Category Archives: pregnancy

What No One Told Me About Having Four Children in Three Years

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I am so excited about having four children in three years, y’all. That’s not just because so many people who suffer infertility have to compromise on their ideal family, either. I have one brother, who’s three years my senior. We see each other every year at Christmas. That’s it. I have four step-siblings who are actually pretty great, but are naturally closer to one another than to me, because they grew up together, all born within four or five years of each other. Logically, I understand that the relationship differences aren’t due to our age gaps, so much as the fact that when my parents divorced, they each took one child in some kind of heartless Parent Trap scenario. Still, after a lonely childhood, I’ve always dreamt of having four children, close in age. I just never really planned on that happening in under three years.

When I tell people how old my kids are, the response is generally negative. I have my hands full. College is going to be expensive. They’ll all be teenagers at the same time. Yada, yada, yada. Yes, I have my hands full… in a way infertile couples only dream about, so that’s quite alright with Jake and me. I don’t plan to fully fund my children’s college, but instead send them to Catholic school in hopes they’ll work hard for scholarships, encouraging community college or online school while they live at home. I love teenagers and fully believe that will still be the case when my children qualify for the title. Yes, yes, I’ll see when I have them. Generally speaking, I do adore having my children all so close in age, even so young. They’re developmentally on the same level and interested in the same things, so we get more out of clothes, toys, and equipment. We don’t have to keep hitting reset just as we get a child eating by themselves/potty trained/in school, having forgotten what it was like to have a baby. No one’s ever left out, because they can all play together. Having started with twins, no one has ever expected to have either Mama or Daddy to themselves. I didn’t have to start at 33 and end at 43 to get my ideal number. Overall, it really is pretty great having our four children so close in age. However, there are a few things that do make life a little more difficult that, in all the negativity, no one mentioned. Such as…

They’re developmentally on the same level and interested in the same things.

Yes, this is a perk in many ways. At the moment, I have twin girls who will be three in June, their almost 16-month-old brother, and a new baby in two weeks. There is not a single toy in my house that doesn’t interest all of my children, from the high contrast black and white baby toys to the Barbies and firetrucks. We’re even waiting until the last minute to get out the bassinets, because the girls will want to use them for their baby dolls. The downside is that, although my twins probably have better sharing skills than most toddlers, I still frequently have to intervene, because they’re both two. There is not an older, more mature sibling. Neither of them is better able to comprehend that her sister had the toy first/gets a turn/wants to play alone… and now enter Baby Brother. For months, Jake and I had to remind his sisters that Thomas was not a pet. He has feelings, interests, and just as much right to play as they do. While they’re finally starting to understand, that doesn’t mean they’re always on board.

Yes, Violet and Scarlet are technically older and more mature, but they’re still two. On an average day, the greatest emotional regulation I can expect from anyone else in my house is that of a young toddler. They have limited communication skills, limited understanding, and the tantrums to which those limitations lead… and that’s okay. They will grow out of it. They’ll also never remember a time when they didn’t have to be considerate of each other. Already, when offered any kind of treat or toy, both girls will ask for one for their sister and brother. We’re making progress, however small. It’s still a lot, constantly playing Baby Mediator, especially as Thomas grows curiouser and more opinionated, as well.

I’m in high demand.

Jake and I started our family with twins. No one in this house knows what a single child household feels like, from the dinner/bedtime routine to family outings to birthdays and holidays. That helped prepare us for our current and future level of chaos in a big way. Still, small children need a lot of attention, no matter how self-sufficient and all of my children are small. What that looks like on an average day is one toddler getting an owie and a Band-Aid, the other getting upset because she wants a Band-Aid too, and their brother eating fistfuls of dirt from my house plants while I’m doctoring real and imaginary injuries.

Just as I don’t have a child who’s more emotionally mature and can be expected to understand that her younger sibling doesn’t know how to share, she also can’t comprehend that her wants aren’t needs and don’t take priority. Try explaining to a two-year-old (or a couple) that the the snack she was promised doesn’t rank with her brother having just fallen off the sofa. Worse, try gently setting a baby down on the ground in a public park, so you can run to rescue the screaming toddler who doesn’t realize that the only way to stop the scalding slide from burning her skin is to get off. I know adults who don’t realize that their emergencies are not everyone else’s emergencies, so I imagine it’ll be some time before my children catch on.

