A few weeks after giving birth to my fourth child, I was at the grocery store with all my kids. A woman came up to me and slowly looked from child to child, then said, “Are these all yours?”

I was kind of taken aback. Um, I didn’t know four children was that many. My siblings and I number four. My own mother grew up in a family of four children, and my father was one of five sons. Was it terribly shocking that the child fast asleep in the shopping cart, as well as the three walking next to it, all belonged to me? I guess it depends who you’re asking.

It’s not only when people see me out and about with four kids that they either look at me with pity (what a burden those kids are on their poor mother) or judgement (stop crowding our world and using our resources on your kids)… but when I’m out and about sans kids, and someone finds out that I have four children, the jokes start. They say I’m crazy, a saint, too dumb to avoid pregnancy, or all of the above.

In fact, just tonight, I ran into someone I hadn’t seen for a few years. When he found out I had four children at home, he asked me if I’ve figured out how pregnancy occurs yet. It’s a laugh a minute when the number of children I have is being discussed. Ha… ha…. ha.

Unfortunately, I’m not the only woman who’s had to defend her decision to have a big family. One of my good friends has seven children. She told me that with each additional pregnancy she felt people’s judgment — as if they just assumed she was irresponsible — rather than that each and every one of those children is wanted and loved dearly.

And that’s a good point. Has it ever occurred to these people who laugh at the expense of mothers — who turn their big families into the butt of a joke (I swear, next time my smart mouth might take over my response) — that we really like having all these kids? That we really like being mothers?  Because we love them is exactly why we have them. They are not a burden, not an inconvenience, not an unfortunate accident… and we do know how to prevent pregnancy if we so desire (but thanks for checking on that for us). Our kids are the loves of our lives (along with our husbands. That goes without saying — but I better put him in there in case he reads this).

Not everyone can have or wants to have a big family, of course. But I’m baffled as to why those of us who choose to have big families become walking jokes in the eyes of some. There are so many positive qualities that come with big families. Sharing, communication, team work, problem solving, taking turns… kids realize from a young age that they are not the center of the universe. (If you’ve dabbled in today’s dating world, I’m sure you’ve found far too many adults who’ve never learned they aren’t the center of the universe.) Kids who grow up in big families often end up very productive members of society.

None of this is to say that you can’t raise a kid successfully in a one or two child family. You can. But I’ve seen plenty of literature defending a woman’s choice to have one or no children, and not much defending the number of children I — and many women like me — have. So I’m writing my own…

Dear mothers of large families… give yourself a pat on the back! Go YOU! I so appreciate what you do — because our world really doesn’t — and I know what you do is so important, so selfless, so loving and so taken for granted. You are amazing and your family is so so lucky to have you. Please ignore the jokes at your expense. Sometimes people don’t know what to say, so they say something not very well thought out. It happens to all of us. Please keep on keeping on. You are raising fantastic kids. If there was a 10th degree black belt in multi-tasking, you would have earned it long ago. YOU. ARE. AWESOME!

PS. That friend of mine who has seven kids? The first few are now adults… an attorney, two (TWO!) professional athletes, a famous cook (seriously, she’s the next Rachael Ray)… I think they owe a lot of their success to their wonderful mother.

PPS. My husband and I are thinking about having one or two more children in the future. We aren’t ready now, but might be someday. If people tease me about having four kids, I can’t wait to hear the jokes if I should have five or six. Hopefully, they come up with something more original than asking if I’m aware the stork isn’t actually how babies get here 😉 

I didn’t believe it would ever happen. I dreamed about it… and wanted it… and sometimes I thought I could reach out and touch it, but nothing was there. It never materialized. Until now. 

My husband brought home the final piece of my fantasy today — a really comfy desk chair. I have an office!!!

I’m sure this isn’t anything special to most of you. What’s so great about an office? People go to offices every day. Normal people want OUT of the office! True, true… but my “office” is a house filled with four happy, noisy, full-time children. I love them and they’re great — but OMG, I want to hide in my new office. It’s so quiet down here. Nobody is climbing on me while I type. My toddler daughter isn’t standing on the chair behind me putting bows in my hair while I upload pictures. The baby isn’t hanging on my leg. My older boys aren’t asking for snacks. I’m not sure if I know how to get things done anymore without being totally distracted doing nine things at once. This will take some getting used to.

Everything’s not totally organized yet, so please excuse the mess, but here it is… a beautiful work space all my own!

