Category Archives: Babies

I don’t know if my family is whole.

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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.

Farmers Markets & Funerals

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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 first farmers 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 only half 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.

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

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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.

My Baby Boy is One

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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.

“You’ll see when you have kids” – a Message to the Patronized Future Parents

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“You’ll see when you have kids.” Is there any more hated sentence for those without children who want them? What a way to strip any positivity or hope from the vocation of parenthood. You’re not allowed to have ideas or goals, without presenting some form of threat or judgement toward those who’ve failed or simply have other priorities. Out of pure arrogance and defensiveness, parents paint you as idealistic and naïve, regardless of your reasoning when you try to make literally any plan or prediction about your own eventual parenting. I guess, in a way, that never really changes. You’ll see when you have kids.

I won’t say I was right about everything I planned as a future parent. We didn’t really use two bassinets. None of my kids took pacifiers. We certainly haven’t managed early potty training. Most notably, I’ve done a complete 180 in regards to being a stay-at-home mom. Once the determined career woman, I spend my days chasing toddlers, changing diapers, incessantly sweeping, and cleverly convincing my twin two-year-olds that an “adventure” consists of a Panera run and a trip to Sam’s Club. It’s right for us, but it’s certainly a far cry from the image I had of daycare pickups in my #bosslady attire. So, despite my hesitancy to vocalize any strong declarations of my future parenting goals, I’m still here, eating a little bit of crow… but it’s a lot less than everyone claimed. In fact, in a lot of ways, I was right. Such as…

Schedules

One of the number one ways I surprised myself as a new mom was by not obsessively researching parenting strategies in preparation. I perused some lists of what to buy/what not to buy, watched some instructional swaddling videos on YouTube, and read some articles on sleep training and other parenting tips, but I didn’t actually read any books on the subject. As with childbirth, I felt there was little I could anticipate until the moment actually arrived. However, the one tidbit I did take to heart was the importance of keeping a schedule.

While I came across a fair amount of advice discouraging new moms from stressing about schedules, every single article or video I found that was specifically directed at multiples moms clarified this to be a vital component of twin parenting. The gist seemed to be, if you’re having a singleton, go with the flow, sleep when the baby sleeps, let the chores pile up, and it’ll be fine. If you’re having twins or more, though, you need to figure out how to schedule your bathroom breaks. No matter how I stressed this qualifier, anyone who heard my plans to stick to a schedule laughed. “You’ll see when you’re a parent.” Well, I’m typing this during naptime on a fairly typical day that goes a little something like this:

6:30 – solo walk before everyone gets up
7:30 – get the kids up and feed everyone breakfast
8:00 – put the girls in their play yard for independent play time, while I do chores
9:00 – family walk when it’s not too hot/play time when it’s over 80 degrees
10:15 – pick up toys and have a snack
10:30 – naptime
12:00 – lunch time followed by any necessary errands or play time
2:45 – pick up toys and have a snack
3:00 – naptime
5:00 – Jake gets home and naptime ends
6:30 – dinner time
6:45 – bath time every other night
7:30 – bed time

So yes, if a schedule is important to you… if you feel it will make your life easier, not harder… go for it. It’s entirely doable and everyone who says otherwise can go kick rocks.

Cleaning and Organization

My mother was a borderline hoarder. On any given day, my childhood home was covered in clutter and trash. It was unsanitary, stressful, and embarrassing. As an adult, I find peace in having a clean and organized home, to the extent that I can’t relax among mess. Not only was I convinced that I would be a better mom with a clean and organized home, I refused to raise my children any other way. When I was pregnant with the girls, I was intent on creating a sustainable system of organization. I had a place in the kitchen for the bottles, the pacifiers, the bibs, and the baby dishes. I put drawer dividers in the dresser and rolled their tiny clothes in pairs, instead of folding them, so it was easy to find the matching outfits for each baby. I used my Cricut to create cute labels for storage baskets I put in alphabetical order to store diapers, socks, and swaddles. When I showed pictures to my aunts, they openly laughed. “Yeah, that’ll last!” Well, it’s been more than two years and not only are my systems going strong, I’ve created entirely new ones in addition. They make my life easier, Jake’s life easier, and even my girls’ lives easier, when they know where everything is and where everything goes.

Screentime

Every parent has their thing, that one thing that’s really important to them. Perhaps they didn’t bring it up before they had kids, because they wanted to avoid the condescending remarks, but it’s always been at the back of their minds. This is the thing they think of in absolutes like never, always, only. For me, it was screentime.

When I was a kid, I watched TV constantly. I could tell you what would be on my TV every half hour of the day when I was home. If I was doing homework, reading, working on some craft, the TV was my constant companion. Turning it off was unfathomable. It was deeply unhealthy. Not until age 22 did I finally realize how much time and energy I was wasting on television that I didn’t even enjoy. That was the year I turned off the TV, only powering it back up when I had something specific to watch. I read, did homework, worked out. It was life changing. I vowed that my children would never be that addicted to screentime. They wouldn’t watch any television before age two and even then, it would be in small doses. They would play outside, do puzzles, pretend, anything but stare at a screen… and I was right.

