Motherhood

3 Conversations to Have During Pregnancy for Better Postpartum Intimacy

Every pregnancy and every child has taught me something new. As the L&D nurse who taught my childbirth class in 2015 often said, “no two mother-baby couplets are the same.”

But one thing is true of every pregnancy and new baby: I have to lean on my husband a lot, and I’ve had to relearn how to do that, again and again, amidst the transitions of new motherhood.

For all couples, welcoming a child is an intense and emotional time in a marriage—in good ways, mostly, but in stressful ways, too.

It will be difficult to have big, emotional conversations during the sleepless and chaotic months of life with a newborn. But if you can lay the groundwork for better intimacy now, you’ll be more prepared to support each other and will feel more loved once baby arrives—and that will make for a much more blissful transition as a growing family.

Don’t forget to touch on each of these topics before baby arrives. You’ll be so glad you did!

1. What are you family planning needs, and how often should you touch base and discuss whether they’ve changed?

Talk openly with your spouse about whether you anticipate wanting to avoid pregnancy for a period of time after this baby is born. Are you hoping to have children close together, or would you prefer to have a bit more time between pregnancies?

First thing’s first: You can get pregnant while breastfeeding. Delayed return of fertility is not a given, and many women conceive before having their first postpartum period. Please don’t assume it can’t happen to you! And don’t assume you and your spouse are already on the same page about whether you want it to happen. A surprising number of couples believe they’re in agreement about this issue without discussing it, or simply don’t think about it until after the birth—and that can make for a lot of conflict.

I have encountered two types of couples when it comes to family planning postpartum: “whatever happens, happens” and “we are not ready.

Both philosophies are valid. Neither is wrong. I, for one, tend to land in the second group. The newborn stage is hard on me, and it takes a lot of focus to stay afloat.

Of course, any baby would be welcomed with open arms. Every child is a gift and will be received as such! But, so far as we can be, my husband and I are intentional about delaying pregnancy in those early postpartum months.

If you’re more the type to go with the flow and conceive when you will, that’s great! It’s good to be on the same page either way.

Most importantly, no matter what you expect to feel or want before this baby is born, be sure to establish some targets with your spouse about how frequently you should revisit this topic after the birth. Things can and do change—either because your feelings are different than you anticipate, or something health-related happens that introduces new factors—so you’ll want to communicate well on this as your family grows.

If you do hope to delay pregnancy, have a good strategy in place. Charting for natural family planning often looks drastically different postpartum and while breastfeeding, so be prepared for a learning curve and some follow-up courses with your instructor—even if you’ve been using the same method without issue for years.

Bring these questions to this conversation to help you cover everything:

  • Do you need to urgently delay pregnancy for a period of time after this baby is born? Or are you comfortable not charting for fertility? Does this differ from what you were used to pre-pregnancy and, if so, are you feeling prepared for that change?
  • What will you do if something about the birth, or mom’s or baby’s health, forces you to change those plans? How can you support each other if this change in plans is upsetting?
  • What NFP method will you use, if necessary?
  • How confident are you in that method?

2. How will you prepare for sex to look or feel different while you’re still healing and your new family responsibilities are placing extra demand on you?

Parenthood changes a lot of things in a marriage. Certainly these changes are beautiful, and a welcome part of growing together with your spouse. But there are also some growing pains involved.

One common challenge is with physical intimacy. The large majority of couples enjoy a normal sex life after the birth of a child, but there can be an adjustment period. Lingering discomfort from delivery (especially if there were complications), the drastic hormonal changes that come with birth and breastfeeding, a lack of sleep for both parents, new stresses, complexity with NFP, and simply less time in the day can mean sex is less frequent, less easy, or less comfortable for a while postpartum.

To prevent hurt feelings and miscommunication in the moment, it’s important to address these possibilities with your spouse before baby arrives. You might have a tough time talking about it in detail in advance—it’s difficult to imagine what all of these complications might be or feel like, especially if this is your first child—but it could be even harder when sensitivities run high after baby arrives, so it’s good to open the lines of communication early.

Be open about your fears and anxieties on this subject—including not just those involving physical difficulties, but emotional ones, too. In particular, talk about how you might help soften the blow for one another on the occasions you’ll need to turn down sex. Encourage one another to be open to intimacy, even if it’s not top-of-mind, when you’re able, because the opportunity to reconnect and draw closer is more beneficial than you might expect if you’re not immediately in the mood.

You should also be comfortable discussing how you can be more receptive to each other’s needs, help each other enjoy sex, and what you’ll do if any ongoing issues arise and need medical attention.

Bring these questions to this conversation to help you cover everything:

  • How long is too long without intimacy? Are you willing to be generous with each other in this way, while respecting each other’s need for rest and space?
  • What will you do if sex is initially painful once you’re postpartum? How can you emotionally support each other through it?
  • Do you have medical resources lined up to address painful intercourse if necessary? Will you want to pursue them right away, or take more time to heal on your own first?
  • What insecurities or concerns are you feeling about how sex might be different after the birth of a child? How can you help soothe them for each other?
  • How can you ensure you’re communicating openly and often with one another about this subject? Can you agree on some codewords or phrases to help break the ice before discussing it, in case you find it difficult to bring it up in the moment?

3. What types of nonsexual intimacy will help you stay close to one another if sex is not an option?

Whether you need to abstain in support of physical healing or NFP, or simply aren’t up for sex as frequently for a while, it’s absolutely critical not to let the separation get between you and your spouse. Sex isn’t everything, but it is good for an awful lot of things, and that’s not something to be discounted—especially in a time as stressful and exhausting as life with a newborn.

