After experiencing the loss of a miscarriage, one would probably assume I went leaping and jumping into trying again to conceive. And perhaps a portion of me was very eager. Because the miscarriage did call into focus how limited our window of fertility is as women, should we be granted that gift. With this first experience of miscarriage, I began to really feel the pains of regret for my previous philosophies toward fertility, my casual promotion of abortion, and the number of years I spent avoiding pregnancy, even in my marriage, in order to stay focused on my career and my selfish endeavors. With this miscarriage, the finitude of of my fertility came into focus, both realizing just how few years I have left of it, and how much of it I had already squandered. So in that sense, I went with eagerness into another attempt at conception.
However, at the same time, I had lost a child who was merely the size of an apple seed, whose bones had not yet calcified, and who had not yet developed independently functioning organs. I hadn't been able to feel his fingers wrapped around my thumb, nor feel his breath on my neck as he nestled in for a nap. I hadn't heard his first laugh, nor watched him take is first steps. And yet my heart ached with an unfathomable pain. The loss was so real and raw. I began considering how painful it would be to lose one of my three already-born children, who had stumbled their first awkward steps into my arms, who pulled on my skirt to ask for more milk, who called for Mama in the middle of the night. I had three already, and though I thought I had already processed the vulnerability that comes with loving someone more than myself, the pain of the miscarriage made me reconsider if I could really handle any more vulnerability. If I was this much of a mess for an apple seed baby, what if I lost a grown child? Was it worth more risk when I already had three big risks at home?
I approached trying again with a little less excitement and a lot less control. I stopped paying attention to the calendar and ignored the existence of any ovulation tests. I genuinely tried praying prayers of submission to God's will, as I felt conflicted as to whether or not I felt ready for another pregnancy and the potential loss it came with. Through His grace and blessing, we conceived another child, who is due to arrive in February. We are all excited to meet this little bean. My children are already talking about how they will help with the new baby, and how they all hope that it is a boy. However this pregnancy has been quite different for me, emotionally. I have felt detached and conflicted, as I struggle to accept the vulnerability of possible loss, and wonder at how I'm going to keep a baby above water while I drown in the chaos with my three older children. By number four, miscarriage or not, I know very well what we are in for in that first year of new baby...and it will likely include some of our ugliest, least-graceful moments as a family.
Recently, at a family dinner, I had filled in some conversation gap with a quip about being exhausted, as we were transitioning our youngest from her crib to a bottom bunk, our middle child from the bottom to the top bunk, and our oldest was transitioning to getting up to go to the potty at two o'clock in the morning. On top of it all, my hips and neck have already begun hurting, heartburn has kicked in with full force, and my asthma has flared up thanks to my weakened immune system. I was running on about three hours of sleep. And a relative chimed in with the retort, "Well, I hate to say it, but you asked for it!"
My immediate reaction was to get bitter, but it took a lot of reflection to determine as to why. To him, I voluntarily signed up for parenthood. I kept having children. If I didn't want kids and all their demands, I should just stop having them. Wasn't he right? Isn't this what I signed up for? I found that, as I reflected on this bitterness, I realized it was related to my feelings of apprehension and detachment with regards to my pregnancy. Was this really what I asked for? I remember well the life that I had before I found God in earnest. It was a selfish and self-centered life, despite my attempts at appearing altruistic and community-minded. I lived for me, for my happiness and comfort. Even my efforts towards charity and volunteerism were self-motivated, as it brought me fulfillment and fed a sort of pride - bragging rights that I was so kind and good. At the same time, I ate out at restaurants multiple times a week, bought expensive outdoor recreation equipment monthly, and spent nearly every weekend travelling to ski, climb, hike, or kayak. And had you asked me then, I would have reported that I was quite happy...and further, that I had no intentions of adding any children to muck up my rhythm of recreation and work.
So was this what I asked for? If I was left up to my own will, my human desires, my tendency to avoid suffering and my fear of pain and loss, would I really have asked for motherhood? Most certainly not. There is virtually zero chance this is what I would have asked for without God's intervention. After all, I was happy then.
