Small Catholic Family

The other day while searching "small Catholic family" in hopes of finding some encouragement or advice about raising a small Catholic family, I came across The Catholic Family Handbook, written by Rev. George A. Kelly in 1959. The entire text is available online for free here. (I haven't read it in its entirety so I can't vouch for its content.)

Here were a few snippets from the book that brought me some comfort so I thought I'd share in case they brought comfort to others too:

"Although the first purpose of marriage is the procreation of children, Catholic couples will not necessarily have offspring. There may be many reasons why they cannot have babies or why they are limited to one or two. Some wives have difficulty in carrying a fetus to full term and have many miscarriages. Sometimes the husband or wife may be sterile-- unable to do his or her part in conceiving a new life. There may be mental, eugenical, economic or social reasons which make it justifiable to practice the rhythm method. The fact that a Catholic couple has no children, therefore, is no reason for concluding that they are guilty of any moral lapse."

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"Considerations for parents of small families. If you have but one or two children, you should try to create for them opportunities such as exist in larger families to develop their characters. In particular, you should discourage selfish tendencies--a natural hazard in the small family. Since you can concentrate all your attention upon your child, you may tend to worry about him to a greater extent and to bow to his whims more often than do parents of a large family. There is a natural danger, therefore, that he will become accustomed to having his own way and will not recognize that others have desires which should be accommodated too. 

In training an only child, it may help you to remember that self-denial is the virtue from which other virtues spring. You should therefore strongly resist the tendency to do everything for him and not permit him to want for anything. So that he may learn to get along with others, encourage him to cultivate friends. Invite them to your home where he will be the host and thus must exert himself to please them. 

Finally, give him the freedom to develop in his own way. You must control the impulse to worry unduly about every ailment, to stand guard over him at play, to check up constantly on his teachers to make sure that they are doing their job right. Such actions would betray a tendency to interfere abnormally in your child's affairs. Unless you avoid them you may find yourself ultimately trying to dictate where he should work and whom he should marry, and you will make it difficult for him ever to make decisions for himself."

It was incredibly affirming to me to see these included in a Catholic book for families...from 1959! I would love to see more resources for Catholic parents of small families - both in terms of spiritual encouragement and practical advice. Maybe there are resources like that out there already and I just don't know about them yet? 

a small faithful family indeed

Will you try again? Thoughts on another pregnancy after a pregnancy after loss.

Recently, we've had several people ask whether we would have try for more children after this pregnancy. None of them were nosy strangers; they were all people who knew about our losses and are generally concerned about our future, know that we have wanted a large family and also the toll that several miscarriages have had on us.

We don't really have a definitive answer at this point. Truly, I don't feel comfortable making that decision now...or ever. I just can't say that we'll never have more children because we really do try to take it one month at a time. Since this baby isn't even here yet, I have no idea where we'll be physically, mentally, emotionally, and financially when my cycles return (it took 11 months after Lucia was born, so we're looking at somewhere around October 2016 before we'd even need to make a decision of any kind). But, it is something we do think about and talk about and so here's where we're at right now.

My pregnancy, labor, and delivery were Lucia was incredibly affirming of our desire for a large family. Aside from the normal symptoms of morning sickness in the first trimester and heartburn in the third, I felt wonderful my entire pregnancy. The pregnancy was textbook perfect, without a single complication. The labor and delivery were also complication and intervention free. And I was probably one of the most laid back pregnant women - I never once called my midwives with questions, never worried about my health or the health of the baby, I can't remember ever being anxious or confused or scared about any aspect of pregnancy. After Lucia was born, I was so confident in the ability of my body to create and nurture children and I looked forward to the pregnancies to come and the large family we would have.

That pregnancy was such a gift. I know so many women who have never been able to have that experience. Their first pregnancies ended in miscarriage, or were overshadowed with serious complications or mental health issues, or came after years of infertility struggles which left them with little confidence in their bodies' abilities to do what should come naturally.

But early motherhood for me came easy, physically and emotionally. Even after Lucia was here, being a mom seemed natural and I never struggled with my changing roles. I always wanted to be a mother and when I became one, everything about it seemed so intuitive. It all seemed like an affirmation of where my life was going; if motherhood felt so right - physically, emotionally, practically - then didn't it make sense that I would have many children, the chance to replicate these experiences over and over?
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My due date for this baby is exactly three weeks shy of four years since my due date with Lucia. We certainly didn't expect our children to be this far apart in age. Many couples wait much longer than we have for a living child. We know that while our path hasn't been easy, it could have been much more difficult and we are grateful for our blessings. But we are also wary for our future.

This pregnancy has been very trying for me. After four miscarriages, the belief that my body knows what it's supposed to do, or even that it's a safe place for our child, is no longer intact. Physically this pregnancy is much more difficult and I constantly feel worn down and in some form of pain. It's nothing to complain about really, it's all within the realm of "normal" for a pregnancy and certainly is worth enduring for my child, but it is another reminder that my body isn't quite so conducive to pregnancy as I once thought. Emotionally, this pregnancy has been strenuous and when I look ahead to future pregnancies, I can't imagine that they'll be much easier. It's tempting to try to assume that a healthy labor, delivery, and baby at the end of this pregnancy will heal much of the pain of the past and make future pregnancies easier, but it seems much more likely that the scars will remain long after this pregnancy.

At this point, the thought of ever getting pregnant again is terrifying. I cannot count the times during this pregnancy, during moments of extreme anxiety, when I've made my husband promise we'd never, ever try to get pregnant again.  Just the thought of trying is panic inducing. Attempting to conceive a child is not an exciting, hope-filled endeavor for us anymore. After all, two-thirds of our children have died, a sobering statistic that sucks the joy out of thoughts of growing our family. We have no way of knowing whether I carried past the first trimester this time because of the surgery that removed endometriosis or whether this was just a random occurrence. Perhaps endometriosis wasn't even the problem in the first place, and the real issue is still there. I have no idea what my chances are for future miscarriages. As anxiety-ridden as it has been, I believe I could probably handle another healthy pregnancy, but I'm not entirely sure I could cope with more miscarriages or a complication-riddled pregnancy. I have obligations to care for husband and living children and worry that attempts to expand our family further would prevent me from caring for the family I already have.

Perhaps after this baby is born, our future fertility plans will become more clear. I pray that circumstances may change so that we might still have the large family we always longed for. I'm young enough that I have more than a decade of fertility ahead of me, so I assume we will try again at some point. However, because I had endometriosis, which even after surgery has a high chance for coming back (and only gets worse over time), there is a lot of pressure to get pregnant again right away. I don't think we'll do that and perhaps I'll need to have surgery again later down the road if we decide to try for more children. Perhaps I'll have more miscarriages. Maybe I'll suffer from secondary infertility.

Looking ahead at our future family, we acknowledge that it's entirely possible that, for whatever reason, this baby may be our last living child. It's a thought that brings me sadness but, at the same time, a measure of relief. Knowing that, if we find ourselves in the position of needing to, we can avoid pregnancy the rest of our childbearing years is a blessing. It's not a decision we take lightly; we are dedicated to being open to life and not using artificial means to prevent pregnancy and would welcome any surprise children God sent our way, but having that option is something we need to know is available to us. We are blessed in that while NFP has been emotionally draining when trying to conceive and navigate the medical side of miscarriage, it's been pretty easy for us to utilize to avoid pregnancy and I wonder if this is not the reason why - because perhaps we'll need to use it for many, many years.

How many children do you have?

Earlier today, on Facebook and Twitter, I asked the question, "When people ask you how many children you have, do you include the children you've lost?" The answers were interesting and varied, and I thought I would share my own personal response here.

First of all, I know my husband and I have conceived at least six children. I say "at least" because I suspect that I've had a few other unconfirmed "chemical pregnancies" (very early miscarriages) based on my charts from the past few years, but also because most women have most likely had early miscarriages of which they are completely unaware. There are some statistics out there that put the percentage of miscarriages of unconfirmed pregnancies at 50%. So it's quite possible that half of all pregnancies end before a woman even has the chance to know she's pregnant and then another 20-30% of confirmed pregnancies end in miscarriage. So, it's fairly impossible (this side of heaven) for any woman to know for sure how many children she's truly conceived. In some ways, attempting to answer the questions "How many children to do have?" with 100% certainty is a bit unrealistic. But my husband and I know we've conceived six and we acknowledge all of those souls as our children. Those who have passed are not any less real or significant than those here on earth with us. We don't distinguish.

But, if we're talking semantics, I don't have six children. I currently have two children - one who is currently playing downstairs and the other currently playing in my womb. God has the other four (or more, as I suspect). So, when asked how many children I have, I don't feel one bit guilty if I say I only have one or two (depending on whether I'm counting the baby in the womb or not - I am still not yet used to counting him/her and until just recently, it wasn't obvious I was pregnant and I prefer not to talk about it if I can avoid it) because that's all I have here on earth with me. I don't feel like I'm forgetting about the babies who have died or that I'm somehow failing to honor them. It's just the plain truth. I always assume that the person who asks wants to know how many children I am raising, not how many children my husband and I conceived, and I find it best to answer a question by addressing its intention.

When it comes down to it though, I try to avoid answering the question directly. When asked, "How many children do you have?" I usually say, "I have a three year old." Now that I'm a bit more obviously pregnant, I've been asked quite a bit (when Lucia's not around, of course), "Is this your first?" And I answer the same way, "No, I have a three year old," instead of having to decide whether to say, "No, it's my second," or "No, it's my sixth." It's a simple way to avoid having to directly answer with a number and gets across the information that was requested. (Again, deferring to the intention of the question.)

When someone directly asks if this is my second child, however, I do share that it's my sixth. I'm not sure why the distinction. Maybe it's semantics. I only have two children on earth, but this baby is not my second child. Second living child, yes. Second child, no. I know that doesn't make much sense. What can I say, the minds of women after loss are complicated places. There are very few things that all women who have experienced loss have in common, but I do believe one thing that's pretty constant is that each of us will find ourselves inordinately stuck on something while other things just don't bother us. We each have our own triggers, but I think each of us have them, whatever they are. Calling my baby my second child is just one of those. It's just not something I'm comfortable with, and I probably just notice it so much because it does bother me, but it seems like our society is pretty stuck on saying things like, "Congrats on baby #2", which is akin to nails on a chalkboard to me (especially from people who know about our losses).

So, if you've had a loss, how do you answer these questions? Are you comfortable with your response? Do you have certain comments or phrases that bother you more than others (like calling our current pregnancy "baby #2" bothers me)?

The Other Side of Life

This beautiful guest post by my friend Molly was originally posted on my old blog in December 2013. A perfect fit for the focus of this new blog, I thought it was time to give it another look.

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This year has been rough.  Since April of 2013 I have been pregnant twice.  I have gone through almost two complete first trimesters even though neither of my children ever developed far enough to have a body.  I have gone through a prolonged miscarriage that ended in an urgent D&E that shook me to the core and a natural miscarriage that is my new rock to stand on.

I’m not writing today to tell you about those experiences, the events or emotions that have led me through this year.  Right now, as I impatiently wait for my HcG to finally disappear from my natural MC only a few weeks ago, I want to tell you about the flip-side.

I’m a Catholic convert, and yes part of that process has been developing and making peace with what is often called married couples “openness to life”.  I’ve learned charting and more about my bodies signs, symptoms and patterns than I ever knew existed.  My husband and I try our best to approach our family life in a way that makes sense in combination with our religious teachings.

When you talk about a Catholic being “open to life” the first image folks normally see is a large family; a never-ending stream of close in age children.  When people first start approaching Catholic teaching on the subject of their fertility and family planning that is all we see.  We come to grips, or not, with the idea that being “open to life” means that we’re going to be the clown car family of constant pregnancy and birth.  After all, all good Catholic families are large. 

Right?

In many cases, yes; I definitely have my share of friends with five or more children and in some cases the oldest isn’t even ready for first grade.  But, there’s a side that’s not as well considered in the “open to life” discussion.  We work hard to teach our new couples to budget, work hard, and live thrifty lives to support those broods that might be just around the corner and all the time we forget that for every light there is a dark.

The birth of my son almost three years ago opened my eyes to what it means to be open to life.  It radically changed my outlook on how I considered my children and the things that might get in their way of a normal life and development.  It wasn’t long after he was born that I told my husband point blank that every child I conceive will be given the best chance we can make at being held and told “I love you”, no matter how long that time lasts.  I felt like I understood what it meant to be “Open to Life”.

The deaths of my two children this year showed me otherwise.  As I sat in my bedroom recovering from my natural loss a few weeks ago I realized this.  Being “Open to Life” isn’t just about learning to chart, discerning good times and learning to anticipate and sacrifice for a baby boom. 

It’s a willingness to be disappointed.

It’s a willingness to wait to get excited.

It’s a willingness to say goodbye.

It’s a willingness to be scared and frustrated and mad and every emotion other than joy and happiness.

It’s a willingness to accept what you’ve been given even if it’s not what you want.

I do not know what the future holds for my family.  There’s a chance that three is our perfect number, and there’s a chance that the third time will be a charm.  I’m nervous and I’m uncertain, but I know so much more of this call to Life.  Because it is not just a call to Life; it is a call to Life, Loss and everything in between. 

The past year was the “Year of Faith” in our church and I’ve reflected, often bitterly, about the irony of it being a “Year of Faith” during the year that has really tested mine.  But, I’ve learned and I’ve grown.  My faith has been tested and my faith is stronger.  Being open to life encompasses it all – life, love, loss, joy and tears – but the other side of Life is not death. 

In the words of St. Teresa of Avila –

“To have courage for whatever comes in life – everything lies in that.”

The other side of Life is Faith, and everything lies in that.

Molly W is a Catholic wife and {working} mother to one amazing preschooler and three souls in heaven.  She loves book-lists, backyards, and the BBC, but not necessarily in that order  She writes at Molly Makes Do about bringing a love of Learning, a love of Life, and a love of Faith into her home.

Being a "Mother Lite"; or Proving Yourself as a Mother of One

As this pregnancy continues on and the likelihood that I'll be able to hold a living child in my arms later this year increases, I've noticed an odd sense of relief. Not that my child might live - no, that relief is not odd at all - but relief that I might finally be considered a "real mother".

That's a strange phrase, I know. By "real mother" I don't mean biological mother. (I think adoptive mothers are just as "real" as biological mothers.) And you're really either a mother or you're not, right? I have a daughter, so I am certainly a mother. But that's not how other people always see me. As the mother of one, I'm often regarded by other mothers as more of a fluke than a "real mother", somehow a little less than or maybe a "mother lite". It's as if the real test of motherhood is the ability to juggle the responsibilities of multiple children and not in fact the ability to mother the child(ren) you do have.

No one looks to a mother of one as a parenting expert. No one asks a mother of one for advice. No matter how well a child turns out, it can always just be attributed to "luck", the child's particular temperament and personality, or even to the environment in which the child was born, but certainly not that child's mother. There is always this elephant in the room: "But what if she had to deal with a truly difficult child?" or "I'm sure Junior would have turned out well no matter what she did."

Of course, nature plays a role in how children develop. We all know that person who excelled despite a terrible home environment or child who turned to a life of crime despite wonderful parents. But nurture surely has a say too. Unless you're the mother of an only child. In that case, your nurturing played no role. No matter how much time you spend agonizing over parenting decisions and loving and caring for your child, you really just don't have that much effect. Because you're the mother of one and you are and always will be inexperienced, bumbling through motherhood without the opportunity to practice your mothering skills on more little souls.

I'm exaggerating a bit, obviously. Certainly not everyone treats me this way, but I regularly receive comments that allude to this sort of thinking and on several occasions have been told point blank that my experience or input doesn't matter because I'm only the mom of one. I don't want to be seen as a parenting expert or be sought out for advice, but I want to be taken seriously in conversations about parenting and children (and let's face it, pretty much every get together with other moms is dominated by these conversations). I don't want to have to fight to be acknowledged as a "real mother" and I want the real, hard efforts I make as a mom to be recognized. I'm tired of having to always justify something that I have no control over. I didn't ask to be the mother of only one.

Yes, in many ways being a mom of one is easier than being a mom of many (or even just two). But thank goodness for that because it's nice to have a little bit of consolation while I'm dealing with the difficulties of recurrent loss and secondary infertility. I'll be the first to admit that there are benefits to an only child, yet I shouldn't be made to feel guilty that I enjoy those benefits. There are also some ways in which having an only child is harder, and I'm tired of having to pretend those don't exist or else be told that they don't.

So here I am, most likely about to end my time as a mother of "only one". I will no longer have to deal with this. But so many others will. And I wish there were an answer, a way of making all mothers feel like valuable, capable, "real" mothers. I don't know what that answer is, but I want every mother of one to know that you are a mother in every sense of the word. Having another child would change many things about the way you parent, but it would not make you any more a mother. The love you have for a child and the sacrifices you make matter just as much as the love and sacrifices of a mother of many. Your life is different, but it is not less valuable. Your motherhood is whole, even if your hands are not full.

After all, the mother of our Savior was the mother of "only" One, yet her Son thought her mothering spirit and experience was sufficient to give her as a mother to us all.

It's ok to enjoy the benefits of small families.

I've noticed in Catholic circles that no one ever wants to acknowledge that there are advantages to small families (or disadvantages to large ones). I can't tell you how many Catholic articles or blog posts I've read that have talked about the advantages of big families or siblings. I think these are beautiful, important, and very needed. But, on the other hand, there is not a single one I've come across written from a Catholic perspective that talks about the advantages of small families or only children (or families that consist of husband and wife).

Perhaps this is because it's assumed that our culture lauds small families and only children (or no children) so there doesn't have to be a Catholic voice for this. But from my experience, the secular articles and posts on the benefits of small families are anything but comforting to a Catholic mother. Inherent in those articles is the understanding that small families are superior, responsible, environmentally-friendly, etc. The overall tone seems to be anti-life and selfish; children are depicted  as commodities to be obtained and enjoyed - thus, having one or two makes them easier to fit into a life full of other, equally important pursuits (career, travel, intellectual advancement, physical perfection, hobbies, etc.) To be lauded for something that is anathema to my beliefs is like a knife to the heart. I'm not "choosing" a small family in order to be a good citizen in the culture of death and self-absorption.

I think there is this fear that if we talk about the positives of small families (or the negatives of big ones) that we'll be promoting this mentality that elevates the small family for selfish reasons, and therefore will be steering Catholics away from being open to life or God's plan for our families. Instead, it alienates Catholic parents with small families and puts pressure on large families to always seem perfect. Of course, there are advantages and disadvantages to both small and large families (and medium size, too) and denying that fact makes Catholics seem out of touch with reality.

Recently I've noticed that at church or other Catholic events, it's extremely rare for us to be told we have a "beautiful family". Extremely rare. And yet the large families all around us hear it several times each Sunday. I'm not sure exactly why that is. I have a handsome husband and adorable daughter and more than that, I think we radiate the joyfulness of Christ and family life. But we're a small family. We don't fit into the Catholic ideal.

I yearn for a large family. Not because it's perfect or I idealize it, but because I love children and love being a mother and because I believe that the joy additional children bring to a family is always worth the added difficulties. In addition to joy, it seems that there are also some very practical benefits to having more children. But since I have a small family (and perhaps always will) I want to stop being afraid to talk openly about (or feel guilty about having) the practical benefits of a small family.

So I'll say it: Having one living child makes many things easier. I have more time to rest, more time with my husband, more time for hobbies, more one-on-one time with my daughter. We have more money and less material needs. We can get by with a smaller apartment, a smaller kitchen table, and smaller car. We can get out of the door faster and travel easier. And it's ok if I enjoy these advantages.

Because I'm sure that while they are struggling with all the difficulties of having a large family, the moms of many are enjoying the blessings of their extra children. There is no need for me to be a martyr by suffering the pain of secondary infertility/recurrent pregnancy loss AND feeling guilty/unable to enjoy the advantages that come with my small family.

My family is small but beautiful. We may not have many children but we have more time and resources to spend on the one beautiful blessing we do have. I'm not ashamed of our small family and I'm not guilty that I have many things "easier" than moms of many. They have the blessings of their many children and I have other blessings that, while I don't think are equal in value because what can even approach the value of a human life???, I can certainly appreciate and enjoy.

Other, even better blog posts on this topic:

The Only Guilt (Annery at Home)
The Double Edged Knife: Guilt and the Small Family (Molly Makes Do)
Benefits of Larger Child Spacing (One Catholic Mama)

And while you're at it, read the beautiful post Molly just wrote On Miscarriage and Mordor (you don't have to be a Tolkien fan to appreciate it, but it certainly helps).