… the musings of an overly organized thirty-something, married, southern librarian turned stay-at-home-mom with too many opinions, too much ambition, just enough kids, and a stubborn, mouthy, redheaded country boy to accompany her through life.
Four hundred years ago, Jake and I did two back-to-back rounds of Pandemic IVF… and I have been pregnant ever since.
I am neither a woman who hates pregnancy nor one who reveres it. After our infertility struggles, I tried my best to enjoy it with the girls. I was so fortunate to be getting not one, but two children. I knew there was a chance it might be my only pregnancy. I wanted so badly to treasure every kick, roll, and hiccup… and I did, to an extent. It was just so stressful, enduring a high risk twin pregnancy during a global pandemic. Every ultrasound had me fearing I’d hear only one heartbeat or none at all. I thought my miracle pregnancy with Thomas would be different, having come the easy way. On the contrary, this one felt like I somehow cheated the system and it could be taken from me at any moment. It had been made clear that Jake could not get me pregnant naturally. Furthermore, I wasn’t exactly given the all clear to proceed with another. I believe the words used were “very cautious green light, more like a yellow light.” Surely, I wouldn’t get through the ordeal safely and with a healthy baby. Now, here I am, having been pregnant for portions of 2020, 2021, 2022, 2023, and 2024. I’m 27 weeks with what appears to be another healthy baby boy… and it’s so much worse.
I read all the time about women feeling lost in motherhood. They don’t know who they are anymore, after having let their hobbies and interests go for babies. I’ve literally never felt that way. I still craft, listen to audiobooks, even read on occasion. I host two bi-weekly DnD games at our home every other weekend, sometimes even changing it up for a random game night. I watch my favorite shows during naptime, while working on my family photo albums. I obsessively read the news and can discuss anything from local politics to which celebrities are related to Queen Elizabeth II. I love being a mom, but it doesn’t make me feel like I’m any less me. Pregnancy, however…
After I had Violet and Scarlett, I was so focused on finding my footing as a twin mom and getting my health back, that getting my physical self back really wasn’t a priority. I was so sick that the girls were seven months old the day I realized I could lift their stroller into the hatchback without becoming short of breath. Two months later, I got pregnant with Thomas. While my pregnancy with him was ideal, I clearly remember holding my new baby in the hospital, less than an hour after my C-section, thinking that I only had to go through this one more time. I knew then that I’d do anything I could to get Jake to agree to a fourth. While that did hinder my motivation, I admit that a part of me didn’t want to physically return to normal before that final pregnancy. I had enough reasons not to go through with an FET and my fourth baby in three years. I feared feeling as though I’d finally reclaimed my physical sense of self… be it through personal style, flexibility and stamina, or just weight loss… only to consider losing it for one more pregnancy, might just be the closing argument.
I feel obligated, especially having gone through infertility, to clarify here that I want this baby. I am so thrilled to be able to have my Four, two girls and two boys. I would not change a thing… except that I feel like I don’t know who I am anymore, outside of pregnancy, not motherhood. It’s been so long since I’ve just been me, as opposed to a vessel for the future. I don’t know if the anxiety I’ve felt for the last five years is because of who I am as a person, as a mother, or just pregnant. Feeling as though everything I’ve wanted is just within my grasp hasn’t offered any clarity. Am I now someone who cries at forgettable movies and TV shows from 10 years ago or is that just wonky hormones? Am I actually this much of a homebody or do I just find it utterly exhausting to leave the house with small children because I’m worn out from pregnancy?
While I cherish every miraculous kick this baby makes, I don’t recognize my own body anymore, nor do I like it. It doesn’t feel the same or move the same. I get sore and out of breath so easily. Is that because of symptoms of pregnancy and post-partum, just the new me after three back-to-back pregnancies, or is it just the difference between being 33 and 36? The clothes I bought during Covid-19 have barely been worn. Are they still in style? Am I too old for them? On that note, should I change my hair or how I do my makeup? Do I need a new skincare regimen? Can I go back to the old me or do I have to create a new Belle? I’m living the pregnancy from Groundhog Day, but I don’t know if I just pick up where I left off or I have to jump ahead five years.
I’ve always excelled with delayed gratification, y’all. It’s what got me through seven years of college… and not the fun kind. It’s how I lost 100 pounds in approximately 18 months in my early twenties. It got me through working two jobs with a master’s degree, desperately awaiting the chance to promote to full time. It saw me through my dating years and the nightmare year I worked as a library manager. My mastery of delayed gratification dragged me through two rounds of pandemic IVF and it’ll get me my Four. As happy as I am for to have this dream realized, though, for the last five years, I’ve only either been pregnant or post-partum. I have a baby or two and before my body can even heal, my emotions can regulate, or I can pull out my favorite pre-pregnancy clothing, I’m at an ultrasound for the next one.
I love being a mom. I don’t hate being pregnant. I still love Cheaper By the Dozen and Yours, Mine, and Ours. I always enjoyed those TLC shows and Instagram accounts following families with 10 plus children… but those women are absolutely bananas, because I’ve woken up pregnant, post-partum, or trying to conceive since July of 2020 and I am so ready for a new song.
Nearly every New Year, since I started this blog in 2012, I’ve opened with a New Year’s post, because I love New Year’s!
I know, I know. No one loves New Year’s; New Year’s Eve, maybe, but New Year’s Day is, for most, the beginning of a lot of annoying gym, exercise equipment, and weight loss service ads. For me, however, this is a time of reflection and renewal. I get to look back on how my life changed in the previous year and look ahead with excitement and optimism about what’s to come. This year, however… well, reflection and goal setting have taken a backseat to creating another human and keeping the ones I’m already charged with alive and well.
I started with good intentions. I really did. My New Year’s resolutions were as follows:
Swear less
Control my emotions better
Eat healthy until this baby arrives and then starve myself until normal
Attend Mass regularly
Listen to Father Mike’s Bible in a Year and Catechism in a Year podcasts every day
Actively engage with my children more, instead of doing chores or running errands
Catch up on my family albums and have them printed
Catch up on my home video editing
Spend less time on my phone
I tried, y’all. I really did, but getting ready for this new baby, by making sure I do everything for him that I did for the others…. chasing my twin toddlers and their suddenly very mobile baby brother around the house… potty training, coping with family-wide RSV and Jake’s vasectomy recovery… and now transitioning from cribs to toddler beds… has meant that a good day is one where Mama isn’t crying. I’ll be honest. Those are pretty rare lately.
I don’t know what it is about this pregnancy, but it has been hands down the roughest of my three in the last four to five years. I’m sure my three under three are a contributing factor, but I’m also just so tired of being pregnant and scrambling to get ready for a new baby. About a year ago, I told Jake that I wanted to do an embryo transfer as soon as possible, before I changed my mind. I am nothing if not self aware. There is zero chance we’d be having this baby had we waited six more months… and I’m thrilled we’re so fortunate as to get our two girls and two boys. I’m just ready for this to be over, so I can move forward and feel like myself again. I want to stop crying and feeling like I can’t keep all the balls in the air. I want to get out of a chair on the first try. I want to look at myself in the mirror and like what I see.
Regardless of my current mental state, I firmly believe there’s always time for self-improvement. I tried for a Lenten reset, after I heard my Violet say “bag of dicks” from the backseat during a frustrating traffic moment and vowed to give up swearing entirely. I’m sure I failed by the end of the day. So, here I am, tomorrow being March 1st, pressing reset once again… with perhaps a little less ambition.
