The myth of “bouncing back”

“You don’t look like you’ve had six kids.”

It’s intended as a compliment. Hearing compliments can be nice. But this particular one bothers me because of the underlying implications. The implication is “It’s a good thing you don’t look like you’ve actually had six kids.” Of course, the compliment-giver pretty much never means that sentiment. The implication is so heavily baked-in that we don’t realize it when it’s spoken. We don’t realize that it’s actually a back-handed compliment.

Do we tell childless women “You look great for not having kids”? No, we don’t. That would seem silly. We know that having kids is supposed to change your body. But do we examine what that really means? What does having kids really do to your body?

“You don’t look like you’ve six kids.”

“Thanks. I definitely feel like I have.”

Women are praised for “bouncing back” after giving birth. This usually means that they look like they’ve lost “the baby weight”. Your body doesn’t “bounce back”. Bouncing back would mean that it reverts to how it used to be pre-pregnancy. This does not happen. Ever. Being pregnant changes your body. Giving birth changes your body in permanent ways, regardless of how well you “take care of yourself” (another term that is weaponized).

“Back then”, many women were forced to give up their baby after giving birth out of wedlock. Many weren’t even allowed to hold or see their baby for fear that it would “damage” them too much. They were expected to return to the real world as if “nothing had ever happened”. Looking at this now, we say “Good grief. What was wrong with people?!” But do we not judge women’s appearances based on how similar they look to childless women? Sorry, let me need to qualify that; what we think a childless woman should look like…aka…what a woman should look like. Full stop.

“Wow. She really let herself go after having kids.” What does that even mean? Did the woman let her younger, slimmer, hotter self loose in the park without a leash? Did her waistline see the growing baby and run for the hills? Where did she go? Now, I obviously “know what you mean” when you say “let herself go”. You’re commenting that she’s not as thin as she used to be. She wears her hair differently. She doesn’t “look” childless anymore. Again, what does “childless” look like? Slender? Untainted? Vacuum-packed? Sexy? Pure?

I’m one of “those people” who doesn’t have to put forth much effort to lose the “baby weight”. I’m using a lot of quotation marks here on purpose. When you become pregnant, you’re not just growing a baby without any additional weight. You’re growing a placenta to sustain the baby. Your breast tissue grows. Your blood volume doubles. Oh, and yes. You do store extra fat for breastfeeding. This information is probably not new to a single person reading this (I hope). We all know that those necessary tissues carry literal weight.

“Yeah, you need all that. But being pregnant doesn’t give you an excuse to turn into a land whale!” “Women use being pregnant as an excuse to get fat.”

– People on the internet/Rude ** humans

Women clearly have one goal: Make men miserable by tricking them into impregnating us so they can watch their prize go up in fatty flames. Not only are we gaining weight because we’re clearly animals with no self control, we’re doing it with malicious intent!!……

………………………………………..wow.

No, you don’t literally and calorically need “eat for two” during pregnancy. But these comments aren’t about calories. It isn’t about the food intake at all. These comments are stating “There is a way that a woman should look, and you’re trying to excuse yourself from looking that way.”

Some of you might be thinking

“Here we go…Another post where women need validation for being fat and unattractive.”

“Another mom trying to make excuses for packing on the pounds.”

“Another mom telling society that we need to accept fat women as beautiful.”

First off…what in blazes does my body or anyone else’s body have anything to do with you? If it’s not a big deal, why do you feel the need to comment on it? If someone else’s flesh and blood existence doesn’t offend you, what’s your problem?

Let’s be clear that both men and women are equally guilty of this. I used to do this and still subconsciously do sometimes. I used to view women who didn’t lose all of the “baby weight” as “making excuses”. I used to view women who weren’t actively working out as lazy. I thought that maybe other people just weren’t trying hard enough.