The first thing I did was put 33 pictures of my kids all over my desk. Not exaggerating. That is actually the first thing I did.

My husband always told me there would come a time when he would watch the kids, and I could retire to the peace of my own space and write. I didn’t believe him. (He is the traditional “breadwinner” and I am the traditional “homemaker”).  But that time is upon us! Tonight, I cooked dinner — three cheese tortellini, broccoli in alfredo sauce, cornbread, sweet potato fries and pumpkin pie — we ate, and here I am in my office while my husband and the boys do the dishes, clean up the kitchen, and play with the babies. This is fantastic! I am totally alone. I love this. I never knew how quiet a room could actually be. It’s what I always wanted. Imagine all the things I can do with all this time and peace and quiet.

I’m imagining…

I’m imagining…

I’m imagining…

I’m kind of worried they need me up there. I just don’t know what to write. It’s too quiet down here. I should probably reposition my laptop.

That’s better.

Please don’t be offended and please read to the end before you get upset with me!

I know not everyone wants kids. I never thought I wanted them, either. Never, never, NEVER! I couldn’t imagine anything more tedious than taking care of a child day after day. What was with people who wanted babies? What was wrong with them? All of them mental I tell you. I used to think about diapers and potty training and baby drool and all I could say was that it wasn’t for me. Besides for that, I didn’t feel I had one maternal bone in my body. I would never know how to be a parent. I would never be good at it. The thought of my own child terrified me.

Fast forward a few years… my kids are 12, 8, 2 and 1. They are the light of my world. I couldn’t imagine life any other way. I had my first child at 18. Here’s that awesome kid in his fall football picture…

Before you peg me as becoming a “simple minded baby machine” for lack of other options — I did have other options. Full scholarship to play soccer, a promising career in engineering, singing in a rock band… I had endless opportunities and possibilities, and I don’t regret for one second becoming a parent. There is nothing I can or will do that could ever be more important to me than being my kids’ mother.

So how did I go from the girl who was never going to have kids, to mother of four? I can’t tell you there was a moment I changed, or a moment I felt adequately prepared. I don’t think that moment ever happens for a lot of people. What changed is that I became a parent. And suddenly, nothing else mattered as much as that child. Pure love. Pure joy. Pure bliss. There is a “mom mode” that happens when you have a baby (I’m sure there’s a “dad mode”, too, though I can’t say I’ve ever gone into “dad mode”).

I cannot begin to explain the absolute love that you will feel for your child. You might think you love your parents or your siblings or your friends’ kids… but there is a whole other level of love and attachment that is reserved for one’s own children. I cannot help wishing everyone could experience this all encompassing selfless love.

(I just changed a dirty diaper, and all I could think of was how cute that cooing chubby little guy is, and how much I love him. Even his stinky diapers are cute. I’m not kidding. After I changed his diaper I picked him up and he gave me a big drooly kiss on my cheek. Priceless.)

I’ve seen something really sad happening in our culture. We see women in the media having their first baby in their late thirties, early forties, late forties — sometimes in their fifties. That’s wonderful for them, but we don’t take into account that many of these women have had fertility treatments, donor eggs, surrogate gestational carriers, etc. These things are often not attainable for the average woman. It’s a heartbreaking event for a woman who wants a child to find that her fertility is not cooperating. I’ve seen women and couples who — like me — never wanted a baby… but sometimes they change their mind. I’ve had more than a few friends confide that they want a child and can’t have one or that they wanted to have more children, but ran out of time.

Our culture keeps telling us women that we can “have it all” (whatever that actually means.) But we aren’t men, and we don’t have unlimited fertility. We never know when the magic number will hit. Will we be able to have kids in our forties? Will we be able to have them in our thirties? The number is different for each woman. And — unfair as it is to have to worry about our fertility — this is our reality as women. (I don’t think women should ever be criticized for their desire to have a family along with — or rather than — conquering the world. Sometimes having a family is conquering the world. “The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world” comes to mind…)

It’s been said that there’s no greater pain for a parent than losing a child. I would imagine that the pain of wanting a child and not having one could be comparable, and further compounded by the fact it’s often an invisible pain. A loss that a woman feels, but one that goes unseen. I will cry along with you, my friend, if you should ever experience that pain — I wish, with all my heart, you never will.

