Category Archives: anniversary

A Year Without a Blog Post

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Okay. Maybe it wasn’t a year. More like 18 months. Who would have thought five kids would keep me so busy I couldn’t keep up with my beloved blog? Do people even read blogs anymore? I sure hope so. It’s always been a favorite medium of mine. Maybe they’ll make a comeback, like vinyl.

Yes, indeed. You read that right. In 2025, I brought another beautiful baby into the world. In 2024, Sully was baby number four under three, boy number two, and we were D-O-N-E, DONE. I had my two girls and my two boys and we were eager to start the next stage of life. During delivery, I was told not to have more, further cementing our family of six… until one month later, when my doctor completely changed her tune, insisting it would be fine. Never in my life have my mind and heart changed on a dime like they did that day, one month post-partum, baby Sully at home with Jake, our twin two-year-olds, and our 17-month-old. I had walked into that office certain that my family was whole and left knowing it wasn’t. Jake was hesitant, of course. Surely it was just hormones, but as the months passed and I prayed that God would turn his heart if this was what he truly wanted, I knew. I knew we weren’t done. In time, without much prodding, Jake came around and on April 30, 2025, I underwent another embryo transfer.

You’d think that was enough drama for a year, but before we even knew if we were pregnant, my sweet Sully was diagnosed with congenital glaucoma and scheduled for near emergency surgery. It wasn’t just a droopy eye. Just thirteen months after bringing him into the world, I had to watch him go through double doors on his own, in a Daniel Tiger hospital gown, hoping to save his sight.

Ugh. That was a rough day. Our Sully did well, though. While there’s likely some litigation in our future with the optomestrists who repeatedly misdiagnosed him, the surgery went well. His right eye is fine and while he’s lost all peripheral vision in his left, he can see and function when we patch his good eye. Stairs just aren’t his friend. My days are full of chasing around a giggling, screaming, tantrum throwing newly two-year-old with eye patches, glasses, and eye drops. But while he’ll never be a fighter pilot, my baby can see. When he grows up, he will primarily have his mother to thank for that fact.

By this point, we’d confirmed our pregnancy, which quickly went from an identical twin pregnancy to a singleton, another heartbreaking experience. God has his plan, though, and while I’m once again just four months post-partum, I do believe that plan is for us to have another child. My pregnancy progressed and we began to consider how our life would actually look with five children under five still at home. We’d always planned to start the girls to school late, but we weren’t sure the following year would be as good for them with a pregnancy and a new baby at home. After a lot of thought, we applied for the school choice vouchers and enrolled our baby girls in Catholic school. Three weeks before they started, my parents gave us a bunkbed so we could make room for a new baby girl long before she came. One week later, I let Tommy play in his sisters’ room during nap time, because they’d be going to school in two weeks and I figured it would be good for them to spend time together. After a couple of hours, I heard crying and found Tommy lying on the bed weakly weeping and soaked in sweat. He’d fallen off the top bunk and fractured his skull.

Oh em jingles, y’all. He was two. How the hell am I supposed to cope with boymomdom for the rest of my life? Those hospital couches are not getting any more comfortable and they’re pretty miserable at 37 and pregnant. It was the worst sleep of my life with my baby waking up every couple of hours crying because he didn’t know where he was. I couldn’t hold him or sleep with him in the hospital crib. After 12 hours, I still wasn’t sure if he’d need surgery. Fortunately, we received the all-clear the next morning and I was able to take my baby boy home. His sisters were thrilled to have him back and excitedly told everyone for weeks that “Tommy broke his head.” It was an exciting month, because just a week later, Jake started his new position working for a larger city, the state capital. He received close to a $15k raise, better benefits and leave, and a much brighter future. Our whirlwhind summer was rounded off with our baby girls’ first day of pre-k4.

As for starting your twins to pre-k while three months pregnant, I’d give it a 0/10, do not recommend… and so would my Violet. Scarlett was pretty gung-ho after the initial adjustment, but we were three weeks deep into the school year before Violet stopped screaming as they dragged her bodily from the car. One morning, I tried to console her by telling her she could watch Superman (1978 version) when we got home. She looked at me with all the newly four-year-old rage she could muster, pointed her finger, and screamed “NO! I WILL NOT WATCH SUPERMAN!” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I pulled over and did both.

Aside from prepping for baby Elizabeth, the rest of the year went fairly smoothly. Having children in the school at our church, among other current events, seemed to have triggered something in Jake and we started attending OCIA classes so he could convert to Catholocism. My birthday came and went, as did his. For Halloween, we pulled off another epic family costume.

The rest of the year was… well, exhausting. Thanskgiving was quickly followed by Tommy’s third birthday, which of course had to be as big as possible, since he’ll have to share his Christmas birthday with his baby sister for the rest of his life. Everyone in our lives expected full participation in all the family dinners and gatherings, regardless of the chaos we were experiencing at home. I put the changing table together myself a week before the scheduled C-section. Her baby blanket was finished three days before she arrived. I went a little overboard on Christmas, because I felt I had to make up for bringing a new baby home six days prior and ended up calling my OB in pain at 4 am.