I grew up in a family culture in which other people’s bodies (usually women’s) were ridiculed. Women who chose to dress comfortably were called “frumpy”, especially if they looked tired. Overweight, or even just heavier, women were ridiculed for having unhealthy lifestyles. Younger women with husbands and short hair were “probably lesbians”. Older women who had quit trying to appear young and *****able were also “probably lesbians” or “didn’t take care of their skin”. Any sign of having aged “beyond a reasonable standard” or not looking like there was time given to your appearance was looked down upon. Unless women were beautifully presented in a highly effeminate manner and of high socioeconomic status, they were deemed morally inferior. Gross, I know.

My appearance mattered a lot growing up, and not just to me. I modeled from age ten to thirteen. In the fifth grade, I was told to print off my modeling headshots to give to my classmates (yes, I was made fun of because obviously). I was twelve and told a friend that I was cutting sugar out of my diet so that I wouldn’t gain weight (I weighed maybe 100 lbs at the time). This was a self-imposed expectation because it felt like something that I could control. I was thirteen and worried about having a chocolate bar with lunch in case it’d make my “acne” worse. I’d rub alcohol all over my already-dry face to ensure that it remained unspotted (it didn’t because hormones don’t care). I heard women in my extended family being ridiculed for showing signs of aging (like having wrinkles past age fifty). I was sixteen and dreamed of scrubbing my insides out with Clorox, telling my boyfriend (now husband) that I hated myself for weighing 115 lbs. Why was I unable to control my appetite at social events? Why couldn’t I just tell myself to stop eating? Now, I didn’t actually limit my calories, so 115 was a healthy weight for me. I hated not being able to not eat.

Early 2013. 112-116 lbs.

I look at photos of younger me and just want to give her a big hug. While I knew that I was beautiful, it seemed like that was my most important attribute. Yeah, it was cool and all that I could write and think for myself. But my face and untainted body were treated as the main qualities that would land me a well-educated young man from a wealthy, religious family at the local religious university. How would I ever meet said young man if I didn’t keep my skin clear and attain excellent grades that would land me in that university?! Thank goodness I said “**** your standards” and married the best man alive instead.

Being pregnant for the first time was hard. I didn’t have the confidence and mindset that I do now. It was the first time I’d ever weighed over 124. It didn’t help that I carry my babies low and extra sticky out-y. I had my baby at the end of August. My water retention was crazy high, and I looked super puffy.

Family members would make comments:

“Do you have gestational diabetes? You don’t? Really?” (she hadn’t been pregnant in over a decade and probably forgot. She also asked this about a subsequent pregnancy)

“You’re going to have to work off that baby fat!” (girl was seventeen and probably just parroting what she’d heard other people say)

“Here’s an old shirt of mine that you can borrow since your belly is going to get fat and hang out the bottom” (it was not a maternity shirt)

Well, I actually didn’t have to “work off that baby fat!” It came off by itself within 6-8 months postpartum. But the loose skin around my stomach sagged. My abs had separated from my growing baby and uterus (as do most women’s). This is a large part of what causes women’s tummies to stick out more postpartum. Wait..what?! It’s not a fleshy reminder of moral failure?

8 months postpartum.

Despite being back at my pre-pregnancy weight, I didn’t look the same as before. I didn’t “bounce back”. People still made comments:

“You have a pooch!”

An uncle told me that I had “leftovers”.

Still not good enough.

The implication with “bouncing back” is that if you don’t revert to looking like the ideal, childless woman that you have failed in some way. You haven’t. The process is supposed to change you. Forever. You cannot ever erase what pregnancy, childbirth, or parenthood does to your body. Ever. You never bounce back from it. Your body will adapt to a new normal. You can make changes. But you can never go back.

Let’s talk about plastic surgery for a second. Plastic surgery changes your appearance. It doesn’t change the story. One of my favorite women got breast augmentation because having babies left her chest completely flat. She didn’t like how she looked, so she changed something. Other women are left with massive breasts and back pain so they get a reduction. You are not a failure for doing what makes you feel best in your own skin. If that’s plastic surgery, great. If that’s working out to feel better about how you feel towards your body, fabulous. If it’s doing absolutely nothing because you feel happy in your body, excellent.