Through all of this reflection, I've come to realize that the joys of parenting have very little to do with the picturesque moments of Courier and Ives Christmas scenes around a well-trimmed turkey. It's not the pitter-patter of feet in the hallways early in the morning. Actually, a lot of times, I find myself groaning at that sound, wishing I could just catch one more hour of rest. The reality of having children is quite messy. And painful. And confusing. And the more children, the more challenge. There are more interests, opinions, temperaments, strengths and weaknesses that must be navigated. If I am quite honest, the number of times I have felt true joy and peace - even with just three children - are very few and far between compared to the moments of feeling failure and regret, the moments of argument and conflict, the moments of mess and chaos, slammed doors and time-outs. Honestly, I can see why secular powers want to teach avoiding large families. They are hard work, they are exhausting, they are painful, and they require great sacrifice. We live in an era of avoiding suffering and sacrifice, and parenting many children certainly demands a good amount of both of those things.
The joy that is spoken of in the scriptures about having a large family (my favorite being Psalm 127) has nothing to do with Leave it to Beaver family dynamics. It has entirely to do with the giving of true love that comes from complete and utter self-denial and sacrifice. Jesus has told us that there is no greater love than to lay down one's life for a friend (John 15:13). In parenting, we are being called to this true and great love. I used to run. I used to ski. I used to hike. I used to paint. I used to play volleyball. I used to be a professional. I used to read books. I used to sleep. While pregnant, I'm called to give up luxuries like a glass of wine, a juicy raw steak, and a couple of Advil to relieve joint pain that has only been exacerbated by pregnancy. I've given it all up, along with every other mother out there in human history. And because of the nature of family, it is not on my terms. I can't take a break from charity. And there are no accolades. There is no volunteer appreciation dinner, no five year plaque, no t-shirt, no paycheck. Rarely, there are simple "thank-you's."
Motherhood is a fast education in giving entirely of oneself and expecting absolutely nothing in return...that is, true charity. Motherhood is a gift because of that call to true love through self-death...not because of moments of temporal enjoyment. Again, those moments of temporal joy are scarce. But they are far more profound than any I've ever felt at the top of a mountain, out on a lake, or in any other human interaction. I thought I was happy before, but I look back and see what I had was pleasure and comfort, not happiness. I had no idea what true happiness was.
Those moments of pure and incomparable joy sustain me in the moments of sacrifice; a child falling asleep on my lap, siblings laughing together, my son persevering in face of a fear of failure. But it is the the fulfillment found in giving everything of myself only to be demanded of a little more, and then rising to the occasion...that is what brings true joy. The joy of parenting is that of a journey to fully knowing, conquering, and realizing myself. And the more children God affords us, in His perfect will, the more He calls us to sacrifice, and thus the more fully we can achieve this great accomplishment.
I've struggled with an unabashedly pro-life mentality in our Church community. It had led - or perhaps, misled - me to believe that I should be overjoyed, jumping with excitement and pure gratitude every time I see a positive pregnancy test. In turn, I've struggled with internal conflict and feelings of guilt when I am not turning cartwheels at the prospect of adding another soul to our team, and all of the sacrifice it will require. As I witness the suffering of friends and community members who struggle with infertility or even infant sickness and loss, I take to heart these reminders to appreciate my own gift of fertility. I thank God for these incredible witnesses of faith, and their daily reminder to be grateful for my children, born and unborn. Still, the reality is that children are work. They are a LOT of work. A friend recently described it much like thorns in a rose bush. There are a lot of thorns in parenting, and until a rose has fully bloomed, it's hard for one to understand why the thorns are worth all the pain.
At the end of the day, when children are sleeping peacefully, the house is tidied and quiet, and I lay my own head down for a few hours of rest, I reflect on how it is truly an honor to be trusted by the Creator of the universe Himself to shelter and shepherd my beautiful and precious little ones through life. After the arguments have ceased and the whining has transitioned to soft and gentle snores, I am able to find that place of gratitude not just for the lives of my children, but for being granted the great and wonderful responsibility of motherhood. Little old me - broken, arrogant, and clueless - has been put in charge of the very lives of others from the moment of their conception. I don't believe I would have fully appreciated all of that without miscarrying. Through that loss, God reminded me that He does not need us parents to bring souls to heaven. He can do that on His own. Rather, He is giving us a gift to grow in virtue and to realize the fullness of our own life and our potential through the challenges parenting offers. He is affording us the grand opportunity of participating in the incredible experience of creating a soul, learning and intimately knowing that soul, and watching that soul grow into a beautiful rose out of all of the thorns of all of our sacrifice.