My girls are two now and occasionally enjoy an episode of Bluey or Rugrats, but only a few times a week. I’ve played music on Pandora since they were born, but no shows. After they hit 18 months, every so often, I would play a few Disney sing-alongs on YouTube, but both girls mostly ignored the screen. In general, I’ve stuck to my guns on this issue. My kids don’t watch much TV. When I do put something on, they quickly lose interest in favor of other forms of play. Because I have twins who can entertain each other, I have literally never given either of them my phone for even a moment. In fact, they know better than to even touch it, because phones now cost a thousand dollars. They don’t have tablets and when they do, I’ll limit their usage to learning apps on rare occasion. They’ll never have a TV in their room. Some people don’t worry much about screentime. That’s fair. You can’t care about all the things. I care about this one, though, and I have not wavered.

Food

Today’s parents have some intense opinions about what their kids eat, how much, when, where, and any and all feelings involved. I’m sure this is because Millennials grew up in a diet heavy culture, but damn they seem to take it just as far in the opposite direction. Personally, I’ve never felt that strongly about when my children have their first taste of sugar, whether or not they eat processed foods, or if they have McDonald’s bought by someone else. On the contrary, Jake and I have decided that our approach to avoiding food issues will be to refuse to let mealtimes become a huge source of drama. We had a few ideas of how to accomplish that.

Growing up, my parents talked incessantly about their weight and dieting… usually on the way to get fast food. I was three the first time I worried I was fat. I will not let that happen to my children, so long before Jake and I started planning for a family, we agreed that we wouldn’t eat out often with kids. When we shared this with family, we were informed that it was just too hard to cook and eat at home nightly. Picking up fast food just saved time. We would see when we had kids. Well, we’re three kids deep and the only time we eat out is when I find a coupon during naptime. This is, in part, because getting fast food is not only expensive, but it is decidedly not easier to sit in a drive-through for twenty minutes during the dinner rush, only to go home and eat cold, overpriced, fried food. So we don’t… and life is simpler. Our kids don’t think beef is soaked in French fry grease. They won’t grow accustomed to choosing every item in every meal. They won’t think it’s normal to spend $25 on dinner every night.

In addition to our insistence that we wouldn’t eat out on a regular basis, there was one more mealtime trend we abhorred that seemed quite popular among parents. We simply would not beg our children to eat. This isn’t just painfully tedious to witness when our family members do it. We’re also very fortunate to live in one of the wealthiest countries in the world, to have good, relatively healthy food to eat during every meal and snack time. Forget “starving kids in China.” We surely have starving kids living within a few miles of us. There’s not a lot I can do about that at present, but I can attempt to raise children who are grateful for their own many blessings. It was with this sentiment that Jake and I vowed we wouldn’t cajole “just one more bite” out of our kids. We would give them food that tastes good and nourishes their bodies and they could eat it or not. I don’t actually think we shared this aspiration with anyone else, simply because we didn’t want to hear about how wrong we would ultimately be as we bribed our children to eat broccoli. Maybe one day our children will become so very picky that we have no choice, but right now our meal motto is indeed “eat it or don’t.” Bonus: Our kids also only eat at the table and don’t necessarily expect bites of everything they ever see us eat.

Privacy

Once upon a time, I confidently declared that I would bathe alone, dress alone, and poop alone. I am a bodily private person. I don’t particularly like to discuss bodily issues with anyone, be they Jake or my doctor. In fact, this was one of the worst parts of my traumatizing hospital stay when the girls were born. It was utterly dehumanizing to have someone give me sponge baths, mess with my catheter, and repeatedly ask about my bowel movements. I even hated that Jake had to help me shower, when I finally got to labor and delivery.

Privacy is just all-important to me. Before children, when I saw funny little Instagram videos and memes about how mothers lose all bodily autonomy, I was adamant that that would not be the case for me. Not only did I find this vital to my own mental health and well-being, I found it confusing to tell children that they deserve privacy, but Mom doesn’t. Why do we constantly insist that no one gets to see or touch a child’s bathing suit parts, but they can play trucks on Mama’s knees while she poops? It just seems contradictory to give children a message about respecting their space and body, while allowing them to disrespect our own. Sure, some women don’t care. Excellent. They can enjoy a nice Group Poop. I’m not one of them, though. We have doors. We have baby gates. We use them. I am a mom who bathes alone, dresses alone, and poops alone. Jake does the same.

Bedtime and Sleeping Arrangements

I think one of my most accepted inevitabilities of parenting, the one thing I just knew Jake and I wouldn’t be able to avoid, was bedtime and sleeping drama. When we found out we were pregnant with twins, a part of me just gave up any hope of sleeping for the next five years. Still, I did try. This was the one subject I thoroughly researched. I studied different sleep training philosophies, read articles on how they impacted children, and even bought a book specifically dedicated to getting twins to sleep. I didn’t read beyond the first few chapters, but I bought it… secondhand. The trouble was, regardless of how much research I did, the methods and advice all seemed quite similar. I knew I couldn’t intervene every time a baby cried or I’d never get any sleep myself, but I also knew I couldn’t just let my babies cry for hours.