Someone is going to start throwing a tantrum about me advocating for “fat-acceptance”. Look, if someone hates how they feel about themselves and their appearance but insists that everyone else needs to love them anyway, then yeah. That’s not a healthy outlook. Other people shouldn’t need the approval of others to live their lives. But it’s also proving my point. The person should be working to feel happy and accepted by themselves in their own bodies. If they feel like trash, they can work to make changes if it bothers them enough to make them. What does that have to do with me? How someone else feels in their skin doesn’t need to involve my opinion of them for better or worse. They shouldn’t be working to impress you or me. Someone else’s appearance doesn’t need to be an offense to my worldview.

That being said, the scale isn’t always my friend.

Loving your body while pregnant (or not) is easier said than done. I currently weigh 160 lbs. I’m 25 weeks pregnant with #7 and have gained 24 lbs. I’ve kept records of my weight with all six of my kids for science because it’s fun to track the trend. This is about where I’ve been with the previous six (excluding #2), but 160 still feels like a lot. I’ve come to realize that my weight is not who I am; it is just another measurement of where my body is at.

I’ve decided to include some current pictures. Most people don’t see what having had six kids looks like. Some people have had fewer kids than me and look/looked bigger. Some have had more and look smaller. Or any variation of that. This is my normal. For context, I’m 5’6’’.

I’m so proud of these cannons…

Here’s the same body two minutes later:

Mmmm…..rolls

Observe the sag

Must be due any day now…

Oh. Two bonus pics below. These are from me at 20 weeks. This was barely over a month ago. I gained 4 lbs in between the above photos and these two.

I have a sister due one month after me who went from wearing a C cup to triple Ds. As you can see from my square torso and size A/Bs, my body doesn’t do that.

Do I count calories every day? Yes. I religiously track my macros on MyFitnessPal. It helps me to track how well I’m nourishing my body with protein, fat, and crucial micronutrients. When I go over my calorie goal of 2200 per day, do I say “Wow. You freaking cow. Chill out, will ya? Have some self control!”

I used to do that. Now, I ask myself “How did your day go? Did you give yourself what you needed? Are you hungry now? Great. Now go eat something nutritious and quit feeding your baby stress hormones. Get a good night’s sleep. She’ll be here in less than 3 months. You’ve got this.”

When people say “You don’t look like you’ve had six kids”, they don’t realize that the physical toll isn’t always visible. Stretch marks fade but never disappear. I haven’t acquired a single new stretch mark since 2016. I’ve been consistently sick with different colds since early November. This wasn’t the case with previous pregnancies.

My prenatal blood work always comes back normal and healthy. It may reflect as healthy and within normal ranges, but it doesn’t tell the full story. I’d probably need a full blood deficiency workup to know where I’m lacking. What have all of these pregnancies taken from my body? What is the price paid for creating seven beating hearts, seven brains, seven skeletons, and fourteen hands from scratch?

There are days when I feel guilty for being such a “wimp” that have nothing to do with my appearance. After all, women used to “do this all of the time”. There are still women who have ten children and claim to love it. But there’s also a reason why most women stopped having ten or twelve children. They finally had a choice. Oh, and conditions finally not being “My family will literally starve and go naked if I don’t give it my all today” helps too.

By the way…I’d written a post a few months back about having to pause my ketamine treatments. I called the Mother to Baby hotline to ask about ketamine during pregnancy. This is the hotline that OBs and midwives call when they’re not sure about a medication or substance being safe during pregnancy. Turns out that at low doses (like what I do), they wouldn’t expect to see any issues. Major disclaimer: don’t use recreational drugs or drink alcohol (like at all) while pregnant. No bueno. But PRESCRIBED, low-doses of ketamine are something that I’m able to do again. I cried when I found out. My treatments are the difference between being suicidal and bedridden vs. able to function as a mom. Most days, I’m doing okay. Baby is doing great.

I digress. I’ve been incredibly blessed with being able to get and stay pregnant. I don’t get morning sickness, just kinda queasy till week 9. Most of the time, physically anyway, I haven’t had much to complain about. Why does it feel like this time is so much harder?

