My Journey To Motherhood

Notice: It was a long journey!


I was neglected as a child. I coped with it by promising myself I would grow up and do it differently for my children. While other kids were thinking about becoming future nurses and firemen, I dreamed about growing up to be a good mom. Along with this desire was the thought in the back of my mind that not being able to have children would be one of the most painful things that could happen to me.

At twenty, I married a high school teacher. We decided to start our family right away. I knew it could sometimes take a year to conceive, even for the most fertile couples, so I didn't worry until we approached our one year anniversary and I was still not pregnant.

During the second year, my doctor referred me to a specialist at a university hospital, over three hours away from our home. That year was the most difficult. The staff was unorganized, and the specialist only saw us for the brief consultation and to perform a test. We had so many questions.

Our insurance would not pay for any of it.

When it was time, I called the lab at the hospital to inform them we would be coming soon. We dropped everything to be there, only to find that they did not know we were coming and were not prepared for us. This happened more than once, which added stress to an already stressful situation. After a year of this, with no success, we decided to give up on fertility (mis)treatments and adopt a baby instead.

As I gathered information about adoption, I realized we did not have the funds to adopt at that time. I spent the next year working hard labor at a lodge, which was the best job I could find in our very rural area. Financially, other set-backs came along. Our car was terminally ill, so we had to get another one, and we were trying to buy property so we could one day own a home instead of throwing our money away on rent. After more than a year of working, we still did not have the money to adopt. I wanted to at least begin the waiting process, so I convinced my husband to be willing to take a small loan if we were chosen as adoptive parents.

At this point, we had been married for four years, and during all of this, friends, family neighbors, and even girls at the high school were having babies. After years of prayer, and many tears, I was able to make peace with our infertility. I decided that even if we never had children, we were going to be happy as husband and wife.

We met with the case worker and began the piles of paperwork. The case study exposed everything that was personal. It was hard not to feel defensive when every question seemed to ask, "Are you worthy of parenthood?" We did it because we knew that a child of our own would be worth any price. We paid the non-refundable one-thousand-dollar down payment and began the wait. During the next year, I spent a lot of time on the internet, reading profiles of other couples seeking to adopt. I don't know why I spent so much time doing it; I guess I wanted to see what the "competition" was, as awful as that sounds. After many months, I began to feel deeply sad for all of these couples. Many of them knew it would be impossible for them to have a biological child. Adoption (or sometimes surrogacy) was the only way for them to experience raising a child from infancy.

We had given up on having a biological child, and although we never used any kind of birth control, I wasn't keeping track of my cycles anymore. At Christmastime that year, I had strong feelings of love and concern for all the couples who were waiting to adopt. I secretly made a resolution that I would continue to try to conceive. The very next month, I became pregnant for the first time, after more than five years of trying. During those years, I had become a professional home-pregnancy-test-taker, but the day I got a positive result, I called the pregnancy test manufacturer to make sure I had taken the test correctly.

I went to the school and gave my husband his lunch with a note on the napkin that read, "I think I'm pregnant." Wanting to see his reaction, I waited until he read it before I left. All he said was, "Yeah, whatever." All my girlhood dreams of my husband jumping up and down with excitement...but I didn't care. I was PREGNANT!

It took another week before he finally believed it.

I had a great pregnancy. The nausea and heartburn were nothing compared to the years of heartache. I loved the stretch marks, the swollen feet, and especially the big round belly. Our daughter was born the day after our sixth anniversary. I had always wanted to have a girl first because I was the oldest (And a girl. No, really!).

There is a song we used to listen to that has the words, "Where have you been? I've looked for you forever and a day." One night, I heard my husband singing to our tiny daughter, "Where have you been? We've looked for you for six years and a day."

My husband and I love our brothers and sisters immensely. We prayed daily for at least one sibling for our little girl. We began trying for another baby when she was four months old. After she turned one, we found a new RE (reproductive endocrinologist), who was many times more helpful than our first specialist. Also, our insurance would pay fifty percent, up to five thousand dollars total.

I always though I could be content after I had a child, but as a mother I discovered that the desire to give my child what was best was much stronger than any desire I could have for myself--and what could be better than a little brother or sister? When our daughter was two years old, she would pray at night, "Bless my brother." It always brought tears to my eyes. They were tears of sorrow and of joy at the same time.

After more than two years of trying to conceive again, and two more failed procedures, our RE recommended laparoscopic surgery to remove what he believed to be endometriosis. I had the surgery, which revealed class 3 endometriosis (4 being the most severe). We had no idea it was that bad, for I never had any symptoms (other than infertility, which we thought was male factor only). Miraculously, we found we were expecting after our first cycle after the surgery! It was hard to believe. Thirty-six weeks later, we delivered a beautiful baby into the world: a sister for our daughter.

