Loving what God loves: “For unto us a child is born...”

I was never what you might call a “baby person.” When I was working at an orphanage, I gravitated to the older kids, whose thoughts, questions, and stories fascinated me. While acknowledging that there is no greater feeling than a baby sleeping on your chest, I was never one to spend hours holding babies in the nursery.

But then I had my own baby, and from the moment I saw those two lines on the pregnancy test, I became a baby person. Seeing her do back flips during the ultrasound, feeling her hiccups every night while I tried to sleep—it was unexpectedly glorious, better than I imagined.

The Madonna and Child with
the Infant Saint John the Baptist,
Giuseppe Cesari (1568-1640)

When she was born, I spent hours staring at her face, fingers, and toes the way parents do, thinking that if I loved this tiny, squishy, baby so much—who couldn’t smile, tell me a funny story, or laugh—how much more would my love grow along with her?

I’ve known several people who decided they would never have kids. Citing everything from cost, inconvenience, sleepless nights, travel, and loyalty to their favorite bar stool, they declared themselves “not a baby person,” or “not a kid person.” They are happy with their significant other, with their life as is. It’s “enough.”

In an article about the declining fertility rate in the United States, Patti Maguire Armstrong made a list of “Bad Reasons Not to Have More Children.” One of which was: “I don’t like babies.” Her response? “God does. Find out why you don’t like what God likes. That’s a disturbing state of mind.” I had never thought of it that way. Childish, selfish, sad, yes—but I didn’t afford it the gravity of disturbing.

Culturally we tend to shrug away indifference to new life: “Well, it is hard,” and “It’s not for everybody,” and “At least you know what you want.” But God commands otherwise: “Go forth and multiply.” Period. So it’s more than a preference; it’s a sad spiritual state when a couple sits down to discuss whether they want babies.

Not liking babies is incompatible with God and it’s also strangely devoid of imagination, mystery, and excitement—many of the things wilfully childless couples place such a high value on. Because nothing is more unexpected than new life, from a positive pregnancy test to the toddler eating bugs. Nothing will ever go quite according to plan again, once you open yourself up to children. And nothing is more entertaining, hilarious, and mind-boggling than a toddler. This is the adventure. This is the “good time.”

Babies are ample evidence that ours is a God of surprises. After all, the most amazing, unexpected moment in history was the birth of a baby in Bethlehem, who was the Son of God. There is an incredible power and goodness in each baby that we often underestimate. A baby does, indeed, change your life—and can change everyone else’s, too. “For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given . . . .”

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Pro-life, open to life, mom of... two

I’m a stay-at-home-mom with two children—and I’m thirty-six.

I confess that I have felt sad, jealous, and positively un-Christian when someone announces another pregnancy, another “surprise,” or an ultrasound that shows two little babies, two heartbeats.

What kind of witness is it to have two children?

Jenny recently posted about the cross-shaped vocation of marriage and children—a whole bunch of children. Blythe had a surprise #7. Grace had five little cherubs back to back to back. Kendra hosted a party for 300 with Mary Jane on her back and seven other children running around Gramblewood (which had no kitchen).

When people ask, “Are you going to try for more?” I go this awkward route of: “We’re never not trying,” or “It’s up to God,” or “We would always welcome more,” which kind of looks like we’re infertile, or contracepting, when really I’m breastfeeding and my body wants to do one thing at one time. And who wants to get into that with a mom at the park?

After giving birth to my second, my doctor couldn’t understand why I didn’t want contraception. “But you could ovulate before your period comes. you know that, right?” she said, and then: “If you’re Catholic, there’s an NFP class, but I don't know how that’s supposed to work before your cycle starts.” Yes, Catholic. No, contraception.

“I would be so excited to have a surprise pregnancy,” I told her. She did not look impressed, or convinced. She looked doubtful and worried about me.

But I probably won’t ever be surprised by pregnancy. I’ll decide to wean because of only so many years left, and I’ll have my Wondflo’s restocked, and the dreaded two week wait will commence. And I’ll pray.

The thing is, I like a challenge. I’d like to struggle with being a joyful witness to ever-new life. Instead, I’m trying to accept having two children, while hoping for more, while practicing contentment. A girl and a boy—the American dream, but not the Catholic one.

MARRIED LATE. CONVERT. ROUND ONE INFERTILITY.

Too bad those words can’t flash over my head in neon lights.

BUT I’M PRO-LIFE. . . . REALLY.

I have to remind myself that I can’t change the past, and I can’t get those child-bearing years back. Ever. My priest told me to pray for other women—that they be abundantly blessed, that they have more children, healthy pregnancies, blessing upon blessing for their families. I also tell young couples, “Don’t wait to have children. You never know. There’s never a ‘right’ time.” Because you never know.

I think most of us want to choose our cross. Pick your poison, as they say. You have two options, neither of which are great, but, hey, at least you get to choose. And that would mean having control.

The day before I moved to Ethiopia a young woman said, “Thank you on behalf of humanity,” for giving up “everything” to work in an orphanage. I thought that was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard. She saw it as a cross, but I was thrilled to be going back to Africa.

I didn’t care about days when there was no running water or electricity, or living without the internet, refrigeration, or my old Honda Civic. I appreciated the weight of water in a bucket, carrying it home to wash my dishes, avoiding wasting even a drop. It was perspective, it felt right to me—if this was a cross, I would gladly carry it.

And now I’m married, and Catholic, and wondering why my cross can’t be running to Safeway because I feel nauseous and I’m late—instead of thinking of dwindling fertility and lost youth. Because if I had my choice of crosses, I’d take the kind that wipes snot on my shirt and throws a fit because the woman at Costco didn’t draw a lion on our receipt.

Our contraceptive culture makes so many assumptions. The children you have or don’t have are your choice. You have two healthy kids, you’re sleeping through the night, why would you start all over again? There’s a clear starting line and finish line. You know when you’re ready, and you know when you’re done.

Being open doesn’t make sense. It’s not empowering; it’s humbling. You’re not choosing a cross to take up; you’re being given one—in the form of many little people relying on you for their every need, or waiting hopefully each month and then facing disappointment and fighting off despair.

Both paths are hard. Both are crosses. And both can only be taken up through openness to life—what comes and what does not. In the end, they are both paths to sanctification. As St. Thérèse of Lisieux said, “Let us go forward in peace, our eyes upon heaven, the only one goal of our labors”—be they actual labor pains, the manual labor of a job, or labor of the spiritual variety. They are all channels of grace, ours for the taking.
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Photo Source: By Sean McGrath from Saint John, NB, Canada (Maternity Curves) [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

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