Doing anything is like extended deep-sea diving.

Have you ever tried to take a photo of three children under three? Even with today’s technology, it requires the coordinated effort of two people, one to repeatedly press the button as fast they can and another to dance and shout behind them in an attempt to keep their attention for .01 second… while simultaneously remaining poised to catch the baby if he falls off the ottoman.

Happy Easter from my family to yours.

Now imagine carting three small children to the eye doctor, because Violet chewed up her only pair of glasses one month before insurance would pay for the appointment. Getting everyone loaded into the car is chore enough, especially eight months pregnant. Then, I have to drive across the city, get everyone safely into the building, simultaneously psych up Violet for new glasses, while convincing Scarlet that she’s not missing out, and dragging Thomas away from all the displays within his reach. That’s typical of basically every doctor visit. Picture a day trip to the lake. We dress everyone in bathing suits and cover them in sunscreen before we leave. Each kid needs a floatie for safety and Mama and Daddy need one for comfort. Everyone has to have a towel, of course, but we’ll also need snacks, lots of water, and diapers. We’ll bring the beach blanket to set up our home base and, if we’re feeling adventurous, chairs. All of this is done with the extraordinary optimism required in thinking the day will go well, that the kids will have fun, no one will get hurt, and it will have been worth the trouble over all.

It’s not that taking my babies with me everywhere I go is a bad thing. On the contrary, I love shopping with them, watching them spin in circles while I wait for my tires to be changed, getting them Big Girl Waters and surprising them with a trip to the park. Surely, as they get older, can get themselves in and out of the car, look both ways while crossing the street, take total control of their own bathroom needs… things will get easier. Right now, however, there are just so many variables with soon-to-be four under three and it’s literally impossible to prepare for them all.

I’ve never been so anxious in my life.

People, especially mothers, worry about their children. That’s common knowledge, bordering on cliché. What no one told me about having four under three, however, is how much more I’d worry. It’s not that I care a greater amount. It’s just that more can go wrong. If I had four children in a tornado warning, ages 10, 8, 5, and 1, the 10-year-old could be reminded of her disaster prep lessons. She could take on the job of helping to get everyone to the storm shelter, while encouraging the eight-year-old to remember her lessons, as well. Mama would shoulder the biggest burden in preparing the shelter and comforting all children, but even the five-year-old could walk down the steps, however terrified, while only the one-year-old would be wholly dependent.

Despite all the negative remarks, no one pointed out that, for a few years at least, children with such little age gap are all wholly dependent on you at the same time. People ask me all the time, how I do it with so many, so little. My answer is quite honest: they get hurt a lot. In an average week at home, no matter how vigilant I am, someone’s getting injured while I’m tending to someone or something else. My Scarlet was barely two the day I told her to quit running back and forth on the sofa, only to hear screaming when I returned to folding laundry. Since that child only has the one cry, whether Sister touched her toy or she broke an arm, it took a good 10 minutes to realize how serious her injury was… and another thirty for Jake to convince me she didn’t need to go to the ER for an X-ray of her possibly broken nose.

These are just the homebound antics. Perhaps it’s because I’m pregnant or obsessively reading the news, but these days, I cannot stop thinking about what I’d do in a situation where everyone was in danger and I had limited time to act. What if we’re at the park and two of them run in opposite directions, both heading for a street? What if there’s a fire and Jake and I can’t get everyone out in time? What if I have a wreck driving on the highway? What if I get carjacked at the mall, when they’re all still buckled in? Maybe we should exclusively go to the other park. Did I turn the stove off or not? Maybe I should only take the back roads. Is the mall really even safe for children? You don’t know anxiety like “Mom Planning the Hypothetical Rescue of Her Four Toddlers and Babies in a Flash Flood” anxiety.

I have no help and it’s essentially impossible to get any.