It is especially beneficial to discuss this one well before your due date. As pregnancy progresses, sex may become uncomfortable or self-conscious or tricky. Even if you have no restrictions during pregnancy, your medical provider is likely to instruct you to abstain for the first six weeks postpartum. That may be a longer dry spell than you’re used to as a couple, so being well prepared will help.

The biggest thing here, as cliched as it may sound, is to deeply understand one another’s love languages and how to fulfill them outside of physical intimacy. Practice your skills in other areas: kind words, helpful gestures, exchanging gifts, and spending focused time together. Be open about what helps you feel loved and appreciated, and what you tend not to notice.

If one of you has physical intimacy as a primary love language, but the other doesn’t, talk about that in detail. Does cuddling or other physical touch help during periods of abstinence, or do you find it frustrating? If you’re at odds on those preferences, how can you compromise so neither of you feels rejected in the moment?

This is also a good time to talk about what it means to feel “touched out,” and how the physical neediness of a baby might interfere with your physical closeness as a couple. For Mom, it can be simply exhausting to hold, feed, and rock a baby all day and night. For Dad, the messy diaper changes or looking after older children solo while Mom tends to the new baby could zap a lot of energy. These are normal feelings, and it’s okay to want some additional personal space during this season. But it’s important to be gentle and generous with one another about communicating and fulfilling that need, so no one’s left feeling unwanted.

Bring these questions to this conversation to help you cover everything:

  • How can you connect with one another when you’re feeling distant but can’t be physically intimate?
  • What good habits can you establish to stay close as you adapt to your new roles as a family?
  • How can you express the need for space or time to yourself without being hurtful or feeling guilty?
  • What sorts of physical touch help you feel close when sex is not an option, and what’s too much?
  • Which love languages do you share, which differ between you, and how can you better practice them for each other starting right now?

Moms Can’t Do It All (But We Can Do An Awful Lot)

It’s widely known that moms tend to carry the bulk of the mental load for their families. Finding a division of labor that works in your marriage is critical to a happy home. If both spouses are good to each other, that division ends up about even—but that doesn’t mean every day or every category is equal.

In my home, I keep track of appointments, monitoring calendars, managing childcare, meal planning, keeping household essentials in stock, watching our future to-do lists—balancing a lot of short-term and long-term needs to keep the family functioning smoothly.

As a result, my mind is usually turning gears on five or six different machines at once in addition to managing my own needs.

It’s a lot. It’s definitely part of what makes motherhood so exhausting. Moms are practical, emotional, social, intellectual, and spiritual. We are phenomenal multitaskers—it’s one of our many superpowers. But it ain’t easy.

Don’t Even Try Doing It All

Much of the advice I see about multitasking is deeply unhelpful: “Don’t do it so much.”

I can’t not do it. If I don’t do it, too many of the balls I’m juggling will hit the floor. Picking up the pieces will be roughly one zillion times more stressful than managing them preventatively, so it’s the latter I’ll continue to do. But how?

How do you watchfully keep so many balls in the air without losing sight of the bigger picture?

Partly, it’s about balance. But it’s also about accepting reality.

Let’s face it: We cannot do everything at all times. No one should hold us to that impossible expectation—including, and most importantly, ourselves. But that doesn’t mean we need to somehow just stop managing the many components of family life.

That’s where the balance comes in.

Some Tasks Pair Well. Others Don’t.

Occasionally, my husband and I enjoy a DIY wine and cheese night. After the kids go to bed, we open a bottle of wine and arrange neatly sliced cheeses alongside salami and crackers on a plate. It’s a fun way to be fancy without leaving home.

Now, I have no idea what I’m doing when it comes to pairing. But because I love wine and cheese as much as I do—both individually and together—it doesn’t really matter. I just enjoy the eating and the sipping and the bonding with my husband.

Multitasking is nothing like that. It’s not especially fun, and the tasks involved aren’t nearly as delightful as a creamy Havarti or a dry cabernet. It needs to be managed deliberately to be a bearable exercise.

To that end, here are some of my rules for more tolerable multitasking.

1. Combine a little bit from every category as often as you can.

If I’m trying to focus my brainpower on five things at once, they have to be broad so I don’t get too overwhelmed by a single role.

Example 1: I can run a load of laundry (housework) while I respond to emails (professional), with my favorite music playing in the background (self-care) and a few short breaks to check dinner in the Crock-Pot (housework) and go remind my kids they should be napping instead of jumping around their room like monkeys (momming).

This is a typical afternoon for me and isn’t particularly overwhelming. But what if all five of those things fell into the same role responsibilities?

Example 2: I can run a cycle of laundry (housework) while I get dinner prepped and into the oven (housework), cleaning the kitchen (housework) as I go. Meanwhile I’m packing my daughter’s lunch for tomorrow (momming) and folding the laundry from the previous load (housework).

If I have an open afternoon when I’m finished with work, the kids are actually napping, I’m feeling energetic, and my mind is clear, that’s a manageable list. But how often does all that happen at the same time? Almost never. So if I’m trying to do all the housework at once, I’m constantly distracted by deadlines I didn’t get to that day (professional); the kids making far too much noise instead of sleeping like they’re supposed to (momming); and the fact that I haven’t had more than 30 minutes to myself in three days (self-care).

Now, instead of feeling like I’m accomplishing a checklist of diverse tasks, I put all this work into one category just to watch it multiply (that next load of laundry won’t fold itself, and the dishes are piling up)—ignoring all the others even as they nag at me from every angle.

I need to focus on each role responsibility in bite-sized chunks. That way, I feel relatively on top of it all and can compartmentalize everything that needs to be done into separate, manageable spaces of time.

2. Accept that not every pony is going to be in the ring for every show.

Now, combining categories doesn’t mean that every responsibility gets my attention at all times. That’s just not possible. During business hours, for example, my brainpower needs to focus on work—and the other stuff needs to sit, undone, until I can get to it. When my kids are sick, momming must be my priority. Most of the time, I need to let a few things slide to make sure more immediate needs are met.