Don’t swear in front of the kids… even while driving
Eat healthy enough not to feel sick during this pregnancy and then starve myself until normal
Attend Mass when no one’s hurt/sick/just had an ugly-crying mental breakdown over the Christmas ornaments the girls strung all over their play yard
Control my emotions in front of the kids as much as possible and take comfort in the fact that they will not remember this
Spend more time with the kids, even if it’s just looking at and naming animals on Instagram, while snuggling in the recliner
Reallocate scrolling time to things I enjoy more, like working on family albums and videos and just listening to an audiobook
That’s it. Pregnant with my fourth, with three under three, is just not the time to clean up my language when the children are out of earshot. This is, apparently, my largest baby yet, so I’m going to eat what I want, within reason. If I just can’t make it to church, for mental or physical reasons, then I just can’t. Breakdowns are officially allowed. I’ll try my best to limit them to nap time. As much as the girls enjoy trips to the park and being chased around the yard, it’ll have to wait until Daddy can do it or Mama has recovered from her C-section. It is okay to count the low-key moments as quality time. If my mind is fried and scrolling is all I want to do, so be it. Cuz, that’s all I’ve got in me until 2025.
It’s a Wonderful Life has long been one of my favorite Christmas movies and remains so, as our holiday film selection becomes increasingly over-saturated with emphasis on a depiction of Santa Claus, that no more resembles the historical Saint Nicholas than Disney’s Pocahontas resembles the 17th century twelve-year-old of the Powhatan tribe.*
This is a 12-year-old.
As a religious person, the overwhelming focus on Santa, by others of the Christian faith, baffles me. I’m not even sure I want to do the Santa thing, because I feel the emphasis has become so skewed in favor of a cartoon character and materialism over the birth of theMessiah. Several years ago, I told my grandma Kay that I wasn’t playing Dirty Santa at the family party.
Me: “It’s just not fun for me and it’s expensive.” Grandma: “Well, that’s what Christmas is about, you know… giving each other gifts.” Me: “No, it’s not. Christmas is about Jesus and family.”
My 82-year-old grandmother told me Christmas is about things, y’all. That should horrify you, even if you’re not religious. Santa can go jump in a lake.
So, I’ve really grown to appreciate the old Christmas movies that aren’t afraid to broach faith, family values, and societal responsibility, like Miracle on 34th Street, A Christmas Carol, and It’s a Wonderful Life. Despite this, every year, as I watch this favorite Christmas classic, I have some… issues… with George Bailey and the fact that he’s… well, kind of a tool by the standards of his time and mine. I’d even go so far to state that in 2023 George Bailey would fit several of the prevailing stereotypes of Millennials that I’ve been hearing all of my adult life. For example…
He’s selfish.
The opening scene of It’s a Wonderful Life, depicts three stars discussing a man on earth who is dangerously close to taking his own life. Ultimately, Clarence AS2 (Angel Second Class, which doesn’t even make sense as far as acronyms go), is assigned to intervene, as we listen to the prayers of George Bailey’s family and friends, one of which clearly declares that “He never thinks about himself.”
Never thinks about himself?!?!? The only truly selfless thing George Bailey does in this movie is to save his brother when he falls through the ice, ultimately losing his hearing in one ear, an action and a consequence he never again mentions. As wondrous as that behavior is from a teenage boy, it’s also the moment little GB peaked. Just a few weeks later, we see him arrive late to his after school job in a drug store, before providing terrible service to the only customers present.
Violet: “Help me down?” George: ” Help ya down?!?!”
George: “Make up your mind yet?” Mary: “I’ll take chocolate.” George: “With coconuts?” Mary: “I don’t like coconuts.” George: “Don’t like coconuts? Say brainless, don’t you know where coconuts come from? [pulls out a National Geographic magazine] Look-it here, from Tahiti, the Fiji Islands, Coral Sea.” Mary: “A new magazine! I never saw it.” George: “‘Course you never. This is just for us explorers. It just so happens I’ve been nominated for membership in the National Geographic Society.” ::puts coconut on the ice cream, anyway::
Spoiler alert: by “explorers”, he means “men.”
Rest assured, my girls have already received a lecture about falling in love with boys who call them “brainless.” Immediately following this scene, we see George approach his boss, Mr. Gower, who’s just lost his son to the flu epidemic of 1919 and is drunk, devastated, and ill-tempered. Realizing that the impaired pharmacist has mistakenly filled some capsules with poison, George risks his ire to correct him, ultimately taking quite the boxing of his sore ear. We’re lead to believe that this is another truly honorable moment; but I think it’s worth considering the fact that this kid just showed up late to work and treated Mr. Gower’s only customers like dirt, prior to pestering him during his grief. While he might not have deserved to be hit, it was a reprimand appropriate to the times. Furthermore, I’ve worked with teenagers and I just don’t consider it a stretch to think that any one of them would speak up if they thought someone was about to poison some children, no matter the consequences. I feel like the average American is only impressed by this “heroism”, because they have such devastatingly low expectations of teens.
As the movie continues, we see George grow into a man…who speaks incessantly about what he wants. Even his last words to his father, for which he shows no remorse, are entitled declarations about how he deserves more.
– “Oh, now Pop, I couldn’t. I couldn’t face being cooped up for the rest of my life in a shabby little office…Oh, I’m sorry Pop, I didn’t mean that, but this business of nickels and dimes and spending all your life trying to figure out how to save three cents on a length of pipe…I’d go crazy. I want to do something big and something important.”
After his father dies and the board votes to keep the Bailey Building and Loan open, in response to George’s passionate defense of the community, they only have one condition: George must stay on and take his father’s place.
– “Let’s get this thing straight. I’m leaving! I’m leaving right now! I’m going to school! This is my last chance! Uncle Billy, here, he’s your man!’
That’s right. George’s first consideration when his father’s legacy, his community, is on the line, is what he wants. The next four years apparently offer little growth, as he tells Mary, the night he calls on her:
– “Now, you listen to me. I don’t want any plastics and I don’t want any ground floors and I don’t want to get married ever, to anyone! You understand that? I want to do what I want to do!”
“He never thinks about himself”? That’s the entire premise of the first half of this movie. All George Bailey does is think about himself, about what he wants, what he deserves, because…
He’s entitled.
As a millennial, I literally hear about the entitlement of my generation, weekly… but no matter how many participation trophies I received as a kid (because I certainly didn’t earn any legitimate ones), I have never, in my adult life, compared to the entitlement of George Bailey.
In 1940, only 5.5% of men had completed a college degree, compared to 3.8% of women, not because it was a time of equality, but because a college education was so incredibly rare.* That’s eleven years after George sits at his father’s table, in his very nice middle class home, and tells him he’s better than the Bailey Building and Loan, a year when only 68% of American homes had electricity.* Just weeks later, after his father’s death, George even ridicules the man’s failure to have paid for not just his, but his brother’s education.
– “You are right when you say my father was no business man. I know that. Why he ever started this cheap penny-ante building and loan, I’ll never know. but neither you nor anybody else can say anything against his character, because his whole life was… why in the 25 years since he and Uncle Billy started this thing, he never once thought of himself, isn’t that right Uncle Billy? He didn’t save enough money to send Harry to school, let alone me.”