I don’t want to end this so sadly, so I will end by saying that being a mother has never prevented me from chasing my dreams. I still love the things I was passionate about before becoming a mother — writing, reading, creating, soccer, baseball, snow sports, photography. I’ve incorporated it all into being a parent… I blog about my kids, write children’s stories, officiate soccer, coach my kids in baseball, snowboard with my kids; I color and draw with them (their artwork goes on the fridge, and mine goes into my books), and I finally have the most beautiful subjects in my photographs (though I admit to being as biased as every other mom when judging my own children’s beauty). There is something so special about sharing your passions with your children — to teach what you love to the ones you love most. How could parenting be anything but amazing?

I realize that some people do not want and will not ever have children, and I respect their decision. It is theirs to make.

I know it’s annoying for someone to be constantly asked when they are going to have a baby . I’m sure it is difficult not to take offense. If someone asks when you are going to have a child, please believe they are complimenting you (they know you would make a fantastic parent) and they wish for you to share in the joy they have found in parenting. For myself, I will try not to ask… but know that I’m hoping, should you choose to become a parent, that you will experience the same ethereal love I never knew I was going to discover.

“I’m a failure and I can’t do this and I’m having a meltdown. I have no identity! I just want a clean house for 5 seconds and to work on my snowboard apparel line and my blog. Do you know how many days I feel like the world’s worst mom because I can’t keep everything perfect and put away and laundry done and food perfectly prepared and served and look like a swimsuit model while I’m doing it?!” I texted my husband.

This is a freaking hard job! Being a parent I mean. The hardest there is, yet parenting experience counts for nothing on a resume (ergo, the feeling of having no identity).

No matter how many blogs are written about how the world should appreciate moms, I don’t feel better. I love my little ones and my getting-too-big ones more than anything, and I’m beyond proud of them — but it doesn’t stop me from feeling like a big fat failure occasionally.

Sometimes I feel like my spouse will never fully understand me, although he does notice when I’m having one of these meltdowns and it clues him in that it’s probably not the time of month to start constructively criticizing me. (Men are such problem solvers when all we women want to do is vent.)

Fewer and fewer women choose to be mothers these days. I have a theory that it involves a lot of fear. Fear of losing the lifestyle one loves… fear of the responsibility of shaping a life… fear of judgement and chastisement by those who “know best” how to raise a child — and yet we take on the daunting — and ultimately rewarding — task of raising children, in spite of all these fears.

The thought of failure used to paralyze me. I did everything I could to avoid it, even if it meant never trying something I just knew I wouldn’t be good at. But I’m not afraid anymore. I had to lose that fear along with becoming a parent. Maybe parenting has taught me as much as I hope I’m teaching my children (I don’t doubt it). Accepting the imperfect way I care for my home and family, because I don’t have another choice, is par for the course. I don’t have ten arms and an unlimited energy supply… I CAN’T do it all. And I’m not a failure… I’m a really good mom.

Oops, I have to go. I forgot to pick my son up from after school choir…

Image from http://www.aaramblog.com/2011/07/stressed-out-moms.html

(image from http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/06/this-is-why-ill-never-be-adult.html)

I used to have it all together. I cooked lovely things to eat. My house was sooooo clean. I scrapbooked, made jewelry, sewed pajamas and Halloween costumes for my kids, always found time to work out. I even homeschooled my older boys for 3 years.

Then along came babies 3 and 4. Um, what happened to my life? In my former life, I was obsessive about keeping my house nice. My brain has an anxiety attack at the sight of a messy house. It’s bad. Like… I used to go to other people’s houses and want to start cleaning things up so my brain would feel better. And now I can’t keep my own house clean for anything. I’m a disgrace to obsessive compulsive individuals everywhere!

Today, if you stopped by my house, I would be like, “What? Don’t you have strawberry pop tarts smashed onto the walls of your dining room? It’s modern art.” Then I would tell you there’s a good reason I’m still in my pajamas. Followed by not telling you that reason. I would really hope that you stayed in my front living room, where only a few stray toys lurked, so that you would never see the state of my kitchen. I don’t want to see the state of my kitchen. Could you bring me a blindfold when you stop by?

Once in a while, I get everything spotless (on the first floor at least… don’t mention the basement… or the 2nd floor… or my toddler’s bedroom she likes to tear apart upon waking). I look around for a few seconds and breathe a sigh of relief. All is right with the universe. Then I hear it. The sound of a missile. It’s getting louder. Oh no! NO! I try to throw my body in front of it, sacrificing myself to preserve the cleanliness. But then another one comes. And another. And another. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! The demolition crew is wrapping it up and my clean house just bit the dust.