Combining categories does mean, however, that things come up about equal on a typical day. Maybe none of them is done perfectly or completely, but none of them is neglected, either. So when I have a day or time block that requires my full attention on one category, it’s less painful to stay focused and temporarily set aside the rest.

This helps immensely with a couple of common plagues: mommy guilt, prioritizing time for myself, keeping the house reasonably tidy so that I can hustle-clean if unexpected company comes over, and so forth.

3. Keep an eye out for looming existential catastrophes and stop them before they stop you.

When someone is literally juggling, if she’s highly experienced and relaxed, a ball or two may fall to the floor without disrupting her flow. But if she’s new or nervous, seeing a ball fall may throw off her game—and all the other balls might come tumbling down after it. Even if she’s exceptionally centered, she’ll probably need help to put a dropped ball back into the rotation.

In terms of multitasking, few of us can stay completely level-headed when we fail to manage something important. We are naturally and emotionally invested in each of the burdens we bear. So our knee-jerk reaction will be to overcorrect, which means the other things get much less attention—which means the whole routine may collapse. It’s a domino effect. If we let it get out of hand and simply watch this collapse happen around us, we tend to question whether we’re capable of fulfilling our roles and our families’ needs.

Step one in preventing such a crisis is staying humble. We need to expect that things will fall out of place here and there—sometimes due to our own fault, sometimes due to circumstances outside our control. We need to lean on God and constantly remind ourselves that we are loved regardless of our faults, we can always improve with His help, and we are not in this alone.

The next step is self-awareness. It is so important to be honest with yourself and your support system about what you’re managing well, and what may be starting to slip. A frequent examination of conscience (and Confession!) can be helpful in many ways here: you’ll monitor which areas could use some extra attention and take good care of your soul.

The final step is to ask for help. Ask for it early—before things start to crumble—so you can articulate your needs, minimize the burden on others (you shouldn’t feel guilty about this anyway, but don’t we all hate sharing our crosses?), and not have to set down other important priorities to put out fires. Even a little bit of help (from your spouse, or your neighbor, or your older kids) can make a huge difference in getting back on track before things go off the rails.

How do you manage your multitasking? Visit my Facebook page to share your tips and tricks with other busy moms!

Do Not Be Discouraged: Domesticity and Virtue

Note: This article was originally written for and published by Chaste Love. It was an honor to be invited to write for such a wonderful resource, and I’m very happy to share my article again here. 

Growing up, I always felt called to marriage as my vocation in life. I believed that God had a romantic path in mind for me: true love, a happy home, a wholesome family. I never really considered religious life. I just never felt drawn to it.

That is, not until I experienced just how hard family life can be.

Cloistered religious life, specifically, never seemed attractive to me until the noisy, hectic unpredictability of raising toddlers took over my daily experience.

I think we sometimes fail to see the beauty in other vocations until we deeply know the difficulties of our own. But while I may, here and there, yearn for the solitude and quiet devotion of a religious sister, I know in my heart that God made me to be a wife and mother.

Still, the struggles of this life have surprised me. I didn’t realize motherhood could be so lonely. And I failed to anticipate how the devil might trick me into thinking all my domestic labors are empty, circuitous, and invisible to the rest of the world.

Labor of Love

I can’t tell you how deeply I feel like my days are filled with little more than cleaning up messes and watching them be made again.

The work of raising a family is full of monotony and seemingly petty demands. Though the blisses of your wedding day and your children’s first smiles or laughs are enough to make these labors worthwhile, the responsibility of it all remains a heavy burden to bear. It’s difficult not to feel completely spent by the end of every day.

Then, when you’re feeling exhausted and frustrated, it’s so easy to let your spiritual growth fall to the wayside. Tapped out of energy and patience, the silence that fills your home after the kids are finally asleep seems like an invitation to nothing but your own bed. And attending Mass? It’s more about wrangling the children than it is about encountering the Divine.

Before you know it, weeks go by before you realize you can’t remember the last time you uttered a sincere prayer. And suddenly the guilt of neglecting your Father is added to the guilt you feel over your impatience with your children, the tasks you’ve left undone, and the mistakes you’ve made along the way.

Your Work is a Prayer

Know this: These negative thoughts are how Satan exploits your vulnerabilities. The real truth is simple: If you’re living according to God’s law and raising your children to love Him, your every effort is a prayer.

Our world is a busy and self-interested one, and it’s easy to feel like your contributions are miniscule and obsolete compared to the goings-on of the culture around you. But God sees your labors and He loves you for them. He sees your contributions to His kingdom—and there is no greater work than that.

So long as you’re living as His daughter or son, doing your best to fulfill His will and glorify His love with devotion to your family, your life is a prayer and He knows the needs and good intentions of your heart.

But don’t take my word for it. The Church and the saints have much to say on this subject.

Find Assurance in the Faith

In fact, Church history is chock-full of praise for the family. As the domestic church, the family is the most foundational microcosm of what the Church herself should be: a community of devoted brothers and sisters who put one another’s needs before their own, and place God’s will at the center of their life together.

Pope John Paul II, who had many wonderful things to say about the beautiful work of building a family, expressed this so well:

Catholic parents must learn to form their family as a “domestic church,” a church in the home as it were, where God is honored, His law is respected, prayer is a normal event, virtue is transmitted by word and example, and everyone shares the hopes, the problems, and sufferings of everyone else. All this is not to advocate a return to some outdated style of living: It is to return to the roots of human development and human happiness!

There are also plenty of examples in the catechism—a comprehensive catalog of the central beliefs of our faith.

