Children come.

I’m the sixth of seven children. My five older siblings all prayed earnestly for me; they wanted a little sister or brother. Three years later my little sister was born, the last, when my mother was almost 42 years old. My brothers and sisters knew we were loved; we were brought into the world intentionally, and my parents cared for all of us. We grew up in various small towns, mainly in northern Wyoming, where a majority LDS population in farming communities led to a high birth rate overall. My parents were the grandchildren of pioneers; they had 11 and 8 siblings respectively. My best friend was one of 10.

I knew from my youth that I would be a parent in this life. I didn’t overly enjoy babysitting but I cared for my eldest sister’s children competently for an entire summer. When asked I told people I wanted 12 children. I didn’t have names chosen or anything; I figured that would come when the children came. I did intentionally choose to have friends rather than dates in high school. The only guy who got close enough to date me was not willing to switch to my religion, so I philosophically left him for college. I wanted to marry someone with the same values, with the same life objectives.

My future husband came from Pennsylvania, a broke former alcoholic working as a janitor in a potato warehouse while taking classes. He had been kicked out of college before and came to get his grades up so he could be re-admitted. I didn’t meet his family until much later; he told me his dad was a bartender now but had been a steel mill mechanic before the mills closed. His mother worked in the school kitchen. He had three older brothers and a younger sister, all back east. I recognized in him similar financial conditions to my parents: not wealthy but hard working and disciplined.

We decided before we married, that we would welcome as many children as God wanted to send us. If twelve was how many he had in mind, we would do it, and figure out how to support them as we went. We knew God would help.

A month after we married, I got morning sick, very sick, to the point of being dehydrated, and then hospitalized with pre-term labor. We were blessed to come through it in good health. When the first was nine months old I got pregnant. So by the time we moved in with my husband’s parents, we had a toddler boy and I was on bedrest with the second. Grandma and Pappap were supportive and patient with me. I was so green! I cared for the children but was not very good at keeping house. I always changed diapers promptly, however, and kept the cloth diapers washed regularly.

My husband’s younger sister had married a few months before we did; they had no children for several years, because they were waiting until she had finished her master’s degree and got a job as a teacher. They and the grandparents were aghast at our irresponsibility in jumping right into parenthood. Grandma and sister-in-law told me, in polite terms, “You have a boy and a girl! That’s wonderful! You’re done, right?”

No. We had another boy and another girl. “Two of each! How blessed! And how… expensive… You’re really done, right?”

On top of this we started homeschooling when our fourth child was 18 months old. For future reference: glue and glitter are controlled substances; scissors and markers are dangerous. Paper is an awesome resource but can be chewed.

My husband heard the “no more children” lecture repeatedly. Grandma gave up trying to convince me; I stopped listening. We were obviously crazy. We didn’t tell Grandma that number five was coming until my belly stuck out. She threw up her hands, lectured her son once more, and gave up. She adored her grandchildren; her worry was for us parents. She sent us nice second-hand clothes; she invited us to visit her monthly. She made sure we had plenty of toys, second-hand, and even bought computer games for our children one Christmas. A more supportive grandma I could not imagine.