When she was nine months old, we decided we should begin trying for another child soon. I purchased a twenty-pack of ovulation predictor tests. Several weeks later, I noticed I hadn't felt well for a few days. Then I started to think...

On my thirty-first birthday, I went to the grocery store late at night (I told my husband I needed a birthday treat--which was true, in a way). I was looking for a pregnancy test. I couldn't find one anywhere so I went to the service counter. I saw them on the shelf behind the desk, so, through the small hole in the glass, I asked the worker if I could please purchase a pregnancy test. Minutes later, I plopped down on the couch next to my husband with a smile on my face. That test result was the best birthday present ever. It was the gift that was given freely to us, without the heartache of longing. This time I didn't have to beg! Thirty-five weeks later, a precious baby boy was placed in our arms, much to our amazement and joy.

And I didn't even need those ovulation predictor tests.

I felt like we had been cured! The surgery was just what we needed, a clean slate, so to speak. When my husband and I went to dinner for our eleventh anniversary, I asked him, "So, how many children do you want to have?" We both came from families with five children and had decided upon five before we married, only to discover we did not have the control we thought we would. Now it seemed we had a choice again.

I don't know what God has in store for our future, but I am beyond thankful that it will be overflowing with the joy that comes from raising children.

Countless times I have had to ask myself if I was dreaming because mothering these precious children has been so wonderful. I learned many things from the years of waiting. I discovered I could find happiness in myself. I watched parents around me, and took mental notes about what kind of parent I wanted to be. I feel I was blessed by my struggle, because I grew in ways I might not have otherwise.

The greatest thing I have gained from both experiences is gratitude. To me, motherhood is a happy and holy calling. I thank God every day for the chance to be a part of it.

The Way To His Heart

I love frozen pizza. I haven't tried many gourmet pizzas, but I can honestly say that I have yet to find a pizza anywhere (I even had it in Finland once--it was okay, except the ones with shrimp or tuna on top were just weird) that I like better than a frozen Totinos. For me, their flavor and flaky crust are worth the thousand-calorie intake.

After our wedding reception, my husband (let's call him Frank) and I stopped by a grocery store to buy frozen pizza (sadly, we didn't get Totinos) to eat together the next day after church. We were driving Frank's old 1989 Ford pick-up truck with my belongings from my twenty years of life loaded into the back. We had a three-hour drive ahead of us.

On my first day to Sunday school in my new town, I was introduced as [Franks]'s friend. The bishop spoke up from the back and said, "I think that's his wife." Because Frank is NOT the chatty type, his best friend (a coworker) and the bishop were the only people in his town he had told about the wedding (and the only reason he told the bishop was so he could get his temple marriage pass). I blushed and tried my best not to look like I had not had enough sleep.

(You may be wondering what happened to the honeymoon. We went to Disneyland a couple of weeks later. It wasn't crowded, so we went on a bunch of rides and had a great time.)

After church as we were eating our pizza, we noticed it had a strange taste. We had already consumed almost half of the first one when I looked at the bottom side and saw that it was very MOLDY.

~Shudder~

We threw the pizza away and I went to the fridge and cupboard to see what else there was to eat. I may need to point out that Frank was a bachelor just two days before. The fridge had a few condiments and ONE hot dog. The cupboard had ONE can of corn. That was it. I also should include that as Mormons, we don't shop on Sunday. Even if we did, the two grocery stores within forty miles were closed on Sundays.

In good wifely manner, I asked Frank how he would like his hot dog cooked. He said he always heats them in the microwave. I asked, "How long?" and he said, "I don't know. I've never eaten just one before." Then he guessed about two minutes, so I put it in while I found a pan to heat up the corn. In my mind, I thanked my mother-in-law for the bag of homemade jam cookies she had sent with us.

The microwave beeped its conclusion. I opened the microwave (oven*) door to see smoke and one very petrified hot dog. Even as hungry as we were, it was not edible and so joined the mossy pizza in the garbage can.

As we sat down to our meal of corn and cookies, we couldn't help but giggle. The next day we went to the store together after Frank got home from work. I piled staples into the cart (flour, sugar, honey, rice, fruits and vegetables, pasta, eggs, and laundry supplies), and some olives, cheese, pickles, chocolate chips, sausage, and (of course) hot dogs. Frank had been away from his mother's home cooking for ten long months.

I'll never forget the look of bliss on his face.

*The other night, Frank was commenting
on how everyone calls this a microwave, when it is
really a microwave oven that uses microwaves to
cook food. While I already knew this, I like the
idea of calling it the microwave oven
instead of the microwave.

I think I'll call it Mo for short.

A New Love Story

In the beginning I was so lovesick over you.
The first time I felt the flutter
(Like butterflies in my stomach)
I smiled, feeling closer to you:
Some one who had fast become
Part of me.
It wasn't long before my heart burned with love,
I swelled with admiration,
And my muscles were stretched to their limit
In anticipation.