Honestly, sleep arrangements were where the twin schedule came in so handy. My girls were always on such a strict schedule, that sleep happened somewhat organically. If a baby cried, we gave it a few minutes, soothed her for a bit, put her back down and left. Rinse and repeat. Setting a naptime routine when I quit my job was actually more difficult than creating a nighttime one. By three months, our girls slept through the night, occasionally waking briefly in the early morning hours… and they have always done so in their own beds. That’s right. One of the biggest No Nevers for Jake was children sleeping in our bed. I had something of a wait-and-see attitude on this one, but where I was resolved to remain organized, Jake was determined to maintain a childfree bed. So far, we have and while I’m willing to say we’ll see how that holds, I think this might be another area where we benefit from having twins. Our girls are never actually alone. When they’re old enough to crawl out of their own beds, it’s more than likely they’ll simply crawl into each other’s. I have no problem with that. So, for now at least, we get plenty of chance to sleep… among other things.

So there you have it, new and eventual parents. Feel empowered. Go forth and make your plans. If they’re important enough to you, you can see them through. You’ll see when you have kids.

I don’t think I can do this more than once.

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When I found out I was pregnant with Thomas, my feelings were surprisingly conflicted. I wanted another baby, but a natural conception meant there was one more frozen embryo I wouldn’t get to use myself. The cost savings were great, but I was still worried about my health. I wanted more children, for my girls to have more siblings, but not at the expense of growing up without a mother. It was good news, of course, but bittersweet in a sense.

A practicing Catholic, I don’t believe in auras, crystals, or intuition beyond the norm. More than once, I’ve lost respect for someone’s intelligence when they’ve tried to sell me on horoscopes or personality tests beyond silly fun. I don’t mean quietly, either. Words like “hogwash” and “malarkey” are my immediate response to any mention of the Enneagram or Myers-Briggs. I’ll even back it up with citations. That said, I’ve always felt that I was meant to have four children, similar to the way I always felt I was meant to have twins. I assign no greater meaning to the idea, nor do I claim to have some kind of foresight or premonition. It’s just a feeling. As I go through this embryo transfer process, however, I feel more and more that this is how it was meant to be, because y’all, I don’t think I could have done this again had it been required to bring my Thomas into the world.

When I wrote about my first appointment to the fertility clinic since 2020, when the girls were conceived, I mentioned how much I seem to have blocked out since then. That being the case, I honestly don’t recall what it was like undergoing back-to-back pandemic IVF. I don’t really remember the mood swings and the side effects of the drugs. Considering the impact of the medications required for this FET, I don’t think I want to remember, either. Last time, I only had Jake to burden, when I lost my temper or found myself incredibly depressed by the entire process. Now, I have three wonderful little humans relying on me as their primary source of affection on an average weekday… and it sucks.

I won’t say that I’m a paragon of “gentle parenting” on a normal day. I firmly believe the constant cajoling and bargaining parents do with their children to get them to behave is why they’re all little nightmares. Still, like most parents, I’m trying to break patterns from my own childhood. I offer choices when possible. I ask nicely at least twice. I try to not to yell, unless someone’s in danger. I refuse to use screentime as a crutch. Put me on birth control pills alone, though…

Folks, I am completely rethinking the ubiquity of hormonal birth control over here. After a couple of years on Mirena with few side effects from the localized hormones, I never went back on any kind of hormonal birth control. Five weeks on the pill before switching to estrogen, though, and I feel like I’m going to be the subject of an HBO docuseries. It doesn’t help that my own mother likely had undiagnosed bipolar disorder, a declaration I don’t make lightly, considering my entire generation’s obsession with self-diagnoses. Whatever the cause, when I was growing up, it wasn’t rare for a night of fun and laughter to take a hard left turn toward broken furniture and bruises. While I’ve certainly not been violent, I loathe feeling as though I can’t control my emotions around my children. They depend on me to be loving, kind, and playful, not angry, short-tempered, and depressed. I know everyone thinks it’s lunacy to have my babies so close together, but my stars, at this point, I’m just glad they won’t remember this.

I hope this transfer works for so many reasons. I want our embryo to thrive and grow into a healthy baby boy or girl. I want our family to finally be complete. I don’t want our financial investment to be for nothing. I want the strain I’m putting on my body to have a purpose. I want a fourth so badly and we have embryos to use, so I can’t say if this fails I won’t try again. Still, I just want this to be over, because I don’t think I can do this more than once.

Just One More: I Really Don’t Want to Do This

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When I was little, my parents lived in a trailer on five acres, next to the five acres owned by my Gramma and Grandpa, who had built a nice brick home. With few neighbor kids and first responder parents, my brother Beau and I were often left to our own devices, unless we were lucky enough to spend the day with Gramma. Though I remember playing well with my brother when we were little, we fought more and more as time passed. The only boy among his three sisters, my dad seemed to accept the dynamic as antagonistic. An adopted only child, my mother had no basis for sibling relationships at all and followed his lead. Without intervention, by the time our parents bought my grandparents’ house, my brother and I had a much more caustic relationship than was normal. With Gramma across town and our mom and dad always fighting in the garage, life became very lonely for eight-year-old Belle and eleven-year-old Beau.