Aside from Jake (and that is, admittedly, a big aside), I have no help. From the day we brought home preemie twins under five pounds each, their Mama recovering from a heart condition, pneumonia, sepsis, and an emergency C-section, it’s just been us. While my Gramma does buy my children a lot of toys and clothes, at 89, she’s just too old to physically assist. My step-mother, though wonderful, has four children and six grandchildren of her own. She also heads the disaster relief department of a national non-profit. Though I’ve been assured that she won’t have to travel during my scheduled C-section, I’m still petrified that a hurricane or tornado will hit and she won’t be able to take the kids while we’re in the hospital. She and my dad might watch our children a couple of times a year, while we celebrate a birthday or promotion, but otherwise, it has always been the norm for Jake and I to do this crazy life on our own.

It actually does not bother me that Jake and I don’t get date nights. We keep a strict schedule, which means we have the evening to ourselves by 8:00, at the latest, every night. Our hectic life means we enjoy quiet nights in, trying new recipes, watching whatever’s streaming, entertaining friends with game nights, or just playing with the kids in the living room or the yard until bed time. It’s quite alright with us not to have a “break” from our children. We both know that one day, we’ll be in our 50s reminiscing over the years when they were small. What’s tough, is not having any assistance when it’s not a luxury.

Taking babies to my appointments at the fertility clinic, though allowed, was something I absolutely refused to do, if only out of consideration for other patients. Taking the girls to my appointments a few weeks from delivering Thomas was so rough, I’ve done everything I can to avoid it this time. In both situations, Jake and I have had no one to help. We didn’t want to share the FET when we were going through the process, but even now, there’s just no one to ask. Jake has been using his leave to stay home with all three kids, so I can go alone… which is required for the high risk doctor who won’t allow them to come anyway. Additionally, as this pregnancy has become more and more difficult for me, I’ve just… had to deal. Jake has to work and things like Mother’s Day Out are simply too pricey when you have three or four kids. Even hiring a baby sitter, just for fun, costs a small fortune, because while my children are so well-behaved and so adorable, there are also so many of them. Most of the time, it doesn’t get to me, but these last few weeks, as I’ve sat in the floor crying while the girls concernedly ask “Mama owie?” I have felt a bit blindsided by the fact that, partly due to my own circumstances, but also due to the sheer number of very small children I have… help just isn’t available.

The Back-to-Back Pregnancies

Of course, people commented on the physical toll of back-to-back pregnancies. They talked about being fat for years at a time. They mentioned the discomfort. Many women, along with my doctors, talked about physical recovery in regards to everything from my uterus to my calcium levels. I was told by more than one doctor that I shouldn’t even have more children after the girls. So, yes, I was warned. I’ve been fat, though… from age nine to 24. I’ve been the kind of fat that makes existing uncomfortable. It was objectively worse than being pregnant with twins, up until the point where I almost died. As for my uterus and calcium, if Michelle Duggar could have seventeen successful pregnancies, I didn’t see why I couldn’t have three. What no one told me, though, was the emotional toll this would take, particularly already having small children under my constant care.

I got pregnant with Thomas before the girls were even walking. They were an adventure, but they weren’t particularly difficult. Tantrums were few and far between and they had just begun to get fun. As my pregnancy progressed, so did they. I do remember a few especially difficult days, like taking both girls for a finger stick blood draw, desperately trying to comfort one as she had her finger painfully squeezed for 10 minutes, screaming in pain and terror while the other looked on in horror. Naturally, I had to do it all over again, causing her to suffer, too. Still, the girls were only 17 months old when Thomas came home, so through much of my pregnancy, they crawled or toddled, only able to get up to so much mischief. Though I was anxious, I felt good, overall.

