silly. Without hesitation, I’d have traded my own room, TV, VCR, cable, and private phone line for more siblings, family game nights, and happier holidays. So, I remind myself and any readers who need it, that it is okay for Halloween costumes to both be and look homemade. It’s okay to save a few thousand dollars and skip that vacation. It’s okay to host that birthday party in the backyard. It’s okay to pass on the pricey Santa photos and expensive train rides. It’s okay to pick and choose your splurges, because those really aren’t the things your children are going to remember. They’ll probably forget most of those fancy costumes and many of those pricey outings… but they won’t forget how they felt spending their holidays with family who loved them. They won’t forget silly traditions like painting pumpkins in their underwear, eating sweet potato pancakes on Black Friday, and their cowboy Daddy’s ridiculous love of A Muppet Christmas Carol. It’s easy to forget in this social media heavy age that our children do not need amazing props to have an amazing childhood… but it’s true. Just look at these guys.
Four years ago, Jake and I received the devastating news that we might never have children. Three years ago, Violet and Scarlett entered the world after much drama, as miracles of God and science. A little more than a year and a half ago, Thomas entered the world, a miracle of God alone. Five months ago, Sullivan proved that love truly is infinite after an FET. In just four short years, Jake and I went from a family of two, fearful we’d never be more than that, to a family of six… and possibly counting.
I am a somewhat older mom for the South, having had my girls at 33 and their brothers at 35 and 36. While I’d love to be 10 years younger, physically, becoming a mother in my 30s meant I got the chance to live for myself for a few years first. I got married. I got a bachelor’s degree. I got divorced. I started my master’s degree, began working out and had my own little glow-up. I spent years staying up all night having Vampire Diaries and Roswell marathons, eating popcorn and frozen yogurt for dinner. I hung out with friends whenever I wanted. I lay by my apartment’s pool. Not really one for travel, I visited Alaska and New Mexico regardless. I dated… a lot. I worked as substitute teacher, a circulation clerk, a half-time librarian once I got my degree, a full time manager, and then a teen librarian for five years. II got engaged and married, bought a house, took a trip to Colorado Springs with my husband, before Covid-19 hit. I loved my career and even went to the YALSA conference in Memphis, Tennessee. I had an entire life before my children were born. Still, I can honestly say, the most fulfilling and rewarding thing I have ever done was to be a mother.
I turned 37 last month, on the same day my blog turned 12. We celebrated by spoiling the kids with ice cream cake and donuts, taking them to the zoo, and spending all the money my dad gave me on Disney on Ice tickets. There was somethingfor me. I personally repainted and redecorated the entire house with my farmers market earnings. Jake also bought me the full length mirror I’ve wanted for years. My Gramma and Grandpa came out to eat pizza and cake and play with the kids. The highlight of my birthday, though, was the expression on Thomas’s face the moment he saw Woody from Toy Story in real life.
Don’t get me wrong. I have my own hobbies, as evidenced by the neglect this blog has gotten over the summer. I’ve been selling baked goods and hand made crafts at the farmers market, sometimes for weeks in a row. I’m working to catch up on my family photo albums, while taking surveys and playing cell phone games to earn the money to print them. I’m trying to teach myself photography and even took a class and bought a fancy camera. I am way too into politics and have read about virtually any mainstream national and international news story you can name. It’s been a bit since I’ve played the Harry Potter Legacy game on XBOX, but I do enjoy it. I cross stitch, sew, crochet, and am currently working on a homemade family Ghostbusters Halloween costume. I also still host not one, but two, DnD games every other week. I am not a woman who neglects herself for her children. Still, they are my greatest adventure. After all those years spent reading romance novels with marriage and babies epilogues, here I am, in my Good Ol’ Days. I could not be happier.
Jake is turning 40 this weekend. At times I’ve felt mournful over the passing of time and “getting old.” Then, I talk to my grandma and grandpa and realize that this is the best time in our lives. We’re in our prime, me still in my 30s and Jake just beginning his 40s. We’re young. We’re healthy. Our kids are still young. Our older relatives are still alive. Life is crazy right now, even when I’m not painting an entire house with four under four. It’s also beautiful and I intend to spend the next twelve years chronicling it here, as well.