My children seem to have an affliction called, “I didn’t see it. I didn’t notice it. I didn’t know you didn’t want it there”… it being “my backpack, my books, my legos, my trombone, my 47 dirt-filled shells from the beach that I was going to clean, but dumped on your kitchen table instead, Mom.”

This affliction was clearly present the other day, when I asked Wesley, my eight year-old, to carry his laundry upstairs and put it away after school. He picked up his laundry and went upstairs with it, returning a few minutes later. A few hours later, I was on my way up the stairs with Wesley to tuck him into bed, when a trail of laundry caught my eye.

“Wesley… I thought you said you put your laundry away.”

“I did.”

“Then what’s this all over the stairs?” I pointed to the incriminating items.

“Oh. I didn’t see it.”

“Really? Each of the seven times I saw you run up to your room and back down during the 4 hours since you were supposed to put your laundry away, this pile escaped your vision?”

“Um, I didn’t notice it.”

“Hmmm. What are the chances?”

“Well… probably what happened is… I didn’t know you meant put it all away. That’s what happened. I’ll put it away now, Mom.”

“Thank you, Wesley.”

See??? An affliction. “I didn’t see it. I didn’t notice it. I didn’t know…”

I’ve had to adjust my standards of clean a LOT — considering the condition that runs rampant in my children. Okay, okay… they try really hard to be good helpers, but mommy is a clean freak who woke up in the middle of a zombie apocalypse, and she can’t seem to clean up the dead bodies as fast as they pile up, and her kids don’t know how to clean up the dead bodies as good as she does, anyway… and they might forget to use disinfectant, an important step in cleaning up dead bodies… and oh darn it, now mommy has the affliction, too. She’s one of them and she doesn’t care. Except she still does care, so she has to walk around her house with her eyes closed… which may, at first, seem dangerous, but, in fact, increases her chances of surviving the zombie apocalypse ten fold.

I give up. My house is a mess on most days at most times, though it’s not from a lack of cleaning effort. Mommy’s tired.

I’ve been needing an office area for awhile. I’m supposed to be illustrating my children’s book series, among other design projects. I also have a ton of scrapbooking, jewelry making, and sewing supplies that needs to be organized (though what century I will ever find time for those things again, I couldn’t tell you). Anyway, I found this completely AWESOME, entirely made of solid wood desk/bookshelves on craigslist for way cheap… what a work space! The desk alone is 7 feet across (plenty of room for drawing and designing). Since it’s almost my birthday, I had to get it for myself 😉

The entire room behind it is a mess, so I’ll have to close my eyes whenever I turn around, but at least my desk looks pretty! And I’ll be able to store my massive hobby collection in the side bookcases. (This is what convinced hubby to carry the 12 foot long monstrosity down the steps… the promise that all my crafting supplies would be put away instead of strewn across the basement floor.)

Also, in honor of my upcoming birthday, I decided to make a trifle for dessert tonight. (I’m really spoiling myself. You would think I love my birthday. I don’t. I haven’t aged a day since I was 19 so why should I have a birthday? But what better way to distract yourself from aging than eating something yummy? End tangent.) Making yummy things to eat also used to be one of my hobbies. (These days, if none of my children are screaming in hunger, I call it good.)

I ignored one year-old Tristan standing at the front window screaming his head off because his dad was outside mowing the lawn, and Tristan wanted to mow the lawn, too. I ignored two year-old Lainey dragging my vase with the faux flowers around the living room. She was even chewing on some of them, and I ignored that. I ignored Wesley doing a backflip off the couch. Kid is bound and determined to make it back to the emergency room a few more times anyway. I ignored the mess of dishes. I ignored the crumbs all over the floor. I ignored 12 year-old Devin reading a book, instead of cleaning his messy room. (I did comment to him that his room looked like a nuclear bomb and a tsunami hit at the same time, to which he replied, “Okay, Mom.” But other than that I ignored it.) With all the time ignoring these things allowed, I made a pumpkin-butterscotch gingerbread trifle. It was delicious.

http://www.tasteofhome.com/recipes/pumpkin-butterscotch-gingerbread-trifle

These kids are worth every bit of mess in my house. Tristan is, too, but he couldn’t be in the picture because he would have gone face first into the trifle. And that might have sent mommy off the deep end… 😉