This pregnancy… well, if I wasn’t done before, I would be now. I previously wrote about feeling lost to pregnancy, having been trying to conceive, pregnant, or post-partum since before Covid-19. It’s not just that these back-to-back pregnancies have begun to make me feel like a stranger in my own body. The physical side effects are worse this time, as I stack pregnancy on top of pregnancy. The ligament pain and muscle spasms are immobilizing at times. The fatigue and difficulty breathing occasionally has me worried about something more serious. As with Thomas, I’ve been sick every day since conception, unable to function before 9 a.m. most days. I’m also just a wreck emotionally. Having begun with the frozen embryo process, this pregnancy has just been really hard from the start. Being on so many hormones, with three at home, felt impossible. I couldn’t control my emotions, with them or Jake. I was so overwhelmed. I told myself that it would get better… after the transfer, after the positive test, after the ultrasound, after the drugs ceased. That just hasn’t been true. I’ve been so anxious and overwhelmed since June. It’s become physically exhausting at this point… and I still have three beautiful children at home, who adore their Mama and want her to give kisses and play.

On my good days, I know that I’m doing pretty well, generally speaking. We do pre-packaged crafts and play in the backyard. I do home haircuts and give toddler pedicures. Even if I’m too sick to make it to storytime, we still make Target and Sam’s Club runs every now and then. I can even reassure myself that they won’t remember the times Mama snaps at them or breaks down and cries for seemingly no reason. On my bad days, though, I feel like I’m missing some of the most wonderful years of my children’s lives. Is this not the reason I quit my career, to be home with them? Here I am, though, crying in my car in a Target parking lot, as someone throws a tantrum.

I’ll be perfectly clear. Despite everything I’ve mentioned, I am so excited to have my fourth and final baby. My family will be whole, in exactly the way I imagined, in spite of infertility. My girls will have a sister, my boys a brother, and we’ll have been done within the timeline we always planned. I adore being a mom, more than anything I’ve ever done in my life. I am thrilled with the minimal age gap between my children. I was often alone as a child and my children will never feel that way. They’ll always have a playmate, a support system, a family. They are worth it… but the more or less temporary struggles of having four under three might have been a little easier, had someone told me.

Cherish the Fat Photos

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I’m officially on my 30 day countdown for baby number four in three years… and having been pregnant or post-partum since 2020, I am not loving my physical appearance. I don’t recognize myself naked. I can’t wear any of the clothes I enjoyed pre-Covid. Sex is just weird at this point. I’ve spent five years having massive amounts of hormones pumped through my body, either synthetically or naturally. I feel like I’ve been trapped in this strange body since I began my first round of IVF in July of 2020. I am just so ready to reclaim my physical self. I’m ready for shorts, sundresses, and fitted sweaters. A part of me just wants to forget this time, how it makes me feel both physically and emotionally to be this size.

Then, I remember the last time I was happy with my body… and how it felt to be a size 8/10, but wonder if I’d ever be a mom. I looked cute in all those Christmas photos, surrounded by nieces and nephews, fearing that’s all I’d ever know. I could wear a swimsuit without shame, show my legs in cute dresses, wear fitted sweater dresses that skimmed the length of my body, fit my feet into cowboy boots without filling them with blood. I could get out of this recliner on the first try. The sexual positions were contortionism by today’s standards. I felt so good physically, though I never appreciated it… but I wasn’t a mom and the thought of that never happening was absolutely unbearable. I didn’t get out of bed for days at a time. I never slept, staying up to Google adoption and infertility treatment statistics. I thought realistically about how long I’d want to continue my life if there were no little Jakes or Belles and the answer was “not very long.”

When I was working on my 2021 family photo album, there were so many pictures of myself I hated. I was so sick after the girls were born and it shows in every photo. Even then, a part of me rebelled against deleting them, though. Nearly three years later, while I don’t especially love my appearance in that ugly hospital gown, in an ICU bed, I am so glad I have photos of the first time I held my daughters. I looked as bad I felt, having nearly died in childbirth. My hair was limp and unwashed, as there were no showers in the ICU. My skin was pale, my whole body swollen with the fluid retention that caused my heart failure…. and I don’t care anymore. The body I hated was the one that brought my children into the world. I didn’t get to see my girls for two days after they were born and holding them for even just a few minutes, knowing they were real and mine, got me through the next five in the hospital. A few years removed, I will always treasure those photos, fat or not.