Christ chose to be born and grow up in the bosom of the holy family of Joseph and Mary. The Church is nothing other than “the family of God.” From the beginning, the core of the Church was often constituted by those who had become believers “together with all [their] household” (cf. Acts 18:8) (CCC, 1655).

The home is the first school of Christian life and “a school for human enrichment.” Here one learns endurance and the joy of work, fraternal love, generous—even repeated—forgiveness, and above all divine worship in prayer and the offering of one’s life (CCC, 1657).

The family is the original cell of social life. It is the natural society in which husband and wife are called to give themselves in love and in the gift of life. Authority, stability, and a life of relationships within the family constitute the foundations for freedom, security, and fraternity within society. The family is the community in which, from childhood, one can learn moral values, begin to honor God, and make good use of freedom. Family life is an initiation into life in society (CCC, 2207).

As for the difficulties of this life? As we Catholics know better than most, suffering can be sanctifying—especially when it is endured for the sake of others. I can’t think of a better way to validate the sacrifices we make for our spouses and our children in this life.

So, rather than descend into complaint or self-pity over these struggles, we can endure them with patience and selflessness and thus transform them into a very special kind of prayer. Lifting up our pain—physical and emotional, petty or profound—to God is a boon to our growth as well as the growth of our families.

What’s more, bearing our trials with humility breeds the kind of virtue this world so desperately needs. “Do everything without grumbling or questioning,” Saint Paul says in his letter to the Philippians, “that you may be blameless and innocent, children of God without blemish in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, among whom you shine like lights in the world” (Philippians 2: 14-15).

Finally, in our efforts to see the holiness and virtue-building goodness of this repetitious and often frustrating domestic life, we can pull inspiration from the saints. Their insight on the love of God and the righteousness of submitting to our families’ needs is enough to motivate all of us to greater selflessness:

Know that even when you are in the kitchen, our Lord moves amidst the pots and pans. – St. Teresa of Avila

I know now that true charity consists in bearing all our neighbors’ defects—not being surprised at their weakness, but edified at their smallest virtues. – St. Therese of Lisieux

They who, by a generous effort, make up their minds to obey, acquire great merit; for obedience by its sacrifices resembles martyrdom. – St. Ignatius of Loyola

The Worth of the Working Mom

The internet is a place for learning and community. It’s a place I’ve appreciated very much as a mother—especially as an introvert—and it’s full of resources I’m glad my kids can access as they grow up.

But it is also a place for jerks.

For example, there’s been a huge debate among Catholics on Twitter this month about the morality of mothers working outside the home. It began with an interview in which a Catholic man made some very sexist comments and radical claims about the Church’s teachings on working moms.

Why this is even a debate is beyond me. We have saints who were working mothers (looking at you, Saint Gianna!); we have popes who’ve praised mothers for their efforts within and outside of the home; and most clearly of all, we have no doctrine stating that mothers must stay home to fulfill their duties toward their children. (On these points, much has been written. Instead of trying to duplicate them, I’ll point you to an excellent read here.)

The Church and Job Discernment

Many of those outside the Church see Catholicism as a laundry list of rules dictating believers’ daily lives. And while it’s true that we hold ourselves to unpopular and often difficult moral choices, a lesser-known truth of the Catholic Church is that she leaves plenty of details up to the discernment of her members.

Such details aren’t inherently rooted in morality or theology. Rather, they’re rooted in how we—as unique children of God, made with specific talents and living in certain circumstances—practice our vocations and navigate the world.

For example, it is up to us to discern how many children to have and when (so long as our marriages remain open to life); whether purchasing a new vehicle is a good idea (so long as we’re not using it as a status symbol); which books to read (so long as we’re not succumbing to immoral or evil thoughts and behavior as a result of their influence); and so on.

Among these topics of discernment is the question of whether, where, and how spouses should work outside the home to support their families. Among the arrangements they may reasonably discern are:

  • Only Dad should work and Mom should be a full-time, stay-at-home-parent (so long as he’s able to provide for his family’s financial needs, his work is moral, he remains involved with his children and devoted to his wife in ways that suit his talents and meet their needs, and Mom can provide sufficient childcare).
  • Only Mom should work and Dad should be a full-time, stay-at-home parent (so long as she’s able to provide for her family’s financial needs, her work is moral, she remains involved with her children and devoted to her husband in ways that suit her talents and meet their needs, and Dad can provide sufficient childcare).
  • Dad and Mom should both work full-time outside the home (so long as they’re able to provide for their family’s financial needs, remain involved with their children and one another in ways that suit their talents and meet their needs, access good childcare, and maintain a healthy home).
  • Dad and Mom should both work, in some unique blend of full-time, part-time, outside, and at-home employment (you get the idea).

Today’s socioeconomic world is complicated. Frankly, it’s a difficult time for families to choose—or even have the option of—living on a single income. Some of us are well equipped for tight budgets and managing debt. Others thrive on stability and have costly priorities, such as sending children to Catholic schools. Neither of these “types” of families is wrong, and parents can fall into either of these categories without either failing to provide for their children or living in gluttony.

Is your family cared for virtuously, well-loved, and supported both physically and emotionally? If so, you’re doing a bang-up job—whether those 40 hours are spent in your house or out of it.

Thoughts for Dads

To any dads reading this, I’m sorry that you are so left out of this conversation. It may be true that mothers tend to be nurturers and have historically taken on the majority of childcare responsibilities. It may be true that your specific talents are best applied to the workforce. And it may be true that your career fulfills you as well as sustains your family.

But it’s also true that you are a parent as much as your wife is. Your contribution to the family isn’t—and shouldn’t be—simply financial. It isn’t simply biological, either. Your ability to spend quality time with your family and help raise your children well is immensely valuable and your effort in doing so is deeply appreciated. You are your babies’ hero.