My mother ultimately bought a modest house in a subdivision and my dad moved into a rental on the other side of town when I was 11. My mother took me. My father took Beau. There was no custody agreement. Sometimes my brother and I saw each other, but we were essentially only children from that point forward. Beau briefly lived with us a couple of times, my mother doting on him in the hopes that he’d stay, but he never did for long. My teenage resentment toward him grew, as it became clear that both of my parents wanted custody of Beau, while neither seemed to want custody of me. I was an angry, dramatic teenager, but I made good grades and mostly stayed out of trouble. Beau smoked pot, drank, even totaled my mother’s Saturn and nearly paralyzed himself at 16. He certainly wasn’t the easier child, so it hurt all the more that he still seemed to be the favored one. At 19, Beau married his high school girlfriend in a desperate attempt to create his own happy family, just as I did three years later. His results were different, though I don’t know that I’d call them successful.

Today, Beau and I see each other at Christmas. It’s tense. It’s awkward. It makes my Gramma happy, so it’s worth it. He did not call when the girls were born, despite my being in the ICU and nearly dying. He didn’t even meet my babies until that Christmas, when they were six months old. Today, Beau has seen Violet and Scarlett less than ten times in their lives and Thomas only once. He recently moved to Texas and neither told me nor visited before he left. When my Gramma dies, I will likely never see my brother again, despite my effort to keep that door open with the occasional text or photo of my children, to which he almost never responds. In many ways, Beau has the worst attributes of both of our parents. He’s idealistic, easily manipulated, selfish, self-absorbed, overdramatic, bitter, paranoid, disloyal, and not particularly intelligent. I have no ill-will toward him, but he is who he is and hoping he’ll be something different hasn’t served me well. Still, were he to call right now, I’d happily talk to him for hours… because he’s my brother.

When I was growing up, my mother and I watched 7th Heaven all the time. A divorced, single mother, my mom imagined a life married to a doting minister, wrangling her seven adoring children. I dreamt of being one of the popular Camden kids, constantly trying and failing to get something by my overly involved parents. In reality, my mother and father couldn’t be in the same room and no one had asked to see my report cards since the 7th grade. My sophomore year, my mother began working evening shifts, which provided me with a reprieve from her intermittent physical abuse… but also meant we shared fewer nights when we’d eat junk food, watch terrible horror movies, and talk about boys. She’d assured I had no relationship with my father years earlier. My brother was gone, his allegiance decidedly with his teenaged fiancé’s family. So, most nights, it was just me; and I longed for a big, loud, inescapable family… so much so that I saw Cheaper By the Dozen in theaters three times, twice in secret. What I wouldn’t have given to be a Camden or a Baker, constantly fighting with someone over the bathroom, the phone, or a general lack of privacy, as long as it meant having someone.

The following years were also somewhat lonely for me… even the good ones, after my divorce and the resulting struggle. I’d reconnected with my family and made friends, but the balm that was coming home to my single girl apartment faded with time. Though I wasn’t sure what exactly I wanted from life anymore, I still fantasized about the delightful chaos of a house full of children. TLC family titles like Jon and Kate Plus 8 and 19 Kids and Counting were the only reality shows I ever followed. Even when I wasn’t entirely sure I still wanted children, I frequently watched Yours, Mine, and Ours while counting the years to see how many I could realistically have before I hit 40.

So, when I asked Jake how many kids he wanted, I countered his three with my four. Twenty-seven at the time, I’d decided at some point in the last ten years that while double digits weren’t a logistical possibility, I still wanted a big family. If I couldn’t be one of a bunch of siblings, I could be the matriarch celebrating holidays with a full house. Four children seemed like just enough to qualify, without breaching the limit of how many I could keep up with emotionally, financially, and physically. So, Jake and I agreed to three or four kids, tentatively, as we acknowledged everyone’s insistence that we’d change our minds when we realized the work of one or two. Now, here we are, three deep… and everyone was wrong.

I admit it, y’all. I bought the lie that I’d have two children and change my mind about wanting a third. When I was pregnant with the girls, I accepted that twins might be enough of a challenge. When I was told I wouldn’t be able to have more babies, I tried to console myself with the idea that I might eventually not even want them. Still, I grieved for the possibility that I would never meet any more of my embryos, that my girls might only have each other, that I could never have a son. In the following months, I waited. I waited to find out if my heart had fully recovered. I waited to feel that the girls were enough, that our family was whole regardless. Yet, when I received the affirmative on the former, I accepted that the latter wasn’t going to happen. I wanted another child, despite the risk that I could have similar issues with another pregnancy. Even if I couldn’t have four, I wanted the chance to carry and raise one more baby, before donating my embryos to a couple who couldn’t conceive. I worried, of course. I worried that I’d do irreparable damage to my health, leaving my girls with a sick mother. I worried that I wasn’t up for the process of a frozen embryo transfer. I worried that we couldn’t afford it or another child. Then came Thomas.