By the time I got home, I was 40 pounds lighter, though I wouldn’t say I looked much better. I could barely stand long enough to shave my legs and risked passing out to feel just that much more human. With an ejection fraction in the 40s (normal is 55-60), I was always tired and had dark circles under my eyes. Still, I cherish those pictures of myself, laying on the couch, looking gaunt and exhausted, with my tiny girls on my chest, certainly nowhere near ready to enter a beauty pageant.

Over the next few months, my health improved, but my energy lagged behind. A first-time mom, I had two new babies and a long recovery. While I tried to walk and use the elliptical, I didn’t feel anything close to normal for at least seven months. Two months later, my Thomas was conceived. Just as I was feeling capable of losing those last 10-15 pounds before starting the process for a frozen embryo transfer, my body was hitting reset on its own. By my girls’ first birthday, I was staring in the mirror, reminding myself that this was only temporary, that the end result would truly be a miracle. I was getting the elusive post-IVF miracle baby. Despite being somewhere between not pregnant and showing, I forced myself to stage the first birthday photo with my girls that mirrored the one my own mother took with me on mine. I immediately swiped through them and hated them all. Today, however, the best one sits framed beside the original from 33 years ago. I adore it.

My pregnancy with Thomas saw only slightly less enthusiasm than the first, as I took the weekly belly photos, but shared fewer on Instagram. I rarely wore my maternity dresses, opting for the shorts and jeans. Having never lost the last of my baby weight with the girls, I wasn’t exactly comfortable with my appearance, but I wasn’t miserable either. It was easy enough to pose for the photos, take the selfies, and include myself in videos. In fact, I was far more pleased with the hospital photos this time. Just a few weeks later, I made sure Baby’s First Christmas captured plenty of Mama footage.

Over the following months, it became clear that Thomas was not going to be my last baby. In time, Jake agreed to one more. Knowing a frozen embryo transfer would be difficult, I couldn’t bring myself to lose the weight. I think a part of me knew that, were I to do so, I might just have compelling enough reason not to go through with it. IVF was so unbelievably hard that even the thought of more fertility treatments just left me drained… and I had no idea how difficult it would actually be on me, both physically and emotionally. Still, I took all the photos, be they at the park, the lake, the zoo, a family walk, or just snuggling in the recliner. If the occasion was a special one, I was adamant that no matter how bad the pictures were, I’d make sure Mama got representation. Even after the hormones started last June, I chronicled everything, as I’ve been doing since the ninth grade. This time around, however, I’ve made far fewer attempts at “cute” pregnant” in favor of “I’ve been done with this since before I was pregnant” pregnant. For the last nine months, I’ve lived in my maternity pajama pants and oversized t-shirts… and I’ve still taken photos, including the weekly bump pictures.

With my C-section scheduled, these past few weeks, I’ve been scrambling to meet extraordinarily high expectations set by no one but myself. This includes compiling all of my cell phone videos from the last half of 2022 and all of 2023 into watchable home movies and making sure my family photo albums are current before I bring home another baby. In doing so, I’ve noticed something. Just as I no longer care that water retention made me look chubby in the first photos I took with the girls… or that I definitely look like I just haven’t lost the baby weight in their first birthday videos, I don’t especially care about all of the unappealing pictures and video clips that followed. Sure, Thomas’s first Christmas saw me looking semi-pregnant less than three weeks after giving birth. Those Easter photos didn’t showcase the most pleasing mid-section. I hated my arms in the lake shots. I also just looked so happy to be young, reasonably healthy, and enjoying my ecstatic babies, who will never again be this small. Yes, I despise the pictures I took today, last week, the week before that. The ones of Thomas’s birthday, the girls’ first craft, and our family Wizard of Oz Halloween costume, though? I’m just thrilled I captured those memories. So, though I may never look at all the pictures from my five-years-long pregnancy and consider them #GOALS physically… while I frequently joke that I can’t wait to starve myself after this baby is born… I will continue to take the unflattering pictures. One day, how I looked in these memories just won’t matter. I will, in fact, cherish these fat photos.

The Pregnancy from Groundhog Day

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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.

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

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Nearly every New Year, since I started this blog in 2012, I’ve opened with a New Year’s post, because I love New Year’s!