If you’re following this debate and wondering whether the criticism and insults thrown at working mothers (“How could you spend such little time with your own flesh and blood?”) apply to you, too, the answer is simple: these insults apply to no hard-working, loving parent. Whether you support your family within or outside of your home, so long as they are your first priority and they know how fundamentally you love them, you are doing it right.

Thoughts for Moms

As women, we are fed so many lies by mainstream culture: that our bodies can’t be managed as designed, that we aren’t good enough, that our needs must come last. The lies we hear about our place in the workforce are exceptionally harsh, because they come from every direction.

We are told that our contributions are insufficient if we aren’t working outside the home: that our children will never see what an enlightened woman should be, that we’re sapping resources, that we’re taking advantage of our husbands’ hard work, that we’re lazy.

We are told that our contributions are insufficient if we are working outside the home: that our children will never see us, that we’re abandoning them to irresponsible and unloving caretakers, that we’re leaving our homes in filth, that we’re belittling our husbands’ masculinity, that we’re selfish.

Both “sides” of this debate can lob hateful bombs at the other. As with so many social disputes, the extreme minorities tend to be the loudest. And their aggression hurts everyone in between.

Those of us who are in between simply respect others’ choices and efforts for their families. We tend to be quiet because we’re working really hard and, not having participated in many of these unkind conversations, we don’t always know that our neighbors need our affirmation.

So I think that’s step one toward a better world for all of us: this silent but loving majority should get loud. Pat your sister on the back for staying home full-time and not losing her mind. Pat your cousin on the back for working elsewhere full-time and not losing her mind. Let the parents you admire know that they’re doing a fine job, no matter what their daily routines look like.

Work to Live

Friends, “Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s; and to God the things that are God’s.” For parents, work is simply the means to the most important end: a healthy, thriving family and home life that nurtures its souls into sainthood. Don’t take your work—or the lack of it, if you’re a stay-at-home parent—too seriously, don’t put it first, and don’t let it torture you.

Don’t let other people torture you about it, either. You are doing good work for your family, and that is what matters. Use those labors to bring more fruit home to them, and don’t worry about the rest.

Welcoming the Scary, Sacred Gift of Siblings

I’m writing this as much for me as for anyone else. (Which—I won’t flatter myself—is probably true of much of my blog. But still.)

There are few changes more difficult than welcoming a new sibling for your child (or children). But there are also few changes more beautiful.

When I was pregnant with my son, I wept often over the thought of losing all the one-on-one time in the world with my firstborn. I ached to think that she might be confused by the amount of time I was suddenly spending with someone else. She was only 18 months old, and while she didn’t often show much jealousy when we were with other kids, I knew it would be different when it was all the time and in our own home.

I was so frightened that she would be hurt by my inability to immediately meet her needs. I have never been a helicopter parent—my daughter was delightfully independent at that age and didn’t need me to fulfill every tiny desire. But, with only her to look after, I was always there to quickly kiss ouchies and play games and read books. What would she feel when a newborn forced me to respond to most of her requests with “Give me a minute” or “I can’t right now, honey” and an exhausted sigh?

Of course, I knew that there would ultimately be more love blossoming in our family. I knew that a sibling would be the greatest gift I could give her. And I already dearly loved the baby boy I carried. But it’s just too hard to set aside the inevitable loss of something you know so well and focus only on the promise of something you can just barely see around the corner.

When her baby brother was born, my daughter excelled in her role as big sister. We had (and still have) incredibly difficult days, and juggling them both was no picnic on any day, but the bright spots far outshined the dark ones. We shared so much joy. It was true that I couldn’t always jump to meet my daughter’s pleas, but I did see her develop a beautiful sense of compassion when it came to the baby’s needs. And while we no longer spent so much uninterrupted time together, the time we spent as a family of four was even more fruitful than I imagined.

Given these lessons, I thought the change would be easier this time. I’m pregnant again, expecting our third child here on earth, and I spent almost the entire first half of this pregnancy afraid for this baby. But we’re 21 weeks along now, with all signs pointing to good health. As I’m feeling this little lady moving throughout every day, the reality of her impending arrival is truly sinking in. And as my fear for her safety begins to wane, my fear for the waves that are on their way to my family is growing.

This time, my kids are well accustomed to knowing that, sometimes, their sibling’s needs are more pressing than their own. They know how to share—toys, time, and treats—and they don’t expect to do exactly what they want to do all of the time.

But, as it turns out, this time I’m afraid and sad for different reasons.

Another baby will mean changing up sleeping arrangements, and I’m heartbroken to think about splitting up my kids into different rooms. They’ve been together for as long as they both remember, and I know it will be hard on them not to be.

Another baby will mean I can’t hold both my kids’ hands when they need me, or when we’re out and about and I need to keep them close.

Another baby will mean a new routine: no more all-at-once morning wake-ups, no more all-at-once evening bedtimes, and no more all-at-once afternoon naps (at least not for a while). My family thrives on routine, and I know the first few months with a new baby—when routines last no longer than a few days or a week before becoming obsolete—are extremely stressful for all of us.

There are birth plans, childcare logistics, feeding demands, sleepless nights, and many other complications to navigate. There are team dynamics to sort out with my husband, patience and sharing battles to negotiate with my children, and self-care routines to rediscover for myself.

As a rule, I’m not good at change. It makes me cry and shiver and stomp my feet. But, despite the challenges that lay ahead, I know that this change will bring great things to my family. Having embarked on a similar change once already, I have the benefit of hard evidence to help me feel more certain of that bright future. Doesn’t mean I’m not scared, though.

So we’ll see how this one goes. I’m sure that, with a lot of prayer and a lot of love, we’ll be okay. Even if we aren’t at every moment along the way.