He does so to a room of men who likely went no further than the 8th grade, themselves, because in 1940 less than 25% of Americans had completed high school.* If you’re wondering why all these stats are about 1940, that’s because prior to that year, the surveys weren’t interested in levels of completed schooling, but literacy. A healthy chunk of the country couldn’t read the day ol’ GB haughtily declared he was turning down the position of executive secretary of his own business to go to college.
Yeah. I’m entitled.
It’s not just his demand for a college education that made George Bailey insufferablyprivileged, by the standards of that time and this one, but his general disdain for his hometown. I get it, he wanted to travel the world, in a day when men were lucky to have jobs at all, but the lack of exoticism in Bedford falls certainly didn’t earn the level of contempt George had for it.
– “It’ll keep him out of Bedford Falls, anyway.”
– “Homesick?!? For Bedford Falls?!?
– “… stay around this measly, crummy old town.”
This “crummy old town” has an indoor swimming pool under the high school gym. The only rundown house is eventually transformed to a glorious Victorian mansion by Mary Bailey, herself, with just a little elbow grease. Even George declares the falls are beautiful in the moonlight, when he tries to petition Violet to climb Mount Bedford. The dystopian version stillhas a successful library.
The citizens of Bedford Falls aren’t completely without their struggles, of course. George mentions to Sam Wainright that “half the town” was recently put out of business when the tool and machinery works was closed down. Does that stop him from criticizing anyone who works for Mr. Potter, though?
– “In the whole vast configuration of things, I’d say you’re nothing but a scurvy little spider… and that goes for you, too!”
Well, George, not everyone was just handed their father’s business, at 22. Zetus Lapetus, much of this movie took place during The Great Depression! Choosers were literally doomed to become beggars, which brings me to my final point of our “hero’s” entitlement. George Bailey was 12 in 1919, born in 1907. These years weren’t exactly known for the wealth of choices they provided. Throughout the entirety of It’s a Wonderful Life, however, George is constantly choosing his path. He chose to stay and run the Bailey Building and Loan after his father died. He chose to give his college money to Harry and let him take another job, when he was more than willing to take over. George chose to marry Mary, immediately after stating that it wasn’t what he wanted. He chose not to invest in Sam Wainwright’s business despite the fact that he’d apparently saved two thousand dollars for his travels. That’s thirty thousand dollars, today and ol’ GB chose to forfeit it to keep the Building and Loan open.
In a time of rampant polio and domestic violence and 25% unemployment, George had the luxury to choose his path and each and every time, he was an absolute martyr about it. He didn’t do these things, because he was selfless. He did them because of societal expectation, because of his image, and we know this, by his perpetual bellyaching, because…
He’s ungrateful.
It’s been argued that this was the point of the movie and I’ll allow that. However, in the opening scene, it’s heavily implied that George Bailey is only presently forgetting how good he has it, as he faces financial ruin and scandal on Christmas Eve. I mean, who wouldn’t see the brown spots on their lawn, in that light? For our “hero”, though, the grass has perpetually been greener. The entire movie highlights his general unhappiness and lack of appreciation from the moment he sits in his father’s home, served by a maid, and insists he can do better for himself. He somehow begrudgingly inherits his own business and marries a beautiful woman, who’s been in love with him her whole life. He has a respectable excuse to avoid the war and make beautiful babies, yet still finds something to complain about, while other men are dying and losing limbs. All the while, Mary Bailey remodels their home, cares for their children, and runs the USO, without a word of complaint. You the real MVP, Mary Bailey, because if this movie is an accurate indicator of your husband’s daily behavior, I’d have smothered him with a pillow in the first month of marriage. I mean, you could have been a librarian.
As the years go by, George Bailey lives in a beautiful home in a wealthy little town. He’s a respected member of society, by everyone from the town tramp to the bartender to his arch nemesis’s financial adviser. Still, his days are ruined by such inconsequentials as a loose newal cap on the staircase.*
Dude, even Zuzu was like, “Paste it, Daddy.”
Is it that much of a surprise, when things really go sideways and he says:
– “…It’s this old house. I don’t know why we all don’t have pneumonia. Drafty old barn! Might as well be living in a refrigerator… Why do we have to live here in the first place, and stay around this measly, crummy old town…”
– “Wrong? Everything’s wrong. You call this a happy family — why do we have to have all these kids?” (“all these kids” cost some people $35,000)
– “What kind of a teacher are you, anyway? What do you mean, sending her home like that, half naked? Do you realize she’ll probably end up with pneumonia, on account of you? Is this the sort of thing we pay taxes for, to have teachers… to have teachers like you… stupid, silly, careless people who send our kids home without any clothes on?”
That last little remark earned him a busted lip, and despite the general disagreement of the community of Bedford Falls, I’d say it was well-deserved. It’s at this point, that Clarence the angel reminds George Bailey just how good he has it, with a glimpse through the most self-centered lens of all time. Looking into the eyes of his loving wife, adoring children, and loyal friends wasn’t enough to convince George that life was worth living. Nope. He could only see value in his life when someone put a gold star next to his every good deed. His existence was only worth the effort, once it was proven that just by being alive, he changed the world for everyone he knew. Folks, if that ain’t a participation trophy…
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 suckedto 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.
Labor Day weekend is upon us! The leaves are beginning to fall for reasons other than the blistering heat. The stores are full of cozy sweaters no one will wear for two months. My house has been decked out in the Basic White Girl Fall decor of plastic leaves, pinecones, and old-fashioned pickup trucks brimming with sunflowers for the last three weeks. I’ve already made a batch of pumpkin bread and watched The Worst Witch from 1986 three times. Summer is over… kind of.
When I was little, I enjoyed summer for all the normal reasons. School was out. My parents didn’t want to pay for childcare, so it was basically anarchy at our trailer house. My brother and I jumped out of trees with umbrellas to see if we could fly. He tied his skateboard to his bike and made me ride behind him down our gravel drive. We ran around our 10 acres playing a two person version of capture the flag, resulting in a gash on my arm from a barbed wire fence, the evidence of which is still visible today. On the weekends, we took trips to the lake. We went swimming in my grandma’s pool. We played on the Slip n’ Slide, which everyone knows is the most fun you’ll ever have while getting hurt.
As I got older, the family time waned and we got cable. I still enjoyed staying up all night to watch every episode of Nick at Nite’s Block Party Summer. The next day, I’d wake up around noon and watch daytime TV until my parents got home. When they split up and it was just me and my mother, there were even fewer rules. I spent my summers inverting my sleep schedule, staying up all night watching infomercials and Sex and the City reruns while crafting and playing The Sims. No longer forced to play sports, I was free to do the same when I woke up at 2:00 in the afternoon. By this point, I was almost entirely able to avoid going outside, let alone to the lake, and my brother lived with my dad. Summer was a time of solitude for me. It wasn’t particularly healthy, but I did have fun.
I’m not sure when I developed my complete loathing for this season as a whole. I think the novelty began to wear off some time in middle school. Though the aforementioned seclusion had its perks for 11-year-old Belle, it did eventually wear on me. By the end of July, I was quite lonely and bored. When school was in session, I got to see my friends. I had something to occupy my time besides a screen. I had a reason to get dressed in the morning and go to bed at night. I missed the routine. Whatever the catalyst, by the time I hit adulthood, I abhorred summer. I always assumed that having babies would change my view on the subject. Just as Christmas becomes more magical with the joy of children, surely the excitement they have for summer would improve the experience as well. Well, here I am, a mother of three and I can confidently say that I will forever hate summer. The reasons will simply adapt to each stage of life, as they have in this era of small children. For example…
The Heat
I am something of an indoor girl year round. I won’t pretend otherwise. My favorite pastimes primarily take place inside, such as crochet, cross stitch, sewing, writing, working with my Cricut, compiling my photo albums, and reading. I do, however, have some outdoor hobbies. I like to go for walks, swim, hike, take my kids to the park, attend outdoor events like festivals and the fair. Yet, summer in the South means that from mid-May to mid-September, I can’t do any of those things. Of course, that’s been the case my entire life, but is so much worse now that I have children.