On August 16th of 2023, I watched the screen as a little white dot descended into my uterine lining, hoping and praying that my $5,000 embryo transfer would take. I took the envelope from the nurse, containing the photo of my embryo, refusing to look at it until I knew whether or not I’d ever hold that little life in my arms. Just 10 days later, I received the news that, indeed, I was pregnant. I continued my progesterone shots for another six weeks, before I saw and heard confirmation that my baby had a beating heart on my final ultrasound with the fertility clinic. The pregnancy was viable. As I readied to leave, I jokingly told my doctor that I hoped I’d never see him again. Just a few short weeks later, the blood test came back. My baby was a healthy little boy. I would finally have the two girls and two boys I had always wanted. After this third pregnancy and fourth child in three years, we were done… which was exactly how the announcements were worded over the next few months. #fourthandfinalgranger
I spent my pregnancy with my Sullivan cherishing every milestone as the last. Jake vetoed every name for the last time. I made my last Christmas stocking and baby blanket. I felt my last first kick. I saw my last ultrasounds. Every moment was precious, right up to point when they stuck me with that needle to administer the spinal for my C-section. As the doctor opened me up, she affirmed all these sentiments, announcing that she didn’t recommend another pregnancy, because my uterus was so thin. That was quite alright with me, because I’d accepted that this was the last time I’d feel that tug and hear that first cry. It was the last time I’d hold my brand new baby on my chest, whispering how I loved him despite how very gross he was at that moment. This was my last hospital stay and my last recovery.
My Sully was and is perfect, y’all, utterly and completely. He was my largest baby, at 8 pounds, 12 ounces and his birth was the second time in my life that I’ve loved a boy at first sight. Though exhausted from the drugs, I’ll never forget the feeling of knowing his heart was racing until he lay on my chest as I snuggled him. I hardly put him down in the following hours, despite the pain of my surgerical wound. I watched and recorded as the nurse gave him his first bath. I dressed him in his going home outfit and took photos of his first car ride. The next day, I introduced him to his sisters and brother, joking that he was the last one.
Over the next few weeks, I was perfectly content knowing that Sully was my final baby, as I soaked up all of the newborn snuggles. Four years after finding out Jake and I might never have children, I had everything I ever wanted. I could donate my remaining embryos with the peace of mind that I’d had the children I could have without risking their mother. My family was whole.
Four weeks after giving birth, I returned for my follow-up appointment and simply asked for verification that I couldn’t safely carry more children. This time, however, there was a significant shift to my doctor’s tone. What had previously been a recommendation not to get pregnant again had turned to a casual note that I would be fine, as long as we delivered at 36 weeks, to avoid labor. Having had the girls at 35 weeks, I know firsthand that this isn’t a big deal. With that one conversation, my world turned on a dime. Just an hour earlier, I’d been absolutely content with the knowledge that my five remaining embryos would be donated to a couple of my choosing when I was ready. Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure.
When Jake and I started our IVF journey, we only spoke briefly about what we’d do with leftover embryos. Having been assured by the doctor that we’d be lucky to get three, maybe four, we weren’t especially concerned, particularly since our previous cycle had been a complete failure. When I found out we had eight embryos I figured that, with the odds being 50/50 for each, we could possibly even have all of them ourselves. Then, both embryos took and we had the Violet and Scarlett. Then, Thomas came naturally, despite all odds. Then, my first FET took and gave me Sully. I’m beyond fortunate to have my family, but I’m not sure I can give up more of my children than I’ve even had, knowing I could carry them. It’s been four months since my Sully came into my life and I’m no longer sure my family is whole. I look at his little face and see such a stark resemblance to his sisters. I can’t help but imagine other babies with the same fat cheeks and plump lips. I don’t particularly want more children, but I also feel a responsibility to have as many of the embryos I created as I safely can.
There are a lot of moral objections to IVF. As a practicing Catholic, who simply was not strong enough to trust in God to give her children, I am well aware of the arguments against it. While I won’t debate those here, I am starting to feel that there’s not enough education surrounding the topic of leftover embryos. Sure, you’re told it’s a possibility and given a couple of options, but every single couple experiencing that stage of infertility is lost in a fog of fear that they’ll never have children. Jake and I, quite literally, ended the discussion with the agreement to think about it after we were actually able to have a family. That would be Future Belle’s and Future Jake’s problem. Well, here I am, Future Belle and I… don’t think I can do it.
When I was recovering from heart failure, after the girls were born, my cardiologist told me about a woman who continually played Russian roulette, regardless of being advised against more pregnancies. After her sixth, she ended up in permanent, life-altering heart failure. I am not that woman. If and when I’m told that I can no longer safely carry a child, I will be done. Having had three C-sections already, I know the number of children I can carry is finitem. However many embroys remain, I will donate to a childless couple and hope they have a beautiful life. While it might be difficult, I’m comfortable with explaining to an adult biological child that I couldn’t risk my own life when I had other children. What I’m not comfortable with, however, is explaining that I gave them up because I just wasn’t up for it. Furthermore, I don’t think I can tell my existing children that, had a different embryologist been working that day, they might not have made the cut for my vision of a perfect family.
While Jake hasn’t ruled out the possibility of more children, I do think he’s waiting for me to change my mind. I am so tired of being pregnant. I want to get my body back and feel strong, once again. I want to enjoy the family I have and move on to the next stage of life. He knows that. Personally, I think he’s waiting in vain. I have another six months or so before I’d want to do a transfer, to see if I can come to terms with donating my embryos. I have no desire to put this off, only to panic at 40 and insist it’s not too late. In the meantime, I just don’t know that my family is whole.
It’s been a busy season… so busy in fact, that I haven’t written in a few months. The last time I took such a hiatus was in 2020, when I didn’t want to share my battle with infertility. Nothing so personally tragic has occurred this time, but I did have a baby (post forth-coming), mark seven years of marriage (post also forth-coming), celebrate my girls’ third birthday (yes, forth-coming), and throw a combination “three-rex” dinosaur party and baptism reception. To top it off, Six Months Pregnant Belle had the brilliant idea to sign Eight Weeks Post-Partum Belle up for her firstfarmers market. Yes. That’s right. I spent a week straight wrangling four under three (one of whom still eats every three to four hours) while I crafted handmade earrings, buttons, stickers, and mugs, tightly wrapped in my post C-section binder.
As with many of my life ventures, I have jumped into these farmers market shenanigans with little know-how or experience. While I won’t say it’s been a total disaster, that first Friday was particularly disheartening, as I watched the lady across from me sell loaf after loaf of sourdough, while I held a naked two-month-old whose daddy dressed him in sleeper jams in 90° plus weather, and sold a whopping $13 worth of merchandise.
I learned from this experience, though, and added baked goods to the next week’s haul, none of which moved until Jake suggested I give out samples. Ill-prepared, I cut up a couple of brownies with a plastic takeout knife from the car and lay them out on a paper sack. I still can’t believe anyone tried them, with Jake waving another sack to keep the flies away. Nearly everyone who did bought one for $3 or two for $5, though. This time, I went home with $53 in my pocket, a substantial improvement. In the days since, I’ve been to Hobby Lobby and purchased a cheap cake carrier for next week’s samples. I plan to add banana bread and chocolate chip cookies to my wares for even greater success, both of which I ruined last week by undercooking and overcooking, respectively.
Truly, it has been an exhausting time of life, but blessedly so. I’ve been so fortunate to safely have these babies after infertility, care for them in a comfortable home on one income, and kiss my healthy husband each evening when he walks through the door… or pick an onlyhalf insane, exhausted, and overwhelmed, post-partum fight. As tough as these last few… well, years, have been, I am reminded to be grateful for this chaos, because my sweetest of cousins buried her own 36-year old husband this past week, after a brief, but vicious battle with cancer.
I won’t pretend to have been close to Patrick, but Kayla and I were good friends as kids. Two years younger, she was the cousin with whom I had sleepovers after every family gathering. I was the bossy older cousin always trying to convince her to do things that were forbidden. Kayla was the sweet, innocent younger cousin I envied for her popularity with grown-ups and other kids alike. As adults, we weren’t especially close until we seemed to mirror each other’s milestones. While Kayla skipped the Lifetime Original Movie marriage, she did spend several years with a man her family didn’t like for a multitude of reasons, before finally getting shot of him. A couple of years later, just as I met Jake on Plenty of Fish, Kayla met Patrick on Tinder. Together, we defended online dating to our Boomer aunts and uncles, explaining that it wasn’t You’ve Got Mail, anymore. Even in 2015, it was ubiquitous. People just weren’t talking about it. Eventually, Jake and I married in 2017 and Kayla and Patrick about a year later. In 2020, I began IVF and Kayla announced that they were facing their own fertility problems.
Both having married men from wealthy families, Kayla and I fielded comments together, about how we could “just” pursue treatment. This advice was well-intended, but lacked the understanding that “comes from money” and “has money” are not equivalent. Regardless, just as Jake and I announced our miracle conception with Thomas, Kayla announced that she and Patrick were pregnant with Cillian. It was a joyous few months, in which Kayla and I bonded via text… until Patrick’s diagnosis with stage four colon cancer.
I only met Patrick two or three times, but I was shocked at how similar he was to Jake. Also a Texan, he enjoyed hunting and fishing. He was the life of every party, loud and funny. While Kayla and I were close as kids, I can’t say we’ve ever been especially similar. Kayla is… sweet. She’s the kind of person who doesn’t have to try to think kind thoughts, avoid gossip, word things carefully, and/or bite her tongue. She’s just naturally loving and gentle. I am nothing if not self-aware and would never say these things about myself. I try to be a good person, a loving wife, mother, granddaughter, friend… but I do have to try. More than once this week, I’ve told Jake that, as infuriating as he is in his nearly robotic stoicism, I could not have married a sensitive man. I’m too opinionated, honest, and assertive. It surprises me that Kayla and I would choose men so alike… and it breaks my heart to know that, at 34 years old, with a son two months younger than Thomas, she’s lost hers.
Last week, Jake and I did everything we could to secure childcare for the funeral. However, on very short notice, we were only able to attend the viewing. A more social, less somber, affair, it was still awful to see this vibrant, young father and husband in an open casket. It’s my understanding that, once the inoperable tumors developed, chemo ceased. This meant that Patrick looked exactly like the man Jake and I joked and laughed with at Christmas just before Covid-19 put a stop to all family gatherings. With the cancer diagnosis, I’d never met Cillian, who looks exactly like the father he won’t remember, just as my Thomas is the mirror image of Jake.
I’ve said before that Jake is my best friend and the only man I’ve ever loved. I mean it, every single day. However, the last few months, with four under four, one of them brand new, have not been entirely harmonious. No one has done or said anything too egregious, but life has been somewhat rocky, with so many stressors and transitions. The fourth trimester has bested me after every single pregnancy and this time has been no different… except now I’ve also had three under three to contend with, in addition to a newborn. There has been more than one crying jag in the shower, as well as more than one comment that a stoic and an asshole are not one in the same. I’m sensitive. Jake’s stressed. We’re both exhausted. It has, admittedly, resulted in something of a rough patch.
As we weather this season with all its complicated feelings, I’ve felt a kind of survivor’s guilt. Kayla would do anything to argue with Patrick under her breath at a farmers market… or even to yell at him for refusing to fix the bumper he cracked two years ago. As is often the case in life, it’s not fair. It’s not fair that the kindest cousin of my generation has been hit so hard, with infertility and now widowhood just days before her anniversary. It’s not fair that her little boy will grow up only knowing his father from photos, videos, and stories. It’s not fair that such a young, lively, funny, loyal, good man spent his last months knowing he wouldn’t be there for his wife or son. I had to consider that possibility myself, once, after I nearly died during childbirth with the girls. For months, I would burst into tears at random, knowing firsthand the pain of going through life without a mother. I can only imagine the devastation of it being a sure thing. None of it’s fair, so I’ll just count my blessings that my biggest stressors in life are farmers markets and a funeral. As tense as things are at the moment, Jake and I have our children, our home, our health… and no matter what life brings, each other.
Nearly 12 years ago, I decided to start a blog. At the time, I was a freshly divorced grad student, navigating the dating world… poorly. I needed a place to share my shaky recovery from a deeply unhealthy relationship and my somewhat disastrous attempts at dating. Belle of the Library was born.
As the years passed, my blog changed with me. I went from blogging about grad school and dating, to writing about being a teen librarian, to sharing the ups and downs of marriage, and even creating a separate space to vent about my infertility journey. I wrote about pregnancy and, for a short time, being a working mom. Now, I suppose I’m just one of many mommy bloggers, but my love of writing persists, so I shall as well.
While I can’t say I’ve ever written this blog for anyone but my future self, it does feel good to get likes and views. As information sharing has changed, I’ve seen fewer of both, which can be disheartening after spending a few hours editing a post. I, like everyone, want to be heard. I want other women, who feel as I do and/or share the same experiences, to feel a little less alone. I want to know that my writing makes any impact in the world. I’ve considered ways to increase my readership, at times, but then Scarlet falls off the changing table or Thomas knocks over a potted plant and it vanishes from my mind.
I suppose my biggest objection to branching out to Instagram or TikTok has largely been one of respect for my family’s privacy. While I’d love to have a greater presence, I refuse to sell my children’s childhood or sense of security by sharing intimate photos and details for the entertainment and attention of strangers. Perhaps, I also fear failure in such a crowded market. I’m not especially niche blogger, neither an extreme Christian homemaker or a successful boss lady momfluencer. Ironically, after a lifetime of striving to be perfectly ordinary, it’s now a handicap.
Recently, my aunt has encouraged me to boost my viewership, upon learning of this blog. She, herself, began an online crafting series during Covid-19 and now helps other women expand their own online presence. So, if you have any interest in following my daily shenanigans… like the fact that I just made a triple batch of banana bread in the lid to a cake carrier, because I didn’t realize I didn’t have a dish large enough to hold the batter… please follow me on Instagram.
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-sufficientand 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 thisis 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 alot 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.
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 unbelievablyhard 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 sohappy 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.
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.
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.
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.
Belle of the Library 