Category Archives: Family

It’s okay for Halloween costumes to look homemade.

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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.

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.

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.

Modern Mom’s Most Thankful Mentions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHERE IS MY GLITTER?: The Things We Block Out

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

The Fourth Trimester and The Newborn Phase

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

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

Illnesses

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

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

The Injuries

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

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

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

Potty Training

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

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

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

Another Birthday and Another Blogiversary

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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.

“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.

Crying in My Car

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I’ve never done a frozen embryo transfer, or FET. It’s been almost exactly three years since we started the journey to our family on July 18th, 2020, with what would be our first IVF cycle. An utter failure, we had no embryos to freeze and immediately put down a $1,000 deposit to start the next cycle, as soon as possible. That one resulted in our twin girls, Violet and Scarlett, along with six frozen embryos. We’d planned to do an FET the summer of 2022, despite my fears and hesitancy. Thomas surprised us just in time, though, as the baby we were told we couldn’t conceive. So, I am blessedly the mother of three and have never undergone an FET.

I keep telling myself this is easier than pandemic IVF. There’s no need for theatrics and melodrama. Even if this doesn’t work, if it never works and just isn’t meant to be, we have three children. Two girls and a boy is an infertile couple’s literal dream. Anything less than relentless gratitude is selfish and overdramatic. That’s what I tell myself. It hasn’t really set in, though.

I suppose this is easier, but my stars did I fail to prepare myself for how far that would still land me from easy. The grating sound of every person on HGTV ever as I sit in the waiting room, the ultrasounds, the blood draws, the small crowd looking at my vagina, all have me near my breaking point. The expense as I put our family’s financial well-being on the line, knowing I might disappoint everyone and destroy our embryo, our baby… well, that has me crying in my car over a fresh bag of prescriptions, thinking how it isn’t supposed to be this way. I’m not supposed to be building my family through procedures and medications. I’m supposed to enjoy being with my husband for a few unprotected months and receive wonderful news in my own bathroom for the cost of a one dollar pregnancy test. I’m not supposed to be going through this alone again.

I have to remind myself why I’m alone. It’s not election day 2020, mid-pandemic, and I am not having another egg retrieval while Jake waits in the car, unable to join his wife in surgery because of Covid-19. I’m alone because he’s at home with our three children, who I refuse to bring into a fertility clinic. They were created out of a different kind of love, as a different kind of miracle, but that’s just how our family was meant to be built. It’s not fair that this is how we have to do it, but we’re so lucky it’s an option available to us. We’re so lucky to have gotten Thomas without the cost and drama. They are all so very worth it.

Still, I’m going to allow myself a few more minutes to finish crying in my car.

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.