Do you have any idea how hard it is to explain to a two-year-old that it’s too hot to play in her new playhouse or jump on her new trampoline? Well, double it, because neither of my girls can comprehend that we just can’t go outside in 104° heat and the glaring sun, even if we wear sunscreen and play in water. As far as they know, we took walks every morning for months, until one day it just stopped; as did the days of swinging, blowing bubbles, riding in their Fisher Price ice cream trucks, playing with sidewalk chalk, splashing in their water table, and going to the park. Maybe in a year or two they’ll understand that this kind of heat makes everyone feel sick, especially their little brother. For the moment, however, they just think Mama’s no fun and only leaves the house for Sam’s Club trips. As much as I adore climate control, we can only color and play with Play-Do for so long.
The… Critters
Just the other day, I walked outside to get the mail, blessedly without a baby on my hip. As I pulled an envelope out of the mailbox, I noticed a large scorpion just before it crawled onto my hand. It was only a few days earlier, that we enjoyed a rare afternoon with a high in the low 90s, when I could let the girls play outside while Thomas sat in his walker under a tree. He played his little toy piano as Violet and Scarlett grilled plastic hotdogs and fought over the other Adirondack chair. I thought about how nice it was that they could enjoy the outdoors for even a few moments before it got too hot. I stood corrected, however, when later that day, I realized everyone had several random bug bites. I suppose I should be grateful, however, because just the day before, Jake found a giant dead scorpion in Thomas’s room, proving our pest control subscription entirely worth it.
These horrors aren’t limited to my relatively wooded acre of land, either. Last week, I parked at Panera and sat in the car for a moment to send a text message. I’m glad I did, because just as I put my foot on the ground, I realized I barely missed stepping on a live snake. Naturally, I screamed, panicked, ran across the parking lot, and called Jake to cry about much I hated summer and tearfully ask if a snake could crawl into my car from underneath. Garden snake or not, had I stepped on it, it would have bitten me. No herpetologist, I couldn’t have guaranteed it wasn’t poisonous and would likely have ended up with a hefty E.R. bill. The icing on the cake? The lobby of the restaurant wasn’t even open and I had to go through the drive-through. This stuff doesn’t happen in November, folks!
The Crowds
I realize that I am more or less alone in my hatred of all things summer. That’s quite clear, because from June through August every place is absolutely packed, from Target to the park to the library. A former librarian, I’ve grown to despise Summer Reading. Not only does my system waste massive amounts of tax dollars and manpower on what is essentially a children’s program, every branch is bursting at the seams for two to three months out of the year. I haven’t even taken the kids to storytime since May, because I don’t want my toddlers and baby to get trampled by the seventy-five attendants in my branch’s small meeting room. The same goes for the park on the rare cool morning. It’s simply swarming with children larger than mine, even on the toddler toys. I’m just too afraid they’ll get hurt, particularly since they’re apparently only capable of running in opposite directions when we go. It seems even Panera and UPS are overcrowded at all hours of the day. One of the primary perks of being a stay-at-home mom is the ability to enjoy the world sans other people, but I can’t do that in summer.
The Disruption
If you’ve read pretty much any of my blog posts, you know that I am a person of routine. I don’t just like themonotony of the school year. I thrive on it. While there’s always the occasional birthday party, fancy rodeo dinner, or severe weather event, fall, winter, and spring are predictable, often revolving around the holidays. September kicks off with Labor Day, followed by my birthday, the state fair, Jake’s birthday, Halloween, November family portraits, Thanksgiving, Thomas’s birthday, Christmas, New Year’s, Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Easter, and our anniversary. I don’t need the chaos of everyone’s schedules bursting with big family vacations, rodeos every other weekend, lake trips, and pool parties. They make it impossible to plan anything, even a birthday party for my little girls to celebrate the only good thing that has ever happened in summer. I like my fun scheduled y’all. You can’t do that when everyone has Exciting Adventures planned every other day.
The Peer Pressure
Despite the fact that seemingly every horror movie takes place at a lake, a camp, or on a family road trip, summer seems universally loved. Every single person in my family adores weekend trips to the lake, organized sporting events, and grand family vacations. I, however, am pretty sure that every injury I’ve ever had occurred during one of the above. The only thing I can think of that sounds less fun than any of these things is doing any of these things with three in diapers. Yet, when my family invites us to rent a cabin at a lake several hours away or even in the next state over, we always spin some tale about Jake not having enough leave or not wanting to spend the money. Neither of these is entirelyfalse, but we could probably make it happen if we really wanted. We just don’t.
I know, I know. What could be more fun than driving five hours or even flying with three small children on Fourth of July or Labor Day weekend, so we can enjoy family fun that is mostly overshadowed by my all-consuming terror that my babies will drown or fall off of a cliff?!? Everything. Absolutely everything I could choose to do with my time sounds more fun than that. Just as with my disdain for live music, bars, and travel in general, however, I am an all alone. The rest of society is utterly convinced that I’ll have fun thistime, with this crowd, and these plans. I won’t, though… because summer is the most miserable time of year, no matter the stage of life. I am overjoyed that September is finally here, so the mainstreamers and cool kids can stop trying to convince me otherwise.
“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.
One year ago, on May 5th, I was worried that my five year anniversary with Jake and my first real Mother’s Day would be ruined. I’d been feeling sick for several days. Jake and I were planning an embryo transfer for the next month and I was supposed to call with cycle day one. With 10 month old twins, though, my period hadn’t regulated yet and I was a week late. When the nurse at the fertility clinic had asked if I could be pregnant, I assured her that Jake could not get me pregnant. We’d accepted it. It was fine, but I wasn’t taking a test. She understood, but said I’d need to come in to check for cysts if I didn’t get my period in the next couple of weeks.
Two more weeks had gone by at this point and, concerned that I might have some severe feminine problems, I decided to make an appointment for the next week. Whatever scary news I received would come after our special weekend. I knew, however, that they’d insist on a pregnancy test. I figured I’d cope with any difficult emotional response at home and take one myself. Off to Dollar General I went, grabbing a can of chicken noodle soup along with my one dollar test, just to feel like the trip wasn’t a total waste.
As I sat on the toilet lid, waiting for my negative test result, I Googled reasons for a late period. I hypothesized everything from PCOS to ovarian cancer, anything other than the obvious. I glanced at the test, assuming I’d immediately be throwing it away. Much to my surprise, however, I saw not one line, but two.
I took two more tests, both of which also came up positive and called my OBGYN.
Me: “False positives, though… that’s not really a thing, right? That’s just a plot device from romance novels and teen movies?” Nurse: “I mean, yeah, basically. If you have three positive tests, you’re pregnant.”
Pregnant. After Jake had been told by his urologist that “miracles happen” in regards to our chances of natural conception… after spending $30,000 on back-to-back rounds of pandemic IVF… after having been cautioned against more children while fighting pneumonia, heart complications, and sepsis following the girls’ birth… I was pregnant.