If you follow my blog, you know that Thomas was the miracle baby we were told, quite definitively, that we couldn’t conceive. He’s the anecdote infertile women hear about from their well-meaning aunt, whose best friend’s daughter thought she couldn’t get pregnant and “just relaxed” and “quit trying.” Jake had one sperm and it’s adorably bouncing up and down in my living room at this very moment. We now have twin girls and their seventeen-months younger little brother. By the average American’s measure, we have The Perfect Little Family. I know, because people tell me so at Sam’s Club, all the time. Yet, as blessed as we were with our Thomas, I still want one more.

When Jake and I planned our family, long before we knew we’d struggle, we always agreed that four was our max, but that we’d probably stop at three. Not only did society have us convinced we likely wouldn’t want a fourth, time suggested we wouldn’t be able to have so many before Jake hit 40. If we’d started at 32 and 35, as planned, spacing them out by two years, we’d be 36 and 39 when we had our third. Neither of us wanted to have babies past that point, yet we allowed for the possibility, primarily based on gender. Had we three boys, we’d have wanted to try for a girl. Had we three girls, we’d have wanted to try for a boy. Living in a far better economy at the time, we also refused to compromise the family we wanted solely for economic reasons. If we wanted four, we’d figure it out financially. Regardless and excepting any surprises, we’d be done after that.

Now, here we are with three beautiful children and six frozen embryos and I still want another baby. I’m potty training twins, introducing their brother to solids, have just gotten everyone on the same nap schedule, and I still want the big family, the additional chaos. I also can’t forget that even if we didn’t want to do it again, we’d have been willing to have just one more, had Thomas been a girl. Not only would I have been willing to risk the potential complications; I’d have been willing to pay the $4500 for the transfer, take the hormones, the progesterone injections, all on the possibility that I’d get pregnant and we’d get to raise another of our babies.

On the exceedingly rare occasion that I do consider being done, I remember that it’s not as simple as just not having another child. That fourth child already exists. If I don’t carry and raise him or her, someone else will. As much as I’d love to be that huge Instagram family after personally giving all of our embryos a chance at life, I realize that’s not in the cards for many reasons. For starters, we truly cannot afford nine potential children, nor can we house them in our three bedroom home. While neither of us want to have kids in our forties anyway, I’m also not convinced we can successfully raise such a large family. Money isn’t the only resource in short supply for a family of that size. In fact, while you can always make more money, time and energy are far more difficult to come by and I don’t think we’re up to the challenge. I’ve also already had two C-sections and know VBACs to be a mixed bag, so my ability to carry and birth that many babies is also in question, especially considering my age and prior complications. So, I’ve accepted that raising all of our embryos is simply not possible… but having one more is an opportunity I can’t bring myself to turn down, knowing I’d have been willing solely for gender.

So… we began the frozen embryo transfer process. The appointments are set, the birth control prescribed, and the transfer scheduled. Last week I went in for a repeat of the practice transfer and uterine mapping procedures I did in 2020. Due to my refusal to take babies into an infertility clinic, Jake stayed home with the kids and I confidently drove to my appointment solo… at least until I got on the highway.

Folks, I was not prepared for how awful it would feel just driving to the fertility clinic… let alone sitting in that office, remembering a time when I might never be a mom. I am not one for new age shenanigans. Still, I found myself deep breathing to avoid a legitimate panic attack. While the seats weren’t taped off and I didn’t have to wear a mask, HGTV playing in the background still sent me right back to a time when every day was exactly the same, the world shut down, the possibility of no babies. Property Brothers alone seems to give me PTSD, a phenomenon I didn’t even know was possible until I realized I hadn’t registered a single word the nurse spoke to me… and it did not get better.

I cannot believe how much of the infertility process I’ve blocked out, y’all. It’s so invasive, having three people in a room touching and looking at your vagina. I don’t think a softer bedside manner would make me feel like less of a specimen, either. On the contrary, any more sympathy from my doctors or nurses would likely make me feel more uncomfortable, considering they already know my grooming habits. There’s just no way around how utterly dehumanizing infertility is, as a typically miraculous occurrence is led by science. As I lay there, staring at my empty uterus on the screen, I reminded myself that this is worth it. Being a mother is the greatest feeling in the world, closely followed by that of watching my children play together and love on each other. Despite infertility, I can actually have the four children I always wanted. I can give my children a large, loving family. I can do this. I can take the birth control, despite the affect the hormones are already having on my nerves. I can take the estrogen supplements. I can take the progesterone shots… all on the chance that I get to have just one more, because I want to do this… but I really don’t want to do this.

My Baby Girls are Two

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Two years ago, today, I thought I was sick. I suppose I was, if that’s how one would describe a woman who’s 35 weeks pregnant with twins and has undiagnosed pneumonia, sepsis, and cardiomyopathy, but it feels a bit simplistic. What followed was the scariest week of my life, as I simultaneously tried to care for my newborn twins and waited to see whether or not they would grow up with their mother. The next few months weren’t much easier, physically or emotionally. It was October before I received the news that my heart would completely recover. It was December before I could lift the double stroller without becoming out of breath. Ultimately, the trials of pandemic IVF, the death of my mother, and my own near death in childbirth led me to leave my career as a librarian. I loved the work, my coworkers, my customers, the money, but I wanted to be with my babies. I wanted to change all the diapers, soothe all the tantrums, kiss all the owies… and so I have for two years now.