 

How My Toddlers Break My Spirit (And Then Heal It Again)

Before I became a mom, I knew it would be hard. I knew it would be frustrating. But I had no idea how my own children could—without meaning to, and even though they’re just doing what little kids do—legitimately hurt my feelings.

It’s okay to be tired. It’s okay to feel drained. It’s okay to feel beaten down. We all do, now and then.

What’s not okay is feeling stuck in that mire. Because, if I’ve learned anything, it’s that motherhood is humbling. And that is not a bad thing—difficult as it may be.

So here are the biggest ways my kids wear me down from day to day—and how that pain becomes so fruitful when examined in the big picture.

1: Screaming “No!” over the simplest thing.

It happens without fail: We’re having a perfectly pleasant morning, and then some invisible stone shatters my children’s patience and all hell breaks loose. Whether it’s that I chose her socks for the day instead of predicting she’d want that privilege, or I had the audacity to wipe his nose in the middle of an important game of “vroom,” the chorus of protests begins and is overwhelmingly difficult to stop.

I take deep breaths. I say a prayer (even if it’s only three words—“Help me out!”). I remind myself they have big feelings with little capacity to manage them. Sometimes these things work. Often, they don’t.

But you know what does help? When the simplest thing stops their meltdowns. When I recognize that I’m one of few people who understands them well enough to pinpoint that solution. And when I realize that they fully trust me to fix all the things that go wrong for them. Even if I can’t figure it out every time, the times I can, make up for the rest—if only until the screams begin again.

2: Fighting with each other.

My kids are three-and-a-half and two years old right now, and for so long, they got along perfectly. But a few months before his second birthday, they began testing each other’s tempers. It kills me to watch them hit, fight over toys, and pitch fits when the other comes too close at the wrong time.

I try to interfere only when things are getting out of hand. I think it’s important for them to work out their own dynamic—and excessive chastising only makes the situation more volatile (and encourages taddling next time). So it helps some to let them take ownership of their relationship, inasmuch as toddlers are capable of doing so.

But you know what helps more? How quickly they go right back to joy after an argument. I love watching my son recognize his sister’s sadness over his hoarding of a toy, changing his mind to share in the hopes of making her feel better. It warms my heart to see my daughter apologize and kiss ouchies after she’s taken their playful wrestling too far and her brother starts crying.

3: Refusing the special activity I had lovingly planned for them.

I am not a Pinterest mom. So when I put a lot of effort into a special activity for my kids—cookie decorating, finger painting, planting a garden—only to be met with boredom or outright rebuff, it really brings me down.

I know, I know—toddlers’ preferences are highly unpredictable and their interests change daily. I remind myself of these facts, and try to remember that it isn’t about my ego. But it’s hard not to feel let down.

It is the sweetest thing, though, when my kids light up at the little chores I do for them. My daughter gushes with thanks when I present her with clean laundry and ask for help putting it away. My son lights up when I take his hand and help him down the step into the garage that is just slightly too big for comfort.

Those moments remind me that motherhood is in the little, day-to-day moments much more than the big, Pinterest-inspired ones. It’s the little moments that inspire confidence and encourage growth.

4: Being unkind to others.

Sibling bickering is one thing, but when my kids level an angry look or refuse to share or say something unkind to others, it cuts deep. This is especially true when they do it to other family—like their dad, who does everything he can to support them; or their cousins, who just want to play.

They’re still learning good manners, and how to control selfish impulses. They’re still learning the world can’t revolve around them. They don’t mean anything by it, and every teaching moment is immensely valuable. But still.

What I absolutely love, though, is how they care about other people in their world—even strangers. My son loves waving and saying “hi” and shaking hands with everyone he encounters. My daughter is so observant, whether it’s spotting (and wanting to comfort) a sad child at the park or recognizing another mother’s loving care of her baby. Clearly these kids are growing up with compassion—it just takes practice to make it a habit (and don’t we all know it?).

5: Acting crazy during Mass.

I want so badly for my kids to grow up full of faith, knowing how much God loves them. Faith has helped me through life—to be true to who I was created to be, even when it wasn’t comfortable or convenient to do so. They will need that, too, in today’s world. I believe the most basic way I can help nurture that possibility is to dutifully bring them to Mass every week.

It is a righteous exercise, but it is also a chore. Almost every Sunday, the kids are noisy, distracted, argumentative, and/or hyperactive during Mass. I try to ask them to point out Jesus around the sanctuary, or listen for God, or say their prayers. But for the most part, my husband and I must simply manage them while trying to absorb what we can.

When we get home, though, where the kids are comfortable and not overstimulated, I can see the fruits of this labor: sweet prayers at bedtime, well-recited blessings before meals, and excited recognition of Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and others in art and books. That easy joy brings me hope for their bright, engaged futures in the faith. And that makes it all worthwhile.

When Pregnancy is Scary: Motherhood After Miscarriage

I am pregnant with my sixth child. But I’ve only met two of my kids.

Three were lost to back-to-back miscarriages, and while I’ve come to cherish the babies I’ve never held and the lessons they taught me, the pain of those losses has left me scarred. I am desperate to meet the beautiful child I’m carrying now.

For some time after the miscarriages, my husband and I chose to delay conceiving another pregnancy and focus on making sure I was healthy. It was a difficult choice, but it felt like the only choice. We were terrified of another loss. We were paralyzed by the thought of more grief. And I did not trust my own body.

After months of work and close consulting with a specialist, we regained enough confidence to try and grow our family again. My husband was stronger on this front than me—I was still so frightened and so distrustful of myself. Though our first two pregnancies were perfect and healthy, the next two were anything but, and I had no idea what to expect next.