So it was, that our sixth year of marriage passed in a whirlwind of minivan shopping, home improvements, and continued toddler joy. We celebrated a first birthday, first steps, and first words, all while preparing for the arrival of our baby boy. With no complications and zero drama, on December 6th our Thomas came into the world. The romcoms were half right, y’all. I’ve never believed in love at first sight, but I just hadn’t met the right man.
I adore my daughters. I love being home with them, hearing every giggle, witnessing every new milestone, soothing every tantrum, kissing every owie. I look forward to a future where I have two precious little girls to guide. We’ll do crafts, dance to bad pop music, watch princess movies, go shopping, do our nails. I love that I get the chance to be the mother mine wanted so very much to be to her daughter but couldn’t. Our relationship is truly everything I’d hoped. The bond I have with Thomas is not stronger, but it is… more unexpected. Whenever I envisioned having children one day, I was so focused on the idea of giving girls what I never had, that I never really imagined how I’d feel about a son. I even worried that I couldn’t be as close to a boy, no matter how I loved him.
Our sixth year was an utter surprise. It was the year Jake got his future hunting buddy and Lord of the Rings fan. It was the year his parents met their first grandson. It was the year my Gramma finally got her redheaded great grandbaby. Though I love my girls just as much, perhaps I relate to them more, understand their ornery motivations too clearly, because it’s my sweet Thomas who will rarely do anything wrong in his mother’s eyes. With his Daddy’s laidback charm, at just five months, this little guy could sell me ocean front property in Arizona.
After battling infertility and the drama of the girls’ birth, year six was the one where we welcomed a naturally conceived baby into the world without fear or heartache. While I jest that my children are in any way competing with their father, this was the year when I gave a piece of my heart to another man… one who looks just like him. Often having accused Jake of being a literal robot in his extreme stoicism, I’ve found it particularly swoon-worthy watching him fulfill the tough cowboy stereotype as his girls have carefully wrapped him around their little fingers over the last two years. Perhaps one day, I’ll feel he’s too hard on Thomas, just as I’m sure he’ll consider me to be too easy. In the meantime, however, seeing Jake snuggle and kiss the mirror image that is his baby boy…
If I still had my whole heart to give, it would be all his once again. Alas, I don’t think he minds sharing it.
I am a reader, y’all. I don’t mean that in an insufferably pretentious way, suggesting I read nothing but classics and historical non-fiction about World War I. I just mean I read… like all the time. I read news articles, empirical studies, classic novels, Wikipedia articles on any number of random subjects. I thought Jake might break his jaw from yawning the night I attempted to regale him with facts about the Hollywood sign. I was giddy the day he admitted that my Pablo Escobar/hippo anecdote had helped him in an online quiz. I read horror, fantasy, and even bestsellers, though I rarely enjoy the latter. I’m currently rereading a favorite young adult series and a classic. At any given time, I’m also making my way through any number of romance novels.
I discovered the romance genre with paranormal romance, when I was around 24. I had always loved fantasy and supernatural TV shows, specifically obsessing over the relationships in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Roswell, Angel, Charmed, and Vampire Diaries. I just felt like the intensity and drama of the pairings were more justified in a world with fewer limitations. Imagine my overwhelming joy when I discovered a literary genre in which the romance was the primary focus and the plot was secondary. In the last 10 years, I’ve branched out to other genres, but romance remains a favorite comfort read. There’s just something so cozy about knowing that no matter what a couple goes through, ranging from a crazy ex-boyfriend to a supernatural apocalypse, they’ll live happily ever after. What can I say? I grew up on 90s Disney.
As comforting as I find my romance novels, I do admit that the suspension of disbelief is high in the genre… so high, in fact, that many romance readers refer to the world in which these stories take place as Romancelandia. In the Real World, the men of history rarely cleared 5’10”, likely had an assortment of venereal diseases, and considered women property. In Romancelandia, Renaissance men admired sass and wit. A Scottish brogue was simply accented modern English peppered with a few archaic phrases. Contemporary men are all ambiguously wealthy 6’4″ powerhouses who love curvy girls. Indeed, Romancelandia is a delightful place, where even some fairly severe ailments can be cured by The Pene, such as…
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder – as featured in Dark Desires After Dusk, by Kresley Cole and Beard in Mind, by Penny Reid
Obsessive compulsive disorder is like a gluten allergy, in that for every one hundred self-diagnosed victims, you will find one legitimate sufferer. This one person is easily identifiable, because if left untreated, their symptoms are utterly crippling. While this particular mental illness has not touched my life, I do find it pretty eyeroll-inducing when I read about a heroine who can’t even exist in society if her surroundings aren’t perfectly grouped into sections of threes… that is until she gets some of that dick. While I haven’t heavily researched OCD, it’s my understanding that treatment involves a relentless combination of behavioral therapy and medication, not a prescription of The Proper Schlong.
Anxiety/PTSD/Sleep Disorders – as featured in When a Scot Ties the Knot, by Tessa Dare and The Viscount Who Loved Me, by Julia Quinn
I actually have struggled with anxiety and PTSD. During Covid-19, I had so much trouble sleeping for more than an hour at a time, I ended up having a mental breakdown. While I wouldn’t say my husband has acted as a cure, he’s certainly been a balm. In Romancelandia, however, heroes act as a miracle remedy for an entire range of mental illnesses. Women who can’t even function in crowds can suddenly tour the world! Those suffering from horrific flashbacks at the sound of rain, can dance in it without fear! The once exhausted victims of frustrating and even debilitating sleep disorders are refreshed and have a bounce in their step! No lie, the Magic Member is better than the very best medical marijuana.
Infertility – as featured in Until July, by Aurora Rose Reynolds, The Friend Zone, by Abby Jimenez, Virgin River, by Robyn Carr, Beautiful Sacrifice, by Jamie McGuire
The titles I’m citing are not meant to comprise an exhaustive list. The romance genre is liberally peppered with all of these, none so much as penile infertility cures. Having suffered through the devastation of infertility, myself, I understand why this one upsets readers so much. Personally, I find this to be a more accurate representation of my perfect fantasy; going so far as to include Free Babies when the heroines previously thought they’d either never have children or would have to pursue medical intervention. Regardless, there’s no denying that fertility issues are rarely cured by Supernatural Semen, let alone at the rate they are in romance novels.
Sexual Trauma – as featured in Rock Chick Regret, by Kristen Ashley, Pleasure Unbound, by Larissa Ione, and Shadow Flight, by Christine Feehan
These hyperbolic romance blunders don’t usuallybother me all that much. I just don’t personally believe that an author is responsible for assigning every tough topic exactly the weight it deserves as a societal issue, when the primary plot is romance. In fact, I’ve read books where that’s clearly been the intent and they’re not really romance anymore, focusing instead on the issue in question. Even I admit, however, that sexual traumas are probably one of the most disturbing ailments for even fictional penises to heal. Sexual assault victims can struggle for years before they can comfortably be intimate with another person, if they ever get to that point. Wrapping that recovery up over the course of a few failed attempts spanning six weeks is… insensitive, to say the least. I have read novels where the recovery takes place over the course of years, montage style, as seen in Shadow Flight, by Christine Feehan. If the intent is to give a happily every after to someone who’s experienced such horrific trauma, I think this might be the best way to go.