OB: “Have you been taking it easy?”
Me: “Yes.”

NO! IT’S TWO DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS AND I HAVE FIVE CHILDREN UNDER FIVE, ONE OF THEM FOUR DAYS OLD. OF COURSE I AM NOT TAKING IT EASY!

The kids had a beautiful Christmas, though, complete with what probably amounted to too many stocking stuffers from Santa, along with their Step 2 “roller coaster,” which was the best purchase of the season. They went to all the Christmas parties, while I snuggled my new baby.

After all that, Sully turned two in April. We celebrated the same day we baptized baby Betty. Jake converted to Catholocism. We celebrated nine years of marriage last week. Our baby girls will finish their first year of pre-k next Friday. Now that you’re all caught up… if anyone is still reading… I hope I can continue to update this blog. Even without a single reader, it’s still dear to my heart when I read back on this amazing, chaotic, unexpected existence of mine.

Another Birthday and Another Blogiversary

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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.

Year Six: The Year Jake Got Competition From Another Man

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One year ago, on May 5th, I was worried that my five year anniversary with Jake and my first real Mother’s Day would be ruined. I’d been feeling sick for several days. Jake and I were planning an embryo transfer for the next month and I was supposed to call with cycle day one. With 10 month old twins, though, my period hadn’t regulated yet and I was a week late. When the nurse at the fertility clinic had asked if I could be pregnant, I assured her that Jake could not get me pregnant. We’d accepted it. It was fine, but I wasn’t taking a test. She understood, but said I’d need to come in to check for cysts if I didn’t get my period in the next couple of weeks.

Two more weeks had gone by at this point and, concerned that I might have some severe feminine problems, I decided to make an appointment for the next week. Whatever scary news I received would come after our special weekend. I knew, however, that they’d insist on a pregnancy test. I figured I’d cope with any difficult emotional response at home and take one myself. Off to Dollar General I went, grabbing a can of chicken noodle soup along with my one dollar test, just to feel like the trip wasn’t a total waste.

As I sat on the toilet lid, waiting for my negative test result, I Googled reasons for a late period. I hypothesized everything from PCOS to ovarian cancer, anything other than the obvious. I glanced at the test, assuming I’d immediately be throwing it away. Much to my surprise, however, I saw not one line, but two.

I took two more tests, both of which also came up positive and called my OBGYN.

Me: “False positives, though… that’s not really a thing, right? That’s just a plot device from romance novels and teen movies?”
Nurse: “I mean, yeah, basically. If you have three positive tests, you’re pregnant.”

Pregnant. After Jake had been told by his urologist that “miracles happen” in regards to our chances of natural conception… after spending $30,000 on back-to-back rounds of pandemic IVF… after having been cautioned against more children while fighting pneumonia, heart complications, and sepsis following the girls’ birth… I was pregnant.

So it was, that our sixth year of marriage passed in a whirlwind of minivan shopping, home improvements, and continued toddler joy. We celebrated a first birthday, first steps, and first words, all while preparing for the arrival of our baby boy. With no complications and zero drama, on December 6th our Thomas came into the world. The romcoms were half right, y’all. I’ve never believed in love at first sight, but I just hadn’t met the right man.

I adore my daughters. I love being home with them, hearing every giggle, witnessing every new milestone, soothing every tantrum, kissing every owie. I look forward to a future where I have two precious little girls to guide. We’ll do crafts, dance to bad pop music, watch princess movies, go shopping, do our nails. I love that I get the chance to be the mother mine wanted so very much to be to her daughter but couldn’t. Our relationship is truly everything I’d hoped. The bond I have with Thomas is not stronger, but it is… more unexpected. Whenever I envisioned having children one day, I was so focused on the idea of giving girls what I never had, that I never really imagined how I’d feel about a son. I even worried that I couldn’t be as close to a boy, no matter how I loved him.

Our sixth year was an utter surprise. It was the year Jake got his future hunting buddy and Lord of the Rings fan. It was the year his parents met their first grandson. It was the year my Gramma finally got her redheaded great grandbaby. Though I love my girls just as much, perhaps I relate to them more, understand their ornery motivations too clearly, because it’s my sweet Thomas who will rarely do anything wrong in his mother’s eyes. With his Daddy’s laidback charm, at just five months, this little guy could sell me ocean front property in Arizona.

After battling infertility and the drama of the girls’ birth, year six was the one where we welcomed a naturally conceived baby into the world without fear or heartache. While I jest that my children are in any way competing with their father, this was the year when I gave a piece of my heart to another man… one who looks just like him. Often having accused Jake of being a literal robot in his extreme stoicism, I’ve found it particularly swoon-worthy watching him fulfill the tough cowboy stereotype as his girls have carefully wrapped him around their little fingers over the last two years. Perhaps one day, I’ll feel he’s too hard on Thomas, just as I’m sure he’ll consider me to be too easy. In the meantime, however, seeing Jake snuggle and kiss the mirror image that is his baby boy…

If I still had my whole heart to give, it would be all his once again. Alas, I don’t think he minds sharing it.