It took longer to conceive this time than it did for any of our other pregnancies, and the waiting was very hard on me. The stress over timing and taking precautions just in case and not knowing for several weeks at a time, followed by the disappointment of failure, did a number on my anxiety and my self-confidence. Overall, our struggle was hardly that—it was only a few months more than we expected. But it gave me great empathy for those couples who face infertility. Those families are now in my prayers daily.

When we did confirm pregnancy this time, the real unease set in. I was hard on myself—strict about how optimistic I should feel, how far ahead I should think, how secure I should be in this new possibility.

I promised myself and my husband that it would be better after 5 weeks, when we lost Gabriel; it wasn’t. I made the same promise about after my hCG levels came back strong. After an initial ultrasound. After 8 weeks, when we lost Karol and Julian. And on and on.

It hasn’t gotten much better, although it has improved some. I still find myself guarded when I talk to this new child or rub my belly or think about plans for our expanding family. I’m currently telling myself I’ll feel better once I start feeling him or her move more consistently, but who knows?

The truth is simple: You can’t trust an anxious mind to find peace in anything. Even the most natural thing in the world. Even something you’ve done well several times before. Even a pregnancy that your doctor tells you seems, by all accounts, perfect.

Anxiety—especially maternal anxiety—isn’t about rational thought or logic or coherence. It’s about the dread of danger for your children. It’s about the fear of pain. It’s about feeling out of control. And it’s disordered.

Pregnancy after miscarriage is never the innocently beautiful experience it was before a loss. I can’t see the big statistics I fit into anymore—only the small, scary ones that might catch hold and drag me down. I can’t rest in this new motherhood. I complain about the nausea and the fatigue and the moodiness, but in some primal part of my soul, I am also deeply grateful to feel these physical reminders that my hormones are doing what they should be.

Instead of trying to hide my quickly growing belly under loose clothes, I take time to look it over in the mornings and hope it’s bigger than yesterday. I cannot stop questioning my body and its strength—cannot avoid a small, squeaky voice of panic every time I head to the bathroom or feel a twinge.

But I want very desperately for this baby to know that I love him or her more than words can say. I plague myself with guilt over my fear of connecting with this tiny, sweet person. I hate that it’s more scary than exciting to buy and start filling out a pregnancy journal this time. I hate that the first gift I’d like to buy for this new child is still sitting in my Amazon cart, waiting for some immeasurable milestone to embolden me enough for its purchase.

So, to this new life in my womb, I’d like to say some important things:

I am so sorry, little one, that my heart is too guarded to open the floodgates and let loose the love and devotion I already feel for you—that I’ve felt since the moment I knew you existed. Please know that the love is there, nonetheless, and behind these walls, I’m bursting with it. I promise to do my best to break down the barriers, brick by brick, so that I can show it to you.

The fear isn’t your fault, baby. It is no reflection on you.

I pray for you every moment of every day. I can’t wait to meet you. Hang in there.

From here, I want to be positive. I want to cherish every moment of time I have with this baby, even though I know none of them can be taken for granted.

So this is my honest confession about how it feels to be pregnant after loss. But this experience is still all about love—even if it’s the scary side of love most days. And I want this baby to know that.

If you’re a mom like me and you’re feeling guilty over feeling frightened, please don’t. I’m here with you. You’ll be okay. God and your baby are with you.

5 Reasons Stories of Traditional Romance are Still Valuable for Little Girls

I’ve been watching a lot of Disney movies lately.

(Or, more accurately, I’ve been watching the same three or four Disney movies a lot of times in a row lately. #lifewithtoddlers)

And it’s got me thinking.

There’s an admirable trend in recent Disney princess movies that removes a traditional element from the genre: romance. Moana, Frozen, and Brave, for example, set aside the trope of ending in “married and living happily ever after.”

Moana ends up leading her people into adventure. Elsa settles into her position as queen with no need of a king, while Anna has a love interest that is delightful but still somewhat casual when Frozen ends. At the close of Brave, Merida is a princess allowed to live for herself and find love on her own terms—whenever that may be.

Of course, these aren’t the only ladies who’ve discovered their independence and didn’t end their stories with weddings. Mulan and Pocahantas can relate.

I’m not the only one to notice this evolution, of course. And I agree that it’s a good thing to recognize that princesses—or any women—don’t need to be rescued by or married off to wealthy, handsome men to be happy.

But I also dearly hope we don’t veer too far in this direction with the princesses (and generally heroic young women) who will star in future animated features. Because traditional romance is still a valuable thing of beauty that little girls deserve to see and admire in their fictional heroes.

I have no misgivings about unconsented kisses from strangers or the value of disobeying and then abandoning one’s family for a guy (looking at you, Ariel). But romance is inherently good, because it teaches our daughters (and sons!) some very valuable lessons.

#1: Teamwork

In my favorite Disney princess movies, the girl and her Prince Charming work together to get stuff done—whether it’s defeating the Hun or discovering her true identity.

I like that my daughter and son watch these movies knowing that it’s possible to find someone who’s willing to take risks, go on adventures, and fight for what’s right with you—someone who will stay by your side and add their talents to yours for the betterment of everyone.

#2: Chivalry

It’s not dead. Not every Disney prince has treated his princess as well as he should (*ahem* Beast), and some of them needed warming up, but many of them do provide examples of treating women with respect and admiration.

I, for one, still think it’s appropriate and lovely for a man to hold a door open for a woman, or let her take the last seat on the train, or prioritize her safety even when it causes him pain or puts him in danger.

#3: Complementarianism

Men and women are different. We were made to be different—both sexes fully express the beauty of human nature, but do so in different ways. And not just different ways. Complementary ways. In other words, both generally (across the species) and specifically (couple to couple), we balance one another.