I know, I know. No one loves New Year’s; New Year’s Eve, maybe, but New Year’s Day is, for most, the beginning of a lot of annoying gym, exercise equipment, and weight loss service ads. For me, however, this is a time of reflection and renewal. I get to look back on how my life changed in the previous year and look ahead with excitement and optimism about what’s to come. This year, however… well, reflection and goal setting have taken a backseat to creating another human and keeping the ones I’m already charged with alive and well.

I started with good intentions. I really did. My New Year’s resolutions were as follows:

  • Swear less
  • Control my emotions better
    • Eat healthy until this baby arrives and then starve myself until normal
    • Attend Mass regularly
    • Listen to Father Mike’s Bible in a Year and Catechism in a Year podcasts every day
    • Actively engage with my children more, instead of doing chores or running errands
    • Catch up on my family albums and have them printed
    • Catch up on my home video editing
    • Spend less time on my phone

I tried, y’all. I really did, but getting ready for this new baby, by making sure I do everything for him that I did for the others…. chasing my twin toddlers and their suddenly very mobile baby brother around the house… potty training, coping with family-wide RSV and Jake’s vasectomy recovery… and now transitioning from cribs to toddler beds… has meant that a good day is one where Mama isn’t crying. I’ll be honest. Those are pretty rare lately.

I don’t know what it is about this pregnancy, but it has been hands down the roughest of my three in the last four to five years. I’m sure my three under three are a contributing factor, but I’m also just so tired of being pregnant and scrambling to get ready for a new baby. About a year ago, I told Jake that I wanted to do an embryo transfer as soon as possible, before I changed my mind. I am nothing if not self aware. There is zero chance we’d be having this baby had we waited six more months… and I’m thrilled we’re so fortunate as to get our two girls and two boys. I’m just ready for this to be over, so I can move forward and feel like myself again. I want to stop crying and feeling like I can’t keep all the balls in the air. I want to get out of a chair on the first try. I want to look at myself in the mirror and like what I see.

Regardless of my current mental state, I firmly believe there’s always time for self-improvement. I tried for a Lenten reset, after I heard my Violet say “bag of dicks” from the backseat during a frustrating traffic moment and vowed to give up swearing entirely. I’m sure I failed by the end of the day. So, here I am, tomorrow being March 1st, pressing reset once again… with perhaps a little less ambition.

  • Don’t swear in front of the kids… even while driving
  • Eat healthy enough not to feel sick during this pregnancy and then starve myself until normal
  • Attend Mass when no one’s hurt/sick/just had an ugly-crying mental breakdown over the Christmas ornaments the girls strung all over their play yard
  • Control my emotions in front of the kids as much as possible and take comfort in the fact that they will not remember this
  • Spend more time with the kids, even if it’s just looking at and naming animals on Instagram, while snuggling in the recliner
  • Reallocate scrolling time to things I enjoy more, like working on family albums and videos and just listening to an audiobook
  • That’s it. Pregnant with my fourth, with three under three, is just not the time to clean up my language when the children are out of earshot. This is, apparently, my largest baby yet, so I’m going to eat what I want, within reason. If I just can’t make it to church, for mental or physical reasons, then I just can’t. Breakdowns are officially allowed. I’ll try my best to limit them to nap time. As much as the girls enjoy trips to the park and being chased around the yard, it’ll have to wait until Daddy can do it or Mama has recovered from her C-section. It is okay to count the low-key moments as quality time. If my mind is fried and scrolling is all I want to do, so be it. Cuz, that’s all I’ve got in me until 2025.

A $5,000 Christmas Stocking

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The year Jake and I got married, we spent approximately $400 on Christmas decorations. At 32, Jake had been a bachelor his entire adult life. His duplex barely had furniture, let alone holiday decor. I, however, made a deliberate effort to enjoy my single girl apartment to the fullest every year, by gleefully putting up the hot pink, six foot Christmas tree I got from Borders when they went out of business. When we married, Jake and I… compromised I suppose, though the process didn’t seem quite so simple at the time. Ultimately, I sold my glorious pink tree on Facebook Marketplace, Jake accepted an agreed upon amount of glitter, and we invested in classic decorations to be used year after year. I bought fabric, sewed a matching tree skirt and his/her stockings, had our names embroidered on the latter, and we celebrated our first Christmas as husband and wife.