Everyone says the years pass in a blur, that you blink and the time is gone. I can see that, but for the most part, it has felt like two glorious years since I became a mother, if not more. Last year, on my girls’ first birthday, I wrote about how it seemed a lifetime had passed since their birth. In many ways, that’s truer today. My existence before children feels like another lifetime, in much the same way as my single years or my high school days. For the last two years, my girls have been my constant. They’re my shopping buddies, my post office pals, my doctors’ office plus twos… and now three with their little brother. I am rarely without them and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love seeing the bond they share, with each other, but also with the baby brother who would be in another room at daycare. I adore witnessing their creativity, imagination, orneriness, stubbornness, and determination. Every new word is a delight, every trip an adventure.

For years, I was alone and knew no different. In a way, that was a balm to my senses after being with people who mistreated me for so long. Only when Jake came along did I realize how lonely I’d been for much of my life. Now that I have twin girls and their little brother, I am never lonely. My days are full of kisses, giggles, tantrums, screams, and tickles. My heart might have been weaker at one time, but these gals have really put it to work these last two years. It has never been stronger. They were absolutely worth the struggle to bring them into the world. They’re bigger, messier, sassier, and still an absolute joy and privilege, whether they’re snuggling with me or throwing my shoes in the trashcan. It might be their birthday, but I’m the one who received one of the greatest gifts in being their mother. Cheers two wonderful years, baby girls.

I still don’t like kids.

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Two weeks ago, we brought home our baby boy…

… and he is perfect.

After conceiving twin girls through back-to-back pandemic rounds of IVF and nearly dying in childbirth, I wasn’t exactly ready to get pregnant again this past spring. Although Jake and I had already begun the early stages of transferring a frozen embryo over the summer, I was still on the fence, myself. I’ve always wanted four children and still found that to be the case, even with twins under a year. I wanted my girls to have more siblings. I wanted Jake to have a son. I wanted a son. I wanted more noise, more chaos, more fun, bigger holidays, crazier family vacations… what I’ve never had with the brother I see once a year on Christmas. I also wanted to be alive to enjoy all of these things, so I was still erratically swinging between the insistence that the girls were enough and the idea that I was potentially up for two more pregnancies, assuming the next went smoothly.

It was on May 5th, the day before Jake and I celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary, that I was officially no longer able to file another pregnancy under Future Belle’s Problem. I had been waiting for day one of my cycle to begin the FET process and assumed that it hadn’t come, because I wasn’t even a year post-partum. Begrudgingly, I took a pregnancy test, annoyed at having to waste the dollar, but knowing the clinic would insist. Following a few minutes of Googling early menopause and uterine cancer symptoms as possibilities for my missing period, I glanced at the test before tossing it, only to see that it was, indeed, positive. After Jake was told, verbatim, that “miracles happen” when he asked the urologist if he could get me pregnant, after spending 2020 imagining a future without children, after thirty thousand dollars worth of baby girls, I was… pregnant.

In so many ways, I am that annoying anecdote your coworker shares about her friend, whose niece got pregnant despite all odds… the woman who had severe complications the first time around, only for it all to go smoothly the second… the mother of three under two who’d contemplated a forced childfree existence just two years earlier. With all of it behind me, I can honestly say that, despite a few tearful outbursts about how I didn’t want to die, I had an easy pregnancy and a complication-free birth by scheduled C-section at 37 weeks to the day.

I now have three babies under 18 months and I love it. I love watching the girls forget they’re mid-tantrum when they start giggling as they spin in circles of protestation. I love watching them wrestle like little bear cubs until someone cries. I love seeing Scarlet run to the front door arms extended, at the sound of Jake’s keys turning. I love Violet’s contradictory stubbornness and clingy Mama’s girl status. Now, my Thomas is here and he is a dream. After months of insisting the newborn phase is boring, I adore the snuggles. Having started with twins, I’m taking full advantage of the opportunity to dote on just one, cherishing everything from feedings to sponge baths. I rarely sleep more than four hours at a time, am weeks from being able to have sex and months from even discussing an embryo transfer, still have visible bruising around my incision, and I’m already trying to talk Jake into our fourth and final.

Just the other day, Jake announced that raising kids with me was the best thing that’s ever happened to him and the feeling is utterly mutual. Watching my husband go from the rough and tumble toddler girl dad he’s become to the sweet and gentle (for him) father of a newborn boy is absolutely precious. After years of declaring mid-spat that he’s an unfeeling robot, there’s nothing quite so dear as watching my cowboy husband hold his tiny son in his callused hands and talk sweetly to him.

I spent a lifetime anticipating being the career woman and the working mom, went to college for seven years including graduate school, threw myself into my career as a librarian for another ten. I never planned to stay home with my children, scoffed at the very idea, and it’s the best decision I’ve ever made. While I fully intend to reenter the professional world one day, simply put, I just love being a mom… and I still don’t like kids.

