Brave

I've heard "You're so brave!" a number of times since I released the news that a 4th baby would be joining our family. I'm not sure what to do with that information. What does brave mean? Three of my six pregnancies were planned, knowing full-well what I was getting myself into. I don't think that's bravery. I think it's just that I liked my first kid so much, I wanted to have more.

I was talking to Zac the other day about how we were when we were just starting to get to know each other. He didn't know how to do laundry, neither of us knew how to cook or pay bills or housebreak a dog. We sort of taught each other and ourselves before YouTube was discovered. I had asked him how many kids he thought he'd have one day and he replied with, "Probably just one." He's glad we have more, but before you have kids, kids are scary. Parenting is scary. Then we got pregnant while neither of us was working or had our own place or knew how to budget money. We panicked and moved in with my parents. Zac worked overnight and slept during the day, so for much of Jac's baby days, I was on my own. I was glad Zac was working, though. I wasn't glad that my parents' were overbearing and critical of my parenting choices instead of supportive. When Jac developed colic at two weeks old, I probably could've coped better without my parents intruding. Two very long years later, we moved out. Zac got a steady job with Sean and we decided to have "one more" baby. After all, Jac was easy. He was so sweet and happy. Even his tantrums weren't that bad with his tightly balled fists and quiet mad faces while he muttered profanities like "dirty diapers" and "traffic". I wanted to experience a newborn again, but without the company of my parents this time. And so Leah was conceived. I wasn't thinking how brave it was of me to plunge into the newborn phase with a toddler along for the ride. I was just thinking that I wanted another baby.

Leah was my easiest pregnancy and best baby. She rarely cried unless she needed a bath, and would go to sleep on her own effortlessly. However, she proved to be my most dramatic child, even today. I think we catered to her a bit because she is a girl and was our youngest. She made our family feel complete. One boy, one girl. They were best friends and we were done. The funny thing is when you have one baby, you're asked "When are you going to have another?" When you have two babies, especially one of each, you're told "Oh, how lucky! You won't need to have more!" Friends I have, who either have same-gendered children or only one child are always asked, "Don't  you want to try for [opposite gender]?" or "Don't you think [only child] will be lonely without siblings?" The pressure, I tell ya.

Then I got pregnant unexpectedly and lost it just as unexpectedly three weeks later. When you tell people you're expecting a third baby, the expressions change. Suddenly there are concerns instead of excitement. Ignorant comments like, "What if this one is special needs?" "How are you going to manage a newborn with your hands full already?" When you tell these same people you lost your baby you were so excitedly pregnant with, those same people offer sympathetic drivel such as "That was close!" "Well, it was for the best." "Just enjoy what you have without messing it up." and you're left open-mouthed and hurt because what the fuck. With my first two pregnancies, miscarriage never crossed my mind. I read about it, sure. I felt sad for those women who lost babies. However, I had it in my head that I was a snowflake. Not once did I run to the bathroom checking for blood in my underwear. I didn't think about cramping meaning anything other than an expanding uterus. But, once I lost that third baby, all I could think about was how much I desperately wanted that baby and needed another baby. Two co-workers became pregnant and the pain of my loss was overwhelming. I was told "Be glad you already have two kids" over and over. I was glad I had two older kids. But I was also sad that I had a third kid who never gestated past 7 weeks and I grieved everything I saw in my older kids that I would never see in this third one. After a year, we decided we'd have "just one more". No bravery, just a maternal ache to hold a baby in my arms again.

Elias was a challenge from the beginning of my pregnancy to his first birthday. My pregnancy with him was the most uncomfortable physically and emotionally. I was in pain constantly and was so afraid to lose him. Had he been my first pregnancy (and baby), he most likely would've been my last. Or at least I'd tell myself that until he got to be around his current age. Elias was (and still kind of is) a high-needs baby. I ended up buying a baby wrap for him because he needed constant contact with Mama. Nobody else would do. I would either need to hold him or nurse him to keep him from screaming. It was exhausting. Once he could crawl, he was less fussy and more enjoyable. Now, he's just the sweetest little toddler. He's the only one, so far, who does what he's told without saying "Hold on a sec" and goes to bed on time without asking 100,000,000 questions or needing last minute food or drink.

I daydreamed about having another baby after Elias was born, though I pushed it to the back of my mind. I never felt "done", but Zac and I had compromised with our much-wanted second son that I didn't want to bring up having another. That's the thing with babies. You can't exactly compromise, but we worked it out. Since Elias was my last baby, we sucked up every moment. I breastfed for eight months in spite of my parents telling me "He's too old to still be nursing," but I weaned him when he wouldn't stop biting me. Then we started boxing up the outgrown baby clothes and gave away the bottles. I reluctantly sold his infant car seat and my baby wraps he was too big for and sadly accepted that there would be no more new babies for us. I think that was more strength of emotions instead of bravery. But then Emily died. And my heart broke. I felt like I would never experience an equivalent joy to offset that unbearable grief. So, I started bringing up the idea of a last baby, much to Zac's hesitation and somewhat annoyance.

Another unexpected pregnancy came and went once more. This time, I felt sad, but not broken. I think part of me knew I might lose another baby if I were to get pregnant again, so I fought inwardly with my baby fever, but felt hopeful that one more would come along at the right time. When I saw "pregnant" on my digital test, I was worried how Zac would react since we weren't trying. He was actually happy about it. He's never been unhappy with our pregnancies, but he's a logical thinker who worries about the future, unlike myself who lives in a whimsical wonderland. We both wanted that baby and started making plans for room arrangements and looking into a bigger vehicle. Then I miscarried and we decided to just try again and keep our plans of adding one more baby to our family.

I don't think about how many children I have because right now, I'm so used to them that I don't see the OMG factor. However, responding to "Is this your first pregnancy?" from a stranger when I'm out by myself with, "No, this is actually my fourth" brings out the unsolicited remarks, "You know how babies are made, right?" "You could request a tubal ligation at delivery." "When's he getting fixed?" "Are you done yet?"

Bravery would be unloading some maternal rage at those who criticize my reproduction and parenting choices, but I don't like confrontation, so I make this face and internalize it.

It's not bravery, it's DiGiorno.