The solutions that I used to use aren’t working this time around. I didn’t even feel round ligament pains until baby #5. Round ligament pains are a pulling, tugging, or sometimes stabbing pain that you get around your uterus as it grows. They “typically” start/stop between weeks 14-26. In pregnancy, the word “typically” probably includes about 10% of actual humans. Everyone knows someone for whom the rules don’t apply at all. Well, mine started at 9 weeks with #7. With #5, it was easy to get rid of them. I stood up for about 2-3 minutes or took some magnesium tablets. With #6, they hurt a lot more. Like a lot more. Standing up, walking around, and taking magnesium made them go away after a few minutes.

I even try using K-tape (tape that athletes use on injuries). Carrying around a 10-20 lb bag of water inside of my body just ain’t what it used to be. It doesn’t matter how much I adjust my posture, position, drink water, etc. It feels like I’m being stabbed.

It’s not like I’ve “gone soft”. I keep 10 and 25 dumbbell weights in my room to use on breaks (or while I’m typing with my laptop on a bookshelf). No, these aren’t powerlifting weights. That’s not really the goal right now. I use my resistance bands every day to mimic the machines at the gym since it’s easier to position them for stability when dealing with an unstable pelvis. Ironically, I’m more sore from working out at home because I work out more often now. I’m more active now that I canceled my gym membership because I’m motivated to passively do reps throughout the day instead of dedicating mental effort and time to go and be at the gym. Again, working from home is lovely.

But if I’m so strong, why does this still hurt so much? Why does it hurt to roll over, cough, or walk? I’m sure someone could find fault in what I do. Someone could point to what I do as “not doing enough”. Is that not always the case? Usually, the critic is me. Most people aren’t paying me any mind.

I was washing the floor on my hands and knees yesterday. After about ten minutes, my tailbone started to ache. Seriously? I’m cleaning the floor. This is a typical domestic task. Why is this difficult? Standing at the kitchen sink washes dishes for more than ten minutes is fatiguing. Why? Because the muscles supporting a 15-20 lb bag of water in the front of my body are tired. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I just keep going like I used to? Why couldn’t I just deal with this better?

But at least I’m not fat. Right? You can eyeball a woman’s midsection and ascertain her health and journey like a moral credit score.

My skeleton has shifted. My ligaments hurt. I pee myself when I sneeze if my bladder isn’t empty. I’m constantly sick with colds. After work, I spend hours in bed reading because my pep and zest is gone. But at least I don’t look like I’ve had six kids.

The reality is that I’m not nineteen anymore. I’m still under thirty (for nine more months), but I’ve also already created six other humans inside of this body. I have literally been pregnant and given birth more times than most women in history and have done that in under ten years. Can I give my body some credit and respite from the guilt?

At some point, I learned that my own approval wasn’t enough. I realized that I wasn’t good enough for myself. When you’re okay with yourself, you don’t need other people to be. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to appreciate how much I respect other women. Growing older has changed my perspective from seeing overweight moms with unkempt hair in the store with their “only” two kids to “Hang in there. We’re all in the trenches together.” I see elderly women doing their shopping and think “I’ll be you one day, and I don’t know how you’ve made it this long in this society.” I see the woman of color holding her baby in the WIC office and think “You’ve probably had it much harder than me. Kudos to you for doing it anyway.” Maybe that seems patronizing. It is certainly a step up from seeing myself as being in competition with them.

Being pregnant with #7 has made me realize that I don’t need “excuses” to take it easy. I don’t need to look elsewhere for validation that “Lady, your body has been through a lot. Will you chill out?” Pregnancy and childbirth are two of the most normal experiences for a woman to have. They’re not everything about a person. I am more than the children who I gave birth to. I am more than my weight. I am all that I love, hate, think, and do. But it’s still really cool that I’m making a seventh human.

I’m not a rubber band. I’m a full-bodied human being. I’ll never bounce back to who I was, but she gets to be part of my story

❤

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.