Growing up in the South, I was raised to understand that women like children. Little girls love dolls. Teenaged girls eagerly jump at the chance to babysit. Baby fever becomes rampant in a woman’s early twenties. Any gal who doesn’t want to die alone had better start having kids by 25. Those are some Southern facts, right there, so imagine my confusion when I realized none of them applied to me.

Having lived on ten acres until age 11, I didn’t really grow up around other kids at all, let alone little ones. I had a couple of younger cousins, who I babysat once or twice, but I largely considered them nuisances who got us older kids in trouble. I never spent time with young children with any regularity. My first job was at a car lot, not a daycare. In fact, when I did get a job at a daycare in college, I made it two days before quitting. An education major in my undergrad, I still considered specializing in early childhood/elementary and even arranged to shadow my second grade teacher. That was the day, y’all. Despite my religious Southern upbringing, a childhood surrounded by suburban girls who wanted to be teachers and stay-at-home moms, a degree program that pedestalized anyone who worked with kids… the day I spent time in a well-managed second grade classroom was the day I realized that I just don’t like children.

Over the following years, I honed my affinity for teenagers, having initially assumed I only favored them due to their closer proximity in age. During grad school, I substitute taught nearly every day of the week, preferring high school, but happy to take middle school jobs when they were all that was available. More often than not, however, if elementary openings were all I could find, I’d take the opportunity for a rare day off, unless I desperately needed the money. As time passed and I moved further from my own teenage years, I loved working with teens just as much… and dreaded spending any time with children at all.

It wasn’t that I hated kids… at least not well-behaved ones. I just didn’t find them especially interesting. They couldn’t share compelling opinions or stories. Their senses of humor were undeveloped and generally revolved around the obnoxious and immature, but rarely clever. They were often oversensitive and whiney. Regardless, their parents considered them absolutely brilliant and wholly infallible. I frequently worked with children as a librarian and nearly every single reader’s advisory question posed by a parent, came with the insistence that their child’s reading level was two to three higher than their grade. I can count on one hand how many times that was actually true. When they misbehaved, in ways that were entirely developmentally appropriate, their parents wouldn’t hear it, whether they were screaming and running in the library or bullying others in programs. Teenagers, however, warranted scorn and contempt if any attention at all. When the societal blind spot for an age group I didn’t particularly enjoy was coupled with the overall disdain for the one I did, I struggled to even imagine myself as a mother in the distant future. Clearly, I didn’t feel the way everyone else felt about children. Maybe they weren’t for me after all.

A few months before Jake proposed, I became increasingly concerned. I knew Jake wanted kids and, in theory, so did I. I just… really didn’t like ’em.

With genuine distress, I shared as much with a coworker in her 50s, who had two young adult children and two still in Catholic school. If anyone could shed some light on my situation, it was a woman living exactly the life I thought I wanted.

Me: “I don’t think I like children.”
Coworker: “Of course you don’t. It’s the end of Summer Reading.”
Me: “What if I don’t at all? Jake wants kids. I thought I wanted them. I’m not sure I like them, though.”
Coworker: “I don’t especially like other people’s children, either. I like mine, but I never really cared much for their friends. You’ll be fine.”

I didn’t know that was allowed!

In the nearly five years that followed this moment of enlightenment, I met a few others who shared this thought process. A friend at the Northside Library had little to no patience for… well, most humans, but she loved being a mother. At the same branch, a friend living with her parents had more of a sisterly relationship with her young son, yet doted on him all the same. A coworker at the Cherokee library had a surprise baby just before 40, after having accepted a childfree existence. A veteran who named Sarah Connor her hero, she’d never really considered herself maternal… until her son arrived. She still had little feeling toward children in a random sample, but adored being a mother. I’ll admit, it still isn’t a common sentiment among suburban and rural Southern women, but evidently it happens… such as in my case.

Apparently my robot husband and I are quite the pair, because I find myself in the company of Other People’s Children far more frequently these days and I feel little on a personal level… neither disdain nor joy. As with other random folks, I passively wish them health and wellness and go about my day. I do my best not to judge other parents, while still generally finding most small children grating. Yet, somehow, I seem to have endless patience for my own. Objectively speaking, I’ve no illusions about my offspring somehow being superior to others’… except that they’re mine, so they’re naturally cuter, smarter, funnier, and less disgusting by my incredibly biased assessment.

I, of course, still smile encouragingly and affectionately at little ones during storytime, just as I’d expect others to do with mine. I’d never intentionally hurt a child’s feelings and that’s all I really ask of others. I love my nieces and nephews out of necessity, whether I feel much connection to them at this age or not. I do try, but it still doesn’t come naturally to me to snuggle someone else’s baby, tickle their toddler, or get down in the floor and play with their kids. As utterly smitten as I am with my own babies, as I attempt to cajole Jake into our #fourthandfinal while still being on lift restrictions, Other People’s Children… they still don’t really do it for me. I still don’t like kids.

I want this. I’m thankful for this.

