I got home two days ago from skiing in Utah with great friends for my 40th birthday (gah, I still can’t believe I’m 40 — except for the fact that standing up hurts sometimes, I’m pretty sure I’m 27), and I’ve been trying to write this post for exactly that long.
Reentry is such a bitch.
When a space shuttle returns to earth, it catches fire as it enters the atmosphere. That’s what it’s like coming back to real life after a getaway. Everything is on fire.
Reentry is hard enough when you’re coming back to normal life, but when you’re coming back to little kids who have missed you — it’s eleventy billion times more real. I thought I was prepared, but I was not. Not this time at least.
As our plane landed and our phones switched back on, they went a little nuts with notifications. Justin had finally been named in the Twitter Files, and our babysitter had been taken to urgent care for chest pains.
The kids were fine (my eldest is 19 and she was watching them), and praise God, our sitter ended up being just fine too. But we were worried sick while she spent the whole day in urgent care undergoing multiple tests including a CT scan.
Plus the kids were a little bonkers, having missed us while we were pretending to be childless all weekend. And of course Justin was consumed with media requests because of the Twitter Files thing. Nothing like going from a mimosa breakfast straight back into the thick of things as a stay-at-home-mom with kids who are understandably out of sorts.
I’m a little out of sorts too.
I’m supposed to be about 10 weeks pregnant right now, but I had a miscarriage last week. Two weeks ago, the doctor told us the pregnancy wasn’t viable, and right before we left on our trip, nature took over and let’s just say I’m no longer pregnant.
It’s my fourth miscarriage, and third during the pandemic alone. It’s really weird to think about the fact that I’ve been pregnant NINE times in my life, and four of those babies were gone almost as quickly as they were here.
I get it. I’m 40. My eggs are not fresh. I have five living children. It seems selfish to want another. I absolutely adore my girls, but I wasn’t ready to shut the book on the “having kids” part of my life.
I’ve wanted to be a mom for as long as I can remember, and I’ve always envisioned having a big family. I wanted between four and six kids, outside of a brief period in my 20s when I thought I was one-and-done with my eldest. Turns out that having a colicky baby at 20 while also being in a dysfunctional marriage is HARD.
Eventually I did have one more with my ex-husband, and while I loved having two little girls, I didn’t enjoy parenting with him. One of the (many) factors going into my decision to divorce was the fact that I wanted more children, just not with him. I knew I couldn’t guarantee that I’d have more, but I knew that if I stayed in that marriage, I’d never have another one.
In my mid-30s, I got pregnant fairly easily with both Arya and Trinity, who are only 19 months apart. Then Justin and I went through some shiz, and weren’t sure if we’d try for another or not. Several months into the pandemic from hell, we decided to go for it. I got pregnant immediately with our hope baby.
At ten weeks pregnant, masked and alone with my OB because of stupid covid rules, he told me that our baby had no heartbeat, and had stopped growing at about 8 weeks.
To say I was devastated was an understatement. I had lost my first pregnancy at 19, but that had been a fluke. One in five pregnancies ends in miscarriage — hadn’t I met my quota? So much consideration had gone into deciding whether or not to try for my #5 that it didn’t make any sense that the pregnancy was over and wasn’t going to result in another sweet addition to our family.
At that point in my life, I’d gotten pregnant basically by snapping my fingers, so it felt strange that it took several months to get pregnant with Harley. I was nervous going into the first ultrasound, but her little heart beat strong. We flirted with her being our definitive last, but the moment she was born, I knew I wanted one more. “There’s one more,” I told Justin, staring at my newborn’s face just moments after her arrival. “She’s not our last. There’s one more.”
I just knew it. And when Harley was four months old, I was pregnant again. They’d almost be Irish twins, just 13 months apart. I loved the close age gap between Arya and Trinity, and I was looking forward to having my last two be even closer.
When the doctor told me at the ultrasound that I had had another missed miscarriage, I was shocked. I MET MY MISCARRIAGE QUOTA ALREADY. I knew from pregnancy math that if we tried again, I’d pass 40 before being done having kids.
It took eight months to conceive again. We met with a fertility doctor just to find out our options. I was in the process of undergoing tests when two lines showed up on the pregnancy test on Thanksgiving morning. I cried.
For five weeks I was a nervous wreck, while also trying to make Christmas magic for my kids. Somehow, I wasn’t surprised when three days after Christmas, we learned that the baby had stopped growing.
So here I sit, 40 years old, closing the pregnancy chapter of my life. It’s time. I know it, but it still sucks, especially since I feel like the decision was made for me by God or fate or whatever you want to call it.
There is still so much to look forward to though. I love every aspect of being a mom, and raising these insane kiddos into fully functioning human beings.
And according to my 40-something friends in Utah this past weekend, I have old fat to look forward to. Who knew that young cellulite looked better than old cellulite? My friends, apparently, who lamented that their legs started looking like their mothers’ after they turned 40.
I’m ready though. Bring on the next stage of life, old fat and all. It’s going to be great, because life is what you make it, and I refuse to be beaten down even if I’m sad. This too shall pass, as the saying goes.
I won’t let any of this life pass me by.
I am sorry for your loss. I am 20 years older than you, old enough to be yo mama😅
Believe me the 40 year old fat is still young fat. Way young compared to 60😂. The menopause belly is my nemesis. It’s okay because as we know the alternative is not an option.
Enjoy those sweet kids of yours, they will fill your time and heart. The world needs parents like you and Justin that will raise strong daughters to push back on the fear and one world order b.s.
p.s. enjoyed your writing.
You stuck on 27 as your age? I was for years - a real shock when our son turned 27 seven years ago. I’ve slowly accepted - not without some resistance! - that I am in my mid-seventies, but only every once in awhile. No sense rushing into it!
As to your miscarriages, they are devastating. I pray that you and Justin support each other and embrace whatever the future holds, as you embrace and thoroughly enjoy your children.
And I really enjoy your column! Looking forward to more from you.