Childhood Trauma – as featured in The Duke and I, by Julia Quinn and Dream Spinner, by Kristen Ashley
Childhood trauma is another recurring theme amongst romance novel heroes and heroines, likely because so many readers relate on some level, even if it isn’t personally. I find this plot device far less repellent than sexual traumas, however, since the characters have usually already dealt with the damage, to some extent. Sure, Simon didn’t want children in The Duke and I, because of his father’s abuse, but he’d overcome his developmental issues and made quite a name for himself in society. This trope mostly veers into the obnoxious when the problems persist in a way that impacts the characters’ day-to-day life. We often see women with abusive mothers or fathers, who interfere and disrupt their lives on a regular basis… that is until the hero swoops in to save the day with a stern talking to and a therapeutic orgasm. Suddenly Mom and Dad are on their best behavior and all those insecurities and unhealthy coping mechanisms have been replaced with a new self-care regimen and some yoga.
Physical Injuries – as featured in Rock Chick Redemption, by Kristen Ashley, Lucian, by Bethany Kris, and Fifty Shades of Grey, by E.L. James
Of all the afflictions I’ve seen cured by phallic means in romance novels, actual physical injuries are probably the ones that take me out of the story the most… yes, even more than sexual trauma. Theoretically, I suppose the root source of someone’s OCD, anxiety, PTSD, or personal traumas could be improved by the addition of True Love. It’s eyeroll-inducing, sure, but it doesn’t completely take me out of the story. While fertility can’t be restored with a fantasy phallus, people do get pregnant when they’ve been told it could never happen. My son is proof. Under no circumstances, however, can you have sex a few days after getting a major head injury, Anastasia Steel. You can’t have sex after someone’s cut a tattoo from your body. You can’t have sex with freshly broken ribs. You can’t have sex right after childbirth, no matter how glorious the dick. I don’t care who’s responsible. That is some bad damn writing. Your happily ever after could have just as easily taken place three weeks later!
Once upon a time, I was an active Facebook user… very active. I was constantly scrolling, posting, checking for notifications from people I didn’t even know, and just generally pausing real life for a digital world that didn’t matter. After some insufferable Girl Drama with some insufferable girls, I decided I needed to take a break. I deleted my account, certain that I’d cave and return in a few days… except I didn’t. The next day, there was a shooting at a church in Texas and I actually had the emotional and mental energy to discuss it with, of all people, my husband. When Jake shared that he’d felt like I never wanted to talk to him about world events, because I’d worn myself out arguing with virtual strangers, I realized that social media was harmful for me on levels I’d never even acknowledged. As time went on, I felt less stress, less frustration, and like I had so much more time without it. Suddenly, my family called to inform me when someone was having a baby, getting married, or admitted to the hospital. While I felt less connected from those for whom I felt little, I felt more connected to the ones who mattered. That was six years ago and although I do use Jake’s old account to sell things on Marketplace, I’ve deleted anyone we actually know from his friends list. In my mind, Facebook has just become a place where moms go to compete and old people go to fight. I want no part of it. Instagram, however…
I became an active user of Instagram when I found out I was pregnant with my girls. I knew my Gramma would want to see pictures, but I wasn’t willing to rejoin Facebook. It took years for my family to accept that I’d left and would never return. As far as I knew, Instagram was strictly comprised of photos and videos, with little opportunity to argue with my great uncle about whether or not it was appropriate to use the n-word on someone else’s account… or at all. It seemed the obvious choice for sharing family photos, one universal enough that I wouldn’t need everyone to download something new. That was two years ago and I feel that Instagram is the one social media forum with which I can manage a truly healthy relationship. Still, there are several Instagram trends with which I want no part, such as…
Becoming a Momfluencer
I takea lotof pictures and the number increased exponentially once I had some babies. Having spent years working as a teen librarian, however, I am hyperaware of the presence I give my family on social media. My children are not only my children. They are people with feelings, who will one day have relationships, goals, and an image they want to cultivate for themselves. They don’t need to know about the times Mama sat in the living room floor and cried as they screamed, while somehow managing to look gorgeous for that carefully filtered photo. They don’t need to read about any of the negative feelings they’ve inspired, be they stress, frustration, or anger. They don’t need to be constantly dressed in uncomfortable designer toddler wear, that occasionally veers into disturbingly suggestive territory. While it’s easy enough to decide what’s appropriate to share and what’s not, now, just as I have never shared nude baby photos, I’ll never tell tales of bathroom accidents, school punishments, or private puberty moments. I limit both the types of photos and videos I share, in addition to who can see them and will likely become even more discerning as my kids grow older and more aware.
It’s not just my children who I don’t want living under a microscope, though. I have zero desire for feedback on my every parenting decision, from snack time to forward-facing carseats, to whether or not I do Santa. Moms can be the worst, most judgmental, hateful individuals. Just as I won’t allow my children’s middle school friends to dig through the archives for humiliating family song and dance videos, I won’t expose myself to the relentless scrutiny of women who know nothing about me or my children’s needs. My Gramma loves seeing photos and videos of her great grandbabies, but her ability to do so does not include the general public. There’s a reason this blog is anonymous and I’ve given my own family pseudonyms. We all deserve privacy. I will not give that up for theremote possibility that I’ll gain the kind of popularity that could lead to ad revenue. Which leads me to my next undesirable craze…
Creating Amazon Storefronts
Naturally, the above opinions mean I don’t follow a lot of influencers. My feed is largely comprised of complex cooking, cake decorating, and crafting videos, which I harshly judge with full awareness of my inability to replicate them. Still, the occasional influencer has crossed my path with her Amazon Storefront.
Folks, even a cursory glance at my most recent Amazon orders leads me to call shenanigans on these influencers and their carefully curated shopping history. At least half of my last twenty purchases were different brands of earbuds, because keep your Lilysilk hair scrunchie for overnight curls, what a stay-at-home-mom really needsis excellent earbuds. Were I to share my Amazon purchases, it would only result in an Amazon Storefront for the insane. In the last three months, I’ve purchased:
8 different styles of leather pouches
14 different pairs of earbuds
8 pairs of women’s shoes
1 curling iron
4 different infant hats
3 jacks-in-the-box (yes, I need to know the plural)
1 high-end XBOX gaming controller
4 different lamps
3 pack of acrylic double-sided picture frames
40 pack of slap bracelets
8 pack of hand puppets
4 rolling blackout curtains
Sure, I returned most of the duplicates. I even bought more popular mom items, such as face wash, fabric softener, and hairbands. Regardless, my Amazon Storefront could only appear as a cross between that of Peewee Herman and one of the Desperate Housewives. I never have excelled at trendy, which brings me to…
Tiny Home and Van Living
It’s rare that I throw around the word “privilege.” Initially coined to call attention to legitimate social and economic advantages, our bored and hyperbolic society has wielded this term to create greater division and attach a sense of moral superiority to what often boils down to simple jealousy. In the truest sense of the word, however, there is nothing more privilegedthan glorifying minimal square footage. A component of the more widespread minimalist movement, tiny home living exalts the wealthy for having less, when so many people in this world havelittle choice in the matter. I, myself, have lived in “tiny homes” at different times in life. They just went by different names, like “trailer,” “motel room,” and “low-income housing.” My “capsule wardrobe” was a collection of Goodwill finds. The dishes I once displayed on an open shelf were a design choice resulting from my apartment’s roach problem. My simplistic décor and limited belongings were due to a lack of funding. I wasn’t chic. I was poor.
As a white, middle class, suburban mom, I am now exposed to every Marie Kondo-style fad as it arises. Each time it’s presented as a new and innovative way for people to dispose of all the junk they’ve had the privilege to buy in the first place, before painting everything in their house “natural cotton,” and filling it with overpriced houseplants. Each time, I roll my eyes so hard they’re in danger of getting stuck. While it is, of course, fine to love the color “oatmeal,” limit your dishes to four individual place settings, and decorate with copious amounts of macrame, I cannot stomach the sanctimonious attitude that accompanies this movement. I grew up in a hoarder’s home. I’ve been donating and throwing out the things that don’t “bring joy” for the entirety of my adult life. Have less if you want less, but don’t act like it somehow makes you a better human to spend $50,000 refitting a shed or van that you plan to park on someone else’s property rent free. Don’t even get me started on shipping container homes. I’ve gone without out of necessity. My three bed, three bath, 2,300 square foot home (converted garage included), on over an acre brings me joy. If living with less is your jam, excellent, but I’ve lived in 400 square feet and it was far from Instagrammable, so the champions of this movement can hold the self-righteousness. At least van and RV living have the benefit of mobility, which can’t be replicated by just buying a smaller house. That, however, reminds me how much I don’t want to…
Travel with Children
I have previously written that I am the only Millennial who hates travel. As much as I want to see something new or something old, the process of doing so is exhausting. I cannot wait for The OASIS of Ready Player One, so I can tour the pyramids from my own home. I am apparently all alone, however, because according to Instagram, travel is the bees knees. I’ve never related to the wealth of reels raving about the adventure that is spending hours in a car or on a plane… to sleep on a comforter that’s only washed twice a year… so that I can wake up and spend hundreds of dollars on basics that would cost me tens of dollars at home. In 2019, I declared that I’d rather do porn and I stand by that. Now my feed is flooded with articles celebrating travel with children and while I’m not quite willing to joke that I’d rather do porn with children, I would do some pretty degrading stuff.
Last summer, Jake and I had to bow out of a family trip to Colorado. We were a single income household with one-year-old twins, expecting a baby in December. We had to buy a minivan, decorate the spare bedroom for the girls, and redecorate their old bedroom for Thomas. As much as I wanted to spend a week in a luxury cabin with my family, it just wasn’t possible. Instead, we took a day trip to a nearby lake and watched The Hills Have Eyes in a hyperbolic reminder that vacations aren’t always fun. Meanwhile, while they weren’t dealing with mutant cannibals, my parents and step-siblings were decidedly not enjoying their Labor Day getaway. What began with an all-ages airport floor slumber party, shifted to group altitude sickness, followed by mass food poisoning, a family IV hydration therapy session, and finally, a return trip with Covid-19. The only thing that sounds worse than sleeping in an airport lobby and being several different kinds of violently ill, is doing so away from home, surrounded by other people, while caring for children.
While all of this reads like the screenplay for a bad family comedy, even normal travel involves navigating airport terminals, extended car or plane rides with changing air pressure, hotel rooms without the routine of home, and sourcing food and fun for everyone involved. This week, I had the privilege of telling Violet that she couldn’t eat the beanbag filling, Scarlett that it was time to leave the park, and the opportunity to try out the baby leash on both of them. If those every day events have been any indicator as to how a family vacation with three in diapers would go, I think I might prefer the cannibals. No amount of painter’s tape, snack tackleboxes, or a toddler travel bed from your “Amazon Storefront” is going to make a family trip any more enjoyable or worth the money than planning a family fun weekend in our comfortable home while our children are this small. Speaking of which, there is one final Instagram obsession that I wholeheartedly want to never tag.
Flipping Homes
When Jake and I bought this house, we had a short list of improvements we wanted to make. Having rented my entire adult life, I was eager to paint every room in the house. We needed a fence for our dogs. Jake had to clear some brush so we could get full use of our backyard. Over the years, the list grew. While we immediately refinished our converted garage into our bedroom; we eventually had to redo it as a family space where we could pull back the furniture and carpet when it rained heavily. That meant we had to finish the master bedroom in a way that would fit our furniture, requiring a pocket door and 360° shelves. Next, we blew insulation into the walls of the adjacent spare bedrooms, in preparation for the day they would be made into nurseries. Somewhere in there, we needed a storm shelter, a water softener, and a carport. The roof has been replaced, but now we need a new front door, a few new windows, and exterior paint. Our laundry list of little luxuries has become a chore list of necessities for a finished home built in 1980. I cannot imagine the burden that is flipping a house.
I’ve previously detailed my disdain for HGTV and how every single house looks the same. Nowhere is that more apparent than the #flipperhome hashtag. Whether you’re staring at a red brick townhome from 1960 or a Frank Lloyd Wright-style bungalow form the early 1900s, it’s going to be painted white with black trim and doors. The kitchen will have exposed wooden beams, a backsplash of subway tile, and dark green cabinets with gold finishings. The bathrooms will have free-standing oval tubs and showers built entirely of transparent glass. It’ll be staged with jewel-toned minimalist 60s mod furniture. The finished product will be homogeneously gorgeous in a feed with all the other #flipperhomes and it will have been miserably expensive, time consuming, and tedious to make it so.
HGTV presents every disaster as a hilarious adventure, complete with dialogue reminiscent of a middle school play. As a homeowner, though, I’m aware of the actual financial obligation that is a flooded garage turned bedroom, the disgusting chore of a septic system that needs tending, and the relentless hassle that is a roof replacement. I don’t even want to replicate the furniture remodels on my Instagram feed, let alone take on an entire house. As it is, Jake and I both insist on decorating our own home in classic styles and fashions we love, so we don’t have to take on the physical, emotional, or economic burden again any time soon. Our home may not be Instagram feed worthy, but that just might save me the trouble of getting all dolled up for that mental breakdown photoshoot.
Once I completed my self-assigned project to read 26 classics, I was pretty burnt out on heavy literature. While I genuinely enjoyed all but two of the titles I chose, I realized that there’s a reason why people don’t typically read classics for fun. The pacing is far slower, the world-building is more involved, the themes are less obvious, and in many cases, the dialect can be quite difficult to follow. Reading a classic is enjoyable in the way reading a PEW Research Center study is enjoyable. It’s work. So, as a balm to my somewhat raw senses, I decided to try a modern and lighthearted take on classics, with Julia Quinn’s Bridgerton series, following the prolific family of the same name in Regency era Britain, which officially spans the years 1811-1820.
In our modern world, where everyone is watching something different, there are few titles that everyone recognizes. While others lament that fact, I’m just relieved that finally, I can rewatch the original Roswell for the 87th time in peace, without being subjected to the absolute horror that I haven’t seen Yellowstone. Bridgerton, however, is one of the rare shows that seems to have gained household notoriety, even if not everyone has actually watched it. If you’re unfamiliar with the premise and have perhaps just had it on your Netflix list, it’s about a family of eight children, the Bridgertons, sequentially named for the first eight letters of the alphabet and their adventures in love. Each Bridgerton gets their own book and, I would assume, Netflix season. Though historical romance has never been my jam, I made my way through the entire Bridgerton series, complete with lengthy epilogues, and figured it would be a complete waste not to review them.