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Twelve years ago, the day after Thanksgiving, I kicked my abusive ex out once and for all, starting my life over. Seven years ago, Jake proposed to me, four days before Thanksgiving. Two years ago, after spending $30,000 funded primarily through a lucky Bitcoin investment, we found out our second IVF cycle was successful. Just before Christmas, we found out we were having twins. Now, our miracle baby boy is arriving in just 12 days… if things go as planned with our scheduled C-section.

I love the holidays, y’all. There’s just something about this time of year that makes life feel cozier and more comfortable. The colder weather gives me an entirely acceptable excuse to play the hermit. When I do go out, the world is one of cute winter wardrobes, costumes, colorful leaves, twinkling lights, cheerful music, delicious food, and massive amounts of glitter that even my southern husband finds begrudgingly acceptable. This is my time of year… yet somehow, I’m just now realizing how many great things have happened to me during the holidays, the latest of which will be my baby boy.

I feel so many simultaneous emotions about this baby. Foremost is gratitude that Jake and I get to have a son, in addition to our two beautiful daughters. We’re not a #girldad or #boymom. We get to be both. This baby will be the first grandson of six kids and only the third great grandson of fifteen on Jake’s side. Where I cried when I thought the twins were boys, after our struggles to get pregnant, Jake was thrilled with any healthy children. Now he’s the most amazing dad to our girls, especially considering his cliché cowboy status. I am so happy to give him a boy, not just because he deserves a son, but because the world needs more men like Jake. I’m grateful we got pregnant like normal people, as opposed to in a clinic with thousands of dollars worth of injections. I’m relieved that I won’t have to count down the days until I return to work. I’m thankful that Jake has been able to arrange to stay home through the entirety of my six to eight week C-section recovery.

Beyond gratitude, I admittedly feel fear that things will go as or even more poorly than they did when the girls were born. Never one for birth plans, I had zero expectations for the arrival of my twins and it still went so much worse than I could’ve imagined while still taking home healthy babies.

No one looks that pretty after four days in the ICU, by the way.

I won’t rehash my birth story in detail, but suddenly diagnosed with severe pneumonia and heart complications at 35 weeks, I underwent an emergency C-section and began the most terrifying week of my life. Almost immediately after the death of my estranged mother at 60, I dealt with the very real possibility that I might not see my own girls grow up, or that I might be chronically ill their entire lives. Rushed to the ICU, I first saw my twins at three days old and that was only because I woke up in a drug-induced hysteria screaming that they’d taken my babies. When I was finally released to labor and delivery, I was still receiving intravenous antibiotics and too sick to stand. It wasn’t until day seven that I was able to leave, though the girls had been discharged two days earlier. Say what you will about American healthcare and the $9,000 bill we received, but those doctors did save my life. As grateful as I am for my miracle baby, I admit that I’m petrified everything will go wrong again, perhaps with a far worse ending.

I have more standard concerns as well… that my existing babies will feel replaced and have trouble coping, that I’m having this baby during an unprecedented RSV season, that another child will be another expense during difficult economic times, and as always, that I won’t be the mother I so desperately desire. I’m also hopeful and excited. I’m hopeful that I’ll have a standard delivery with no drama, having scheduled my C-section for 37 weeks to the day. I’m hopeful that I’ll get an uneventful post-partum season, holed up for the winter with Jake by my side to help transition the girls into their new roles as big sisters. I’m hopeful that things will be better this time. I’m excited to meet my son and introduce him to the girls. I’m excited to not be pregnant, at this point. I’m excited to start dieting and exercising. I’m excited for a quiet baby’s first Christmas. You know what I’m not?

I’m not dreading any part of the coming months.

I’m not sorry that my children are going to be so close in age.

I’m not worried about having three under two or three in diapers.

I’m not in need of snarky well-wishes from people in the grocery store.

I’m not looking for sympathy or pity.

I’m not interested in hateful predictions about how I’ll feel when my children are teenagers.

Quite frankly, after my dysfunctional upbringing, my… trying early twenties, my struggle with infertility, I’m not interested in any negativity toward my family planning. I’m also not clear on why anyone thinks it’s okay to chime in on the subject, with assumptions that this child will be my last, simply for having a penis.

What exactly is the greater tragedy, that I might intentionally have more children or that I don’t care to share those plans with a nosey stranger at the grocery store? Why exactly does someone think they can apologize to me for the existence of my precious daughters, who are doing nothing more than playing peek-a-boo in the shopping cart? How exactly does someone come to the conclusion that this is an appropriate thing to say to a very pregnant mother with her hands full?

I know, I know. People are just looking for something to say. Well, they can say something a lot less presumptive and a lot less ugly, because I’m not interested in keeping the peace with strangers who think saying negative things about my children (who can hear perfectly well, I might add) constitutes proper small talk. I grew up in a volatile home with parents who loved me, but weren’t that great at it. I desperately wanted this life that I have, shopping cart peek-a-boo and all. I hoped my hands would one day be full and my bank account empty. I prayed for this stress. I wept for these blessings, because I want this. I’m thankful for this.

So perhaps, this Thanksgiving, people can pull their heads out of their asses and be thankful for the families and lives they have, as well.