The next Christmas was our first in our own home and the only thing we were missing was stocking holders, a purchase I approached with the same long-term intentions as the previous year’s decor. Though Jake would eventually realize my tendency to buy holiday items months in advance was not just out of excitement, but an understanding of availability, in 2018, we were not yet there. So it happened that, as late as December, I hadn’t bought stocking holders for our new mantle. Since Hobby Lobby stops receiving Christmas inventory in October, I couldn’t find a matching set there. Angry at Jake for making me wait so long, I dragged him from city to city, visiting Target after Target, to collect six identical holders. Surprisingly, he humored me, though he couldn’t understand why I needed so many. Though we’d previously talked about having three children, maybe four based on gender, I was holding out for the latter. I’d always wanted two boys and two girls. If I was fortunate enough to get my way, it seemed disproportionately important to me at the time, that we not have to repurchase our stocking holders. If I didn’t get four or we changed our minds, I figured we could always use the extras for the pets.

After two cycles of back-to-back pandemic IVF, Jake and I found out in 2020 that we were having twins. Our difficulty getting pregnant meant that these might be our only children, despite having frozen embryos. Still, when I bought the fabric for their stockings, realizing the dye lot was slightly off from ours, I not only purchased enough for four, but cut the patterns in advance. Just over a year later, I got the news that I’d need one more stocking, having naturally conceived our miracle baby. So it was, last Christmas, I saw five out of my six stocking holders filled above my fireplace. In both the world of infertility and the general public, I had the perfect family with my two girls and one boy… but I still had one more stocking holder.

I thought I’d change my mind, y’all. Everyone said I would. After one child, I’d only want two. After two, I’d be done. After three, I’d realize we were already outnumbered and couldn’t even fathom another. I waited for the feeling that four was an idealistic dream, that my family was indeed whole. It never came. In March, when my Thomas was barely four months old, I broached the topic with Jake, unsure how he felt about the issue. We’d already scheduled an embryo transfer the day I found out I was pregnant. That embryo was a child we had planned to have and raise. Under those circumstances, a fourth was unlikely, if only for financial reasons, but Thomas’s conception didn’t cost us a dime. If we’d once agreed to consider four solely based on gender, how could we give up an embryo that we’d originally planned to have as part of our family? I did try to avoid emotional blackmail while discussing the topic, but as I held my tiny son, I burst into tears at the thought of never meeting the child I might have held had things been different, at the thought of things having been different and not having my Thomas. After a month or so of consideration, Jake agreed. He wasn’t far from the age we’d agreed we’d no longer intentionally get pregnant, so it was now or never. We would proceed with a frozen embryo transfer, or FET, over the summer and find a way to pay for it later. I quietly told myself that if it failed, I would drain my retirement using my remaining embryos until I had my fourth; the max number of children we’d ever planned for or thought we could handle, two more than we were ever recommended to attempt after the complications during the birth of our girls. Only then would I donate my frozen embryos to another heartbroken, yet hopeful couple, who desperately wanted a family.

I shared pieces of my FET story as the process unfolded. It was far more difficult than I ever expected. In fact, had it indeed failed, I’m not so sure I could have gone through it all again. The birth control hormones alone had me completely off-kilter. The estrogen pills made me utterly insane… and possessed my little Scarlett with at least six demons the day she got ahold of one. Poison control assured us she would be fine as her head rotated 360 degrees. The progesterone shots weren’t only painful, but made me unbearably sick and caused nerve damage I still feel today. I went through it all, with three under three at home, who had no understanding of Mama’s sudden short temper or erratic tears. I gambled $5,000 on one modest income for a family of five… all for a 50/50 chance of success… and it worked.

Today, few can say that they got the family of their dreams, as they compromise for their partner, who wants fewer children… for their career, because childcare costs are too high… for a poor economy, because they fear they can’t afford it… and of course, due to infertility, because they’re lucky to have children at all. With that in mind, I am so truly fortunate to be able to say that, although we never tested our embryos and couldn’t have known gender, we’ll be getting the two girls and two boys of which I’ve always dreamt. In April, Violet and Scarlett will be thrilled to greet another baby brother, two months before they turn three. Thomas will have his buddy, his teammate, his partner in crime only 16 months his junior. I’ll have been pregnant every year since 2020 to have four under three for a total cost of $35,00 before labor and delivery fees. I already know it will all have been worth it, though, because I’ve already filled those stocking holders with my fourth and final Christmas stocking… which cost me just $5,000.

Schrödinger’s Baby

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PUPO (Pregnant Until Proven Otherwise). It’s a popular acronym in the infertility community, usually accompanied by embryo photos and descriptions of pregnancy symptoms that could realistically only be the side effects of progesterone injections, even if the poster is pregnant. For 10-14 days (depending on the clinic), these maybe mothers-to-be excitedly count down to testing day, imagining the baby that could be. When the time comes, some excitedly announce a “sensitive post,” which literally even the most casual observer like myself knows proceeds a positive test. Others post videos of themselves breaking down. Many just disappear for a few days or weeks to process a lost embryo. I’ve never been an active participant in the infertility community, myself. I understand that different people cope with this terrible situation in different ways, but aside from this blog, I’m a private sufferer. I haven’t told a soul we’ve undergone a transfer. If it fails, no one will know. Maybe that’s healthy and maybe it’s not, but I don’t see how doing full make-up and posting a photo of myself crying behind a letter board announcing the results to the world would any healthier.

These last seven days have been absolutely wretched. My hips are black and blue from the injections. I’m exhausted from stress-induced lack of sleep. I ironically yelled at my precious two-year-old for being rough with a book called “K is for Kindness.” I honestly don’t know how other women choose to embrace the possibility of success, especially those who’ve experienced thedevastating call that goes something like this:

“I need you to stop taking all medications immediately. The side effects should fade within the next week. You can expect a really heavy period. We’d like you to wait at least one cycle before trying again, but after that, it should be quite simple.”

Simple. I just have to fork over another $4,000 – $5,000 and spend two more months yelling at my children and husband, randomly bursting into tears, and feeling like I have the flu… all while wrangling three in diapers. A part of me envies the positivity of these women announcing that they are “PUPO”. The realist in me understands that if the power of positive thinking created babies, we wouldn’t be here. No matter what we do, we are simply experiencing a case of Schrodinger’s Baby, a term anyone who has nerdy friends or a cursory knowledge of The Big Bang Theory, should be able to decipher. Per Wikipedia:

In quantum mechanics, Schrödinger’s cat is a thought experiment that illustrates a paradox of quantum superposition. In the thought experiment, a hypothetical cat may be considered simultaneously both alive and dead, while it is unobserved in a closed box, as a result of its fate being linked to a random subatomic event that may or may not occur.

We are both pregnant and not pregnant simultaneously. More morbidly, our embryos are both alive and not alive. We can do nothing to increase the odds. We just have to wait… miserably.

I’ve spent the last seven days both certain that I’ll complete my family… and also that I’ll let everyone down, destroying our baby, my children’s sibling, and wasting the $5,000 we’ve gambled on this cat being alive when we open the box. I’ve both declared that I’ll drain my own retirement to get my fourth before I’ll donate it with my other embryos… and also that I cannot do this again. I’ve felt hopeful… and I’ve cried in Jake’s arms over the fact that it’s not supposed to be like this, that it’s not fair that this is how we have to make a baby. I’ve cuddled my Thomas and been so very grateful I got to have him the traditional way… and I’ve been bitter that I didn’t get to do so again. I’ve thanked God that I didn’t have to go through IVF again… and I’ve been certain that this is equally difficult.

My blood test is tomorrow. I will either find relief… or long for this state of not knowing, this phenomenon of Schrodinger’s Baby, because at least then, there was a chance and that was better. I cannot do this again… unless I have have to do this again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crying in My Car

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I want this. I’m thankful for this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m not looking for sympathy or pity.

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

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

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

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

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