As with my previous “I read… so you don’t have to” serial, there will be unavoidable spoilers, because… well that’s the “you don’t have to” part. I will not, however, share every detail of the plot or resolution, completely ruining the story or show for those who intend to read or watch. The show has already veered a great deal, so I suspect reading my reviews will spoil very little, but reader beware. I will be updating and reposting my reviews as the series continues, to include my assessments of each season.
1. The Duke and I – Daphne and Simon – Rank: 3
The Duke and I tells the tale of Simon Basset, the Duke of Hastings, and Daphne, the oldest Bridgerton daughter in the summer of 1813. Simon is a rake (Regency era playboy) and the best friend of Anthony Bridgerton, Daphne’s oldest brother. Having been abused by his own father, Simon has vowed never to marry or have children. Meanwhile, Daphne longs for marriage and motherhood, but finds that she’s so easy to get along with that men tend to see her as a strictly friendly or even sisterly companion, much to her despair during her first season on the marriage market.
Simon first meets Daphne when she’s being harassed by a suitor. Before he can save the day, Daphne punches the drunk herself and Simon finds himself immediately attracted to her… that is until he discovers that she’s the little sister of his best friend. Regardless, Simon and Daphne hatch a plan to convince high society, or the ton, that they’re courting. Mothers eager to marry their daughters will leave the disinterested, yet extremely eligible, Simon alone; and Daphne will attract the attention of far better suitors when they see she’s caught the eye of a Duke. Unsurprisingly, this doesn’t go as planned and the two begin to truly fall in love.
Through Regency era shenanigans, Simon and Daphne find themselves forced to marry, despite their differing plans for life. Simon informs Daphne that he can’t have children and she accepts him regardless. When innocent Daphne’s mother, Violet, explains sex to her, she’s left confused at the mechanics and goes into marriage blind. In time, Daphne realizes that Simon hasn’t been truthful with her and feels betrayed by what she realizes are his deliberate efforts to mislead her and avoid conception. Through drama and heartache, the two reconcile and babies are born into a happy marriage, some of them through the epilogues of other books.
I’ve never been a connoisseur of historical romance, finding it difficult to suspend my disbelief to accommodate these charming, young, handsome, tall rakes of the Regency era. I can never forget that the average male height in this time period was 5’6″, baths occurred on a weekly or monthly basis, and toothbrushes hardly existed. Still, I obviously enjoyed The Duke and I enough to continue the series, but I did notice a glaring issue with the show. While Bridgerton has been relentlessly praised for its diverse casting, it didn’t take long to realize that most of the Black characters in the show don’t exist in the books. There is no sassy Black queen. Marina is an off-page bit character in book five. Will, Alice, and MadameDelacroix aren’t in the series at all. Simon is the only prominent character from The Duke and I played by a person of color. Lady Danbury does become an important character, but she’s barely in the first book. It’s as if the writers wanted to appear progressive without “ruining” the image of the main characters and that’s… gross. The Bridgertons are one of two main families in their story and there’s no reason why the Featheringtons couldn’t have been portrayed by people of color as well, if historical accuracy was moot.
Despite the books souring me on the show’s faux diversity, I quite enjoyed Simon and Daphne’s story. I’ve never been drawn to the Brother’s Best Friend or Fake Dating tropes, but it was fun to read such a contemporary take on this time period. The show did a fair job of depicting the characters and their story in season one, with an appropriate touch of gloss on some scenes the didn’t age well. While fans of the show didn’t ignore the dubious nature of Daphne’s attempt to conceive against Simon’s wishes, the scene in the book was substantially more rapey. I won’t ruin it, but I will warn that it might color the character in a pretty negative light for some readers.
As with all romance, the guaranteed HEA, or happily ever after, takes much of the stress out of the story. The odds for the couple are seemingly insurmountable, but it’s always in the back of your mind that everything will work out and it does. This is not a time period about which I fantasize, but I can see how some would after reading this book. The realities of history are replaced with a story about wealthy, beautiful people, surrounded by loving and accepting families. Whether watching the show or reading the book, you’ll want to be a Bridgerton and why are we reading books such as these if not for escapism? Ultimately, Daphne and Simon rank as my third favorite Bridgerton couple.
2. The Viscount Who Loved Me – Anthony and Kate – Rank: 2
In the summer of 1814, Anthony, the eldest of the Bridgerton children, has decided that it’s time to set aside his rakish ways and marry. Traumatized by the untimely death of his father from a bee sting, however, he’s determined never to love and deliberately seeks a match that will incite no truly deep feelings. Enter, Edwina Sheffield, the shy and proper younger sister of fiery Kate. Nearing spinsterhood at age 20, Kate’s sole concern is finding a decent match for her beloved Edwina. While Anthony has decided the younger of the Sheffield women fits his requirements precisely, Kate disapproves of the match, convinced that the Viscount has not given up his rakish ways. Despite the growing friction between the two, neither Anthony nor Kate can deny their attraction to each other. Caught in a precarious position when Kate is stung by a bee, the two have no choice but to marry and reconcile their differences, eventually growing in love throughout the rest of the story.
Anthony and Kate were my second favorite of the Bridgerton couples. Just typing this makes me want to reread, though I’ve never cared for the Enemies to Lovers trope. I appreciate the concept in theory. I just always find it somewhat uneven. The conflict between the two either tips into hostile and abusive territory or exaggerates what is simply good-natured ribbing. In an attempt to avoid sullying the swoon-worthy hero, the author often writes only the heroine as truly antagonistic, inadvertently coloring her as an unlikable shrew. Anthony and Kate had the perfect balance. I’m talking chef’s kiss here. They’re both assholes to each other and it is Chuck and Blair delicious. While Anthony’s absolute conviction of his early demise seems a wee bit overwrought, the animosity and attraction he shares with Kate are simultaneously quite convincing, which I find rare among these stories. I would say my favorite thing about this book, is that the couple spends basically the last half of it together. In my opinion, it is absolutely vital in this trope, that the reader experience the couple happy after all that conflict and most authors fail here.
On screen, Jonathan Bailey and Simone Ashley did a fantastic job portraying Anthony and Kate’s chemistry. The switch-up with Indian culture felt fun and natural. The costumes were gorgeous. That said, Netflix ruined the story of The Viscount Who Loved Me. Y’all, I am not a purist when it comes to adaptations. I love a good twist on an old tale, but Anthony and Kate’s season of Bridgerton was utter crap. In The Viscount Who Loved Me, Edwina is simply looking for a husband, nearly as pragmatically as Anthony. She never loves the eldest Bridgerton. She barely has a chance to get to know him, before he’s forced to marry Kate after he’s caught scandalously examining her bee sting. What follows is a delightful forced marriage story, as the couple comes to love and respect one another for their equally strong wills, a concept I appreciate considering my prideful, stubborn, pushy husband.
Bridgerton, however, drags out Anthony and Kate’s courtship up to the humiliation and devastation of Edwina. This unavoidably paints the leads as complete assholes, not to each other but the sister Kate adores and whom Anthony respects, regardless of his lack of romantic affection. By the time the two unite, I can’t even root for them anymore, because they’re dicks, which I suppose is a minor consolation for the fact that we’re robbed of their growing love for one another. All of this was entirely unnecessary, as the original story included a great deal of drama that could have been easily adapted for the screen, such as Anthony’s conviction that he won’t live past 38, Kate’s absolute terror of thunderstorms, and a carriage crash that nearly killed the heroine. The fabricated drama of the show hurt the story and its characters, so while this was my second favorite book, I can only hope it’s my least favorite season of Bridgerton.
Belle of the Library 