I think it’s wonderful for kids to see examples of traditional—and less so—roles for men and women, and how they showcase the wonderful things about the sexes, the beauty in our differences, and the relationships between us.

#4: Fantasy

Kids should dream! They should put their big, beautiful imaginations to good work, drawing up the futures they have ahead of them and all the adventures they might go on in their lives. And it’s good and healthy for part of those dreams to be about finding true love.

Encouraging big dreams, exciting futures, and wholesome relationships is a good way to raise happier kids. It also gives them the ambition and confidence they’ll need to learn the skills and life lessons that will help them maintain and achieve those goals (even after they learn they likely won’t involve magic or “happily ever after”).

#5: Agape

True love is an inherently good thing. We don’t “throw our lives away” by getting married or starting families—even if we choose to do so at a young age (ask me how I know). Women don’t give into the patriarchy or subvert our independence by pursuing a vocation of marriage, and men don’t suppress women by wedding us.

Can the pursuit of true love lead us to bad places? Certainly it can. But that’s why we need to give our children positive examples of healthy, selfless, self-giving love—even those mired in fantasy. Because I’d much rather show my kids “magical,” healthy relationships than the ones they’ll see on teen TV and reality shows in a few short years. Not every Disney movie offers this, but many do, and I’m not about to think less of them for it.

Introverted Moms: You Can Still Find Your Tribe

One of the most beautiful things about Catholicism is its quiet sanctity. There’s nothing like walking into a near-empty church, filled with the lingering scent of incense and the Holy Spirit, with Christ himself sitting in the tabernacle behind the silent but sturdy altar.

I am an introvert—quiet and solitude are almost synonymous with peace for me, especially in the context of my Catholic experience.

But while these moments are beautiful and deeply meaningful, the Church isn’t about solitude. She’s about community. And if you’re like me—no social butterfly, happy to stay home, easily stressed by new situations—that community can be hard to find.

In college I got my first big taste of Catholic community. I attended the University of Dayton, a Marianist institution where the word “community” is used at least as often as “study.” Having gone to college alone, five hours from home, it was difficult to jump into new friendships—but it was also easy, because I was with the same people most days and had no choice but to forge new relationships.

After college, I started working in a tech company and married my high school sweetheart. Though I enjoyed spending time with my coworkers each day, we didn’t have many common interests when it came to extracurriculars. And anyway, as a newlywed, I was happy to simply return home to my husband in the evenings and build our own little community—our domestic church.

It was a fruitful time for my vocation. Dedicating so much time to my marriage made me a better person—a more selfless daughter of God and a more devoted wife. These years prepared me for the sacrifices of new motherhood.

But you know what they didn’t prepare me for? The solitude of new motherhood.

And here I thought solitude was something I was good at.

Bringing home a new baby was surreal for me. It was beautiful, of course, but in many ways, also quite baffling. I would gaze at my sweet daughter’s sleeping face and think, Thank you, God, for giving me this child!

And then, the very next moment, she would scream and I’d think, Oh God, how could You think I could do this alone?

I’d heard that it takes a village to raise a child. I had no idea where my village was.

Please don’t get me wrong. My husband was especially wonderful during that time. Our closeness kept me anchored to myself in a season that was deeply confusing (Am I still me, or am I “Mom” now?). My family and friends were supportive, too.

What I realized, though, was that I knew no one in the same life stage as me. My girlfriends and sisters either had no children yet, or their children were much older than mine. My husband did so much for me but just couldn’t relate to my confusion about breastfeeding or my impatience with my suddenly unfamiliar body. When he was away at work during the day, I was alone with a baby who needed me desperately but couldn’t convey just what she needed.

So new motherhood was rarely the peaceful solitude I expected. Instead, it was something dimmer: it was lonely.

I knew having a newborn would be exhausting and stressful. But I didn’t know that hacking it alone would be so isolating.

I joined a local breastfeeding support group and investigated whether my parish had a mothers’ group (it didn’t, though I later found a neighboring one that did). Even when I managed to attend events designed to help me find my village, I struggled to build any sense of community.

Many of the mothers there were already close, and I’m not skilled at inserting myself into conversations as the “new kid” in the room.

Most of the other mothers were stay-at-home parents, but I was only on maternity leave—in a few weeks, I had to begin my work-at-home mom life. That meant, though I would be home each day, my daughter would be with a babysitter while I worked a full-time job on a rigid schedule. Any daytime playgroups I was invited to simply weren’t in the cards for me.

And the evening meetups? Well, frankly, those meant swapping precious little time with my husband for time spent with relative strangers (either with a newborn who obviously wouldn’t be doing any “playing,” or with the new-mom stress and physical discomfort of leaving a breastfeeding baby at home).

I just couldn’t make any of it work, and it made me feel like a failure. It made me feel like I just needed to hack it out on my own—that that’s the kind of mom I would always be.

As weeks passed and interpreting my daughter’s needs consumed me slightly less, I spent what time I could on Facebook. That was a safe social connection—a way to feel close to my friends and family, on my own time, even when I wasn’t physically with them.

But when you’re checking your phone every fifteen minutes and most of your friends are adults with day jobs, your timeline quickly runs out of new things to show you.

I went exploring and discovered groups—most notably one that was dedicated to support around the Creighton method of natural family planning (which, thanks to postpartum changes and my difficult adjustment to motherhood, had suddenly become a high-stress part of my life).

The sheer number of like-minded, thoughtful people who were there to answer questions about NFP and other struggles related to Catholic life was staggering and so deeply helpful. Eventually, I found a larger Catholic group that focused on even broader topics.

I had a place—a safe, not too in-my-face, unscheduled place—to ask questions about my growing family and even my faith. It was rejuvenating, and it made me feel more confident as a new mother.

Eventually, I joined a group for young, Catholic mothers that has since taken up a firm, