My story on “Are you guys having more?”

I’ve been the butt of a lot of jokes through the last decade of having kids. This has ranged from being asked when I’ll be “popping the next one out” (while at my brother’s gravesite) to being gifted condoms at Christmas.

I’ve been the primary baby producer in my family, so I’ve received the most attention in this way. People love making jokes about “trying to conceive”. I’m not sure if it’s from a place of ignorance, or if our culture is so starved for connection that we make light of highly sensitive topics. If I were to protest the joke, it’d circulate in the family that I was offended or being dramatic, so I tend to ignore it and try to remember that they really just don’t have a clue what I’ve been through to have my kids. And I pray that they have it easier if they decide to take that path.

Writing is how I process. I’ve been told by people that it makes them feel heard. So, if you’ve felt tired of suffering through trying to conceive, having babies, or maybe don’t just love motherhood, this is for you. Everything that I write in this post is voluntarily written. I’m choosing to be vulnerable because I can’t be the only one. Rip it apart. 

The process of having a family has left some severe trauma on my body and psyche that’s going to take years, if not decades, to recover from. And no, I’m not even talking about childbirth.

I’m about 3-4 months pregnant with my seventh child. Most of my family and Damon’s thought that #6 was our last because that’s what I’d said when explicitly asked (more specifically “probably”). I volunteered this to two people, neither of whom asked me our intentions. I don’t know why people feel the need to ask to begin with (other post on that here).

A few weeks after #6 was born, it occurred to me that we finally had “our number”. If I wanted to, I could be done with having babies. Even though I wasn’t totally sure, I started getting rid of my maternity clothes. It was like throwing a boulder off of my back. Getting rid of my maternity clothes from the last decade was me finally accepting that I was done pretending to be a nice, pretty, good mommy. Done with masking and parading as some kind of maternal wannabe. 

Becoming a mom is why I don’t judge queer friends. I know what it’s like to pretend for a decade. 

Most people don’t know how little I’ve felt like myself since I first got pregnant with my oldest daughter. I thought that becoming a mom would finally make me feel like a woman. You know, the kind who floral looks really good on. The ones who always knew what to do with their hair. The ones who don’t sound so dang awkward  I thought it’d make sitting in my women’s meeting at church more bearable. Maybe I’d even finally make some “mom friends”. I thought that maybe I’d finally fit in and “get it”.

I’ve had six kids, and it’s been lonely as hell. It didn’t change who I am; it pushed her down deeper. 

I cut my hair short in April of this past year. As a kid (ages ten to thirteen), I modeled. It was for places like Pacsun, Neimun Marcus, or JCPenny. A lot of brands were headquartered in Dallas. I’d put on clothes that the pretty girls at school wore. The crew would apply makeup and gently curl my hair. I’d pose solemnly in front of a camera before being told to smile. It didn’t feel like me; it felt like performing. The relief that accompanied putting back on my skate shoes and baggy T-shirt can’t be described.

I cut my hair because I was tired of being “pretty”. Fed up with having wet hair clinging to my neck. Tired of thinking of how I’d look. Sick of being objectified wherever I went. And especially so sick of looking “young and f*ckable”. It was me daring to say “If you think I’m beautiful, that’s your own problem”.

My family members all had the same response to my new do: “It’s very you”. ❤

My brother jokes that he can take me to the gym without worrying about people thinking that we’re together because I look like I like girls.

This isn’t a surprise to anyone who knows me well, but I totally do like girls. No one suspects that the heterosexually married women with six kids might also be batting for the other team. Good cover, huh? People who I’ve worked with suspected as much because I don’t announce my family status unless specifically asked. It’s almost like my kids and marital status aren’t my identity.

I didn’t even have to “come out” to my husband. Damon was the one who pointed out my quasi-gayness to me when I was eighteen, and we weren’t even married yet.

“Why am I so weird with other girls?”

“Because you like them”

“….Oh.”

There are many misconceptions that come with being attracted to both sexes. No, I don’t find all, or even most, women attractive. Do I think that most women are beautiful in their own way? Yeah, because they are. Some people ask if I’m bummed that I never dated a girl or got to “explore that side of myself”. Nah. I’m not bummed that I didn’t get to date all of the guys either (cuz I’m attracted to men too). I wanted to be with Damon. That hasn’t changed. 

Having my sixth empowered me to stop pretending and finally simplify my life.

Now, it gets ugly. I’ve mentioned this in several posts, but I’ll put it here again: I didn’t have kids for any other reason than I wanted for my people to be here.

Trying to conceive, especially past 3 months in a row, isn’t all sunshine. In fact, it can be incredibly sucky and sometimes traumatizing. 

Disclaimer: I don’t claim whatsoever to know what it’s like to struggle with infertility. I’m trying to highlight from my experiences how much the process can be painful despite what people seem to think.

When a subsequent pregnancy is announced, people will quip “You all know how that works, right?” I was breastfeeding for all of them, which usually saps my sex drive. I didn’t want to have sex most of the time, but I wanted for my kids to be here. Did you know that your body doesn’t have to be ready to have sex?  Did you know that your mind could be on another planet while it’s happening? Did you know that you can be inseminated and then start crying right after?

People joke that trying for a baby must mean having panting, hot, heated sex all of the time. Most people who I know who have fallen into the boat of “didn’t get pregnant on the first, second, or even third try” know how comically false this is.

It’s feeling resentful when you have to remind your husband to “do his job”. Like dude, you get the fun part, okay? (Not really) I’m the one that has to stand here and brace myself for impact? It’s putting your head down or closing your eyes and just waiting for it to be over. It’s pulling up your pants and walking out without so much as a hug or looking at him.

Now, I know what you might be thinking:  “Oh my gosh. That is so messed up! Why don’t you wait until your body is ready? What about foreplay? What about your marriage? Your mental health?!”

“Waiting until I was ready” would have required waiting for years, and I didn’t want to wait that long.  I wanted all of my people here, but I wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. For those of you who “don’t understand” because babies and small kids are “so wonderful” or think that “I don’t understand” because I don’t have older kids, or teens, or traitorous adult children, try spending a day in my head. Older kids have their own challenges. They don’t require me to sacrifice my body for their needs. I don’t have to endure an older child screaming their head off because I won’t let them suck on my boob while I try not to cry. They don’t rub their snot all over my shirt. They don’t make me carry them around for hours. I’m not at the mercy of appeasing them quickly in public spaces. Babies are selfish by nature. But babies turn into people, and people make their own decisions. My kids are their own people; I didn’t have them with an expectation for how they’d turn out. They’re still mine regardless of what they do. 

When I’d finally taken a pregnant test after several attempts, and found it to be negative, my thought was “Seriously? I had to go through all of that for nothing? This is bullsh*t”. 

I spent somewhere between five to seven years of my adult life training myself to endure sex that I didn’t want to have. Was I being raped? No. Damon didn’t want to do it either. But  we “know how it works”, so we did that to get our kids here. That’s why it pisses me off inside when people joke that some or most of my kids must be accidents. About half of them took a lot of deliberate, painful effort. Was this done for some religious crusade? Out of obligation to a higher power? Because my husband was lustful or forceful? No. I wanted for my people to be here. Full stop. 

After kid #2 or 3, we ended up getting it down to a method. Breastfeeding moves ovulation all over the place, so we ended up having to do it every other day for about two to three weeks for each attempt. Yes. “Having to do it”. I was depressed, anxious, definitely not in the mood, and just wanted my kids to be here. But when we followed that method, I got pregnant on the first try almost every time.

So why did I have to go through this ordeal of trying so often?

Because sometimes I missed the window. Because I had chemical pregnancies in between. I’ve had four of them. For those who don’t know what a “chemical pregnancy” is, it’s when you test positive, but the embryo doesn’t stick. It’s a loss before six weeks. No, I wasn’t far along. But seeing that positive test line fade, the hope fade, and wondering what is wrong with my body is a really crappy feeling. It meant having to start the whole freaking process over. I don’t feel like I lost “babies”. It was just mildly devastating and made me question God and my existence. It really messed with my head each time. 

#7 wasn’t an “accident”. Our family assumed because it happened after I’d mentioned us being probably being done. Again, this is why I hate when people ask. If any alternative outcome comes of what you say, it just introduces a new hot topic for gossip or conversation. And I’m tired. Why do people have to keep asking?

No one but Damon and I knew this; around June of this year, we felt like someone else was supposed to be here. I wasn’t thrilled by the prospect because it meant taking a break from my medication. It meant doing all of this again; trying, waiting, carrying, bearing, breastfeeding, crying, babies, crying toddlers…

I’m twenty-nine, and I’ve spent ten years being pregnant, breastfeeding, or both. My recoveries with the first four were easy. I was in school and had to “bounce back” quickly. I quit bleeding within a week or two of birth. I was mostly back to “normal” within a few weeks. It was like my body knew that it had a job to do. Yes, there was still postpartum depression lurking each time, but physically, I was mostly okay.

It got harder. I remember seeing my sister-in-law changing her one-year-old’s diaper on the floor of my in-law’s and thinking “Oh my hell…I’m so over this already”. I made the mistake of uttering the last half of the sentence out-loud”. The response came from someone else in the room “Well, guess what! Haha. I’ve got news for you!”

Yeah, I know that I’m standing here with a swollen belly containing my fifth child. You don’t need to “enlighten me” on my situation. I know how this works. I know what I get to “look forward to”. I know that it’s my fault. Just for a moment, can someone say “Yeahhh this kinda sucks balls” and give me a hug instead of mocking me? Can we just commiserate that babies and small children are often a terrible phase instead of trying to turn everything into a joke of “Haha! Look what you get to endure!”

After having #5, something was different. The bleeding lasted for over a month. I felt foggy for almost a month. I got a whole three weeks of leave from work, but I still didn’t feel “okay”. I wasn’t okay. 

With #6, I felt like my bones had been hollowed out. I felt dizzy and wiped despite not being anemic. It took two months to even feel like I could return to the world. Thankfully, I got two months of maternity leave and had enough money to hire postpartum doulas for two weeks. By six weeks postpartum, I was minutes away from needing to go to the psyche ward for suicidal thoughts and impulses. It was worse than it had ever been before. SSRIs don’t help me, or the slew of other medications that I’ve tried. Therapy doesn’t help. Nothing helps. My brain was inventing new ways to kill me. Finally, I started doing ketamine treatments. They saved and changed my life. For the first time in nine years, I felt like “Marian” again. I smiled and laughed without feeling a pull of emptiness. I stopped being angry at my kids. I didn’t lay in bed for hours in the evening while Damon took care of everything. Laundry stopped sitting at the end of my bed. I could function. I was real. I was back. It was nothing short of a miracle.

So in June, when we felt like we were supposed to have another, I wasn’t thrilled. But I was willing to try. If you don’t know what this feels like, there isn’t a good way to describe it. One moment, you’re going about vacuuming or making dinner. Then something just hits you. I look up and know that someone is supposed to be here. 

So we tried. It happened on the first try. But the stupid line on the pregnancy test began to fade. I couldn’t do my ketamine treatments for fear of hurting the embryo, if it was even going to make it. So I spent about a week tense as hell and ready to cry, just hoping that it would stick. 

It didn’t. I took my treatment same-day and instantly felt better again; eager that I wouldn’t have to deal with trying for at least another month. But I didn’t get my period. I wouldn’t for almost two months. This was different from the two chemical pregnancies that I’d had back-to-back in 2020. It felt like my body was telling me that it was tired. Or maybe it just happened. I’ll never know.

But after I (finally) got my period in September, we decided to try one last time. Well, I’m obviously as fertile as volcanic soil. I showed Damon the positive test, darker than the last one. We started getting excited. I started writing down potential names. 

The next day, my new pregnancy test was lighter. But only just. Not enough to give me confidence that I could do the ketamine treatment that’d pull me out of this dark spiral, but light enough to make me lose hope. The next day, it was even lighter. I gave up. Only one of my sisters knew about this whole ordeal. No one else knew. Was that their fault? No. Would I have told them if they’d ask? No. 

They didn’t know what a roller-coaster the last four months had been in every sense of the word. They didn’t know the hurt. Why? Because making a big deal out of it makes it real. Because I didn’t feel like disclosing deeply personal, painful information in a public setting. The response would have been “I’m sorry. That’s rough…..Who’s ready to eat?!” 

Or worse. Some kind of reassurance that we “didn’t have to keep going”. Some form of unwanted validation. Or advice. Or opinions. Or being talked about. Or commentary on my private life.

It was shortly after that our families began asking if we were done. They didn’t know that we had just given it one last (painful but willing) try.  They didn’t know because I just wanted to move on with my life and for people to Please. Stop. Asking. 

I started looking up how much it’d be for a tummy tuck to get all of the loose skin removed. Maybe I could even get Lasik surgery in a year. We could probably start saving up for a house in a few months once we started making more from Damon’s handyman business. We could even start paying off our student loans. I’d only have to deal with breastfeeding for a few more months. My youngest could finally get the best of me, and it made her so much cuter. Dealing with her difficult days felt much easier because I’d be done soon. Then I could finally have my body back. I could finally be done. 

On November 7th, I’d just gotten a ketamine infusion and felt the same feeling of “life is good, and I’m happy”. The kids and I watched Rescuers Down Under after school, despite it being a Monday. I was brainstorming ideas for an event-planning business but felt a bit stuck on getting seed capital. It was a pretty normal day.

For no reason at all, I took a cheap dollar-store pregnancy test that I had laying around. I wasn’t even suspicious. A clear line instantly appeared.

Shock. 

I emerged from the bathroom and showed; “These aren’t even sensitive. There’s no f*cking way”. 

We had a more expensive test left over. I took it and got the darkest line that I’d ever seen.

What. the. f*ck.

We spent the next hour or so curled up in bed together while I cried, not having any clue what was happening. I wasn’t excited or happy. I was terrified and confused. How? I hadn’t even gotten my period after my clear miscarriage. How was this even possible? Were they even alive? What was going on?

In hindsight, I felt really dumb for not realizing the signs. I’d had six kids, so you’d think I’d notice. Nope. I’d brushed off my suddenly feeling cold all of the time as the weather changing. When I started going to bed earlier and waking up all night, I chalked it up to stress from work. We’d all had colds, so that was probably why I felt like crap. I ignored my symptoms because feeling vaguely crappy has been part of my life since I was nineteen. 

I got an ultrasound a week later (so much anxiety) that confirmed me being eight weeks pregnant with a healthy little peanut. The date confirmed that I ovulated a week after miscarrying. Wow. I guess it really only does take one time. I remember that I was still grieving then and maybe sort of starting to move on. After the ultrasound, we told our families, answered phone calls, and dealt with the jokes/congratulations that come through with each baby. It was almost like the other six before. A few family members texted asking how I really felt about it, not realizing that to be privy to that information, they needed to be there through the journey, not just hearing the news. 

What could I say? Did I want to become the subject of gossip again? People had already speculated on my feelings since I’d “announced” that we were done. Did I want my response being broadcasted to the entire family person-by-person? No. I didn’t. So I said that I was happy and excited. And maybe I was. But more than anything, I was relieved that there was a heartbeat and that I didn’t have to watch something die again. I was relieved that they were at least alive.

The new midwife had me fill out the intake paperwork. There was one question that I wanted to just skip, and might have.

“How do you feel about this pregnancy?”

If I had been asked before I’d had to basically watch the embryo die inside of me (twice), I’d have said “Nervous but excited”. If it’d been before I’d looked up tummy tucks, I might have said “Looking forward to this being my last”. If it’d been before I’d seen the light at the end of this ten-year tunnel, I’d have said “This isn’t my first rodeo, but I’ve got this”.

But the answer wasn’t any of those things. I honestly didn’t want to answer the question. 

I was seeing nooses in the shadows again. Ignoring the code to my mom’s safe when she got something out because she has handguns. Seeing a clear image of my body laying in blood-stained snow. I’d lay in bed knowing that no medication in existence could take away my hurt…except the ones that would hurt my baby. 

This pregnancy made me feel darker than I’ve felt in my life.

Seven months of fighting like hell not to be the kind of mom that I never wanted to be again. Seven months of not losing my mind at my kids. Missing out on seeing my sixth baby turn into a tot because I had the wet rag of depression over my face again. Checking my underwear for blood until twelve weeks. Hoping that they didn’t spontaneously die in-utero (because that happens). Donning shirts and pants that accommodated my growing belly again. Dealing with comments from strangers in the grocery store and at church. Hearing the commentary. Trying to breastfeed my one-year-old while growing a new baby. Nursing aversion. Feeling trapped in my body. Fear of birth defects. Feeling my identity slip back into “Oh what a good lil Mormon mommy!!!” from everyone around me. Hearing “So, are you guys done after this one?” from everyone while I’m literally still pregnant. 

And then childbirth. Remembering the feeling of the rubbery birthing tub beneath my knee as a tiny head bores against my cervix makes me want to puke. Transition. Praying that they wouldn’t die before they were born. Praying that they wouldn’t be stillborn. Afterpains. Horrifying afterpains that feel worse than labor itself for two to three days. Latching a newborn. Tearing. Filling the tub two inches to even pee because peri bottles wouldn’t take the edge off. Not being able to lift when I’m so used to lifting. Bleeding. Bleeding. Nursing. Nursing. Nursing.

Feeling utterly erased by my maternal status. Again.

But did I share that when people asked? No. Because are they really asking? No. Could they really help? No. So was there any point in uttering a piece of my story other than someone else’s personal stash of “info to dish about”? No. 

I’ll be okay. Second trimester is something like coming up for air. Sometimes. At least I can feel him/her moving; a reminder to keep going. Someone else to live for. 

The silver lining is that I didn’t have to hold my breath and wait for the line to get darker. I got to skip the first month. I got to take my medication longer. I got to be okay for a month longer. And for that, I’m grateful. This baby snuck in right before the door closed, and I hope that they turn out okay. They’ll probably get the best of me.

Creating my family has been heaven, hell, and life in-between. I wouldn’t change any piece of my story because it gave me my people. So, I’m not asking for sympathy or validation. I’m not asking for understanding or apologies. This was my choice. This is my life that I’ve made. This isn’t anything that I’ve brought up before, so I’m not even asking for a response. 

I’m finally sharing the story that you’ve been casually asking to hear around dinner or in passing at church. Is this what you wanted? Is this the depth that you wanted to know? I’m not the only one with an ocean of hurt to work through. Is that what you want to hear when you ask people if they’re trying? Or done? Or want more? Or did you just want a simple “Yes! We are!” or “No! Here’s my answer!” for you to file away in your thought catalog before moving on to other “light-hearted” topics.

It’s my turn to ask. So, I’m asking…can you please stop asking? Can you just be quiet while I’m doing this?

You’ll know if people want you to know.