Some mothers reach out their arms
And say, "I love you this much."
I could turn to show my profile
And it would reach just as far.
On your birth day I loved you so much
That it hurt
More than anything had ever hurt.
And I cried, knowing your arrival
Was the beginning of something holy.

After our first separation,
I held you close and told you
We would always be connected.
Loving you has increased my love
And my joy.
Someday you will start a family of your own,
And our story will go on...
I know there will be sad chapters,
But try not to worry:
Mommy believes in "happily ever after."

Written by me: July 2009, for each of my children

The Blow-up Brush

I grew up in a house with a mom, a dad, three sisters, one bathroom, and one brush (actually, my dad had a brush also, but he [wisely] didn't share it with the girls. And I have a brother too, but he wasn't born until after I grew up).

To say it was a little nuts in the mornings before school would be an understatement. It seemed that whenever it was time to go somewhere, the brush was MIA.

One morning I went into my parents' dim bedroom to ask my mom if she knew where the brush was.

"It's right here," she mumbled groggily. I could barely see her hand reaching out to me in the dark.

Relieved, I made my way to her bedside to get it from her, but was startled when I touched her empty hand. "Mom," I said, "Where is it?"

"It's right here."

"No it isn't!"

"Yes it is. It's a blow-up brush." She had never talked to me in her sleep before. I began to laugh uncontrollably as I left her room to continue looking for the brush.

She called after me, annoyance in her voice, "Stop laughing at me! You don't understand. It IS a blow-up brush."

I laughed even harder. I couldn't help it.

I don't remember what happened after that because it was such a long time ago. I don't even know how old I was, but it is one moment from my childhood that still makes me smile.

I read a blog post by a lovely writer who said that "hearing someone [talk in his/her sleep] is so funny it's like a little treat for being human."

I agree completely.

The Scarlet (Actually, White) Letters

If I take a walk on garbage day, I like to read the writing on the garbage cans. In my city, the garbage person writes messages on the black tote cans with a white marker or chalk. The notes say things like, "Place cans 6 feet apart," or "Put out past trees," and even threats like, "Out past vehicles or it will be left." There are warnings about past slipups. I've secretly been glad that I have a nice, clean garbage can without any of my garbage sins displayed for all to see.

We left town on Wednesday for Thanksgiving. I asked a neighbor to put my garbage can back after Thursday's garbage day. When we returned home on Sunday, my husband asked me, "Did you know it says on the garbage can that you can only have the can in the street for 12 hours before or after pickup time?" Then I realized that on holidays, the garbage person doesn't come until Friday.

So much for my purity. I couldn't believe the garbage person would actually drive around on Thanksgiving to see who put their cans out too early. Or maybe a neighbor complained? I went to our can to view the graffiti, only to discover that the writing my husband spoke of was only the small square of instructions stamped onto the lid. Whew.

That was a close one!

Quoting the Cute

Five-year-old: "Seven Sakes!"
Me: "What does that mean?"
Five-year-old: "It means 'Holy Cow.'"

Twenty-month-old: "Saw-we."

One day we met my sister-in-law at a park in a town where none of us lived. She was going to take our children to her house while we went on a date. On her way out of town, she took a wrong turn (we took the same wrong turn--who engineered these roads?). My sister-in-law said out loud that she was going the wrong way & my five-year-old daughter said, "Well, we are going to your house. You'd think you'd know your own way."

Twenty-month-old: "I tuck" (translation: I'm stuck).

Five-year-old: "I'm just a little girl. I don't know about these things."

Twenty-month-old daughter sings (while bounce-swaying back and forth): "Mock-kah, Mock-kah (pause) E-I-E-I-E."

Two-month-old son says: "Goo."

"Here Kiddy Kitty"

Both of my daughters could meow before they could talk. My five-year-old daughter has been running around on all fours since she started crawling (do not worry, she also knows how to walk on her hind legs). I am astounded at her ability to dart, on hands and feet, across the back yard or the back room. One of these days I need to get video footage of it.

So anyway, my daughters like to pretend they are cats. I love the purry meows, the naps on my lap, and the funny way they rub my legs with the sides of their heads while I work in the kitchen. I don't love that I've had to dig cat food out of the mouth of my one-year-old= so gross! And I have finally convinced my five-year-old that hand licking is most unsanitary (when you are a human).

One day when she was four, my daughter asked me to open the back door for her. I was on the land line phone--tied to the wall. I reminded her that she knows how to open the door. Then she reminded me that she is a kitty and can not open doors. I told her to stand on her hind legs like the dancing aristocats and open the door because I could not come right then. About ten minutes later when I had finished my phone call, I turned around to see that she was still sitting there on her haunches, patiently waiting for me to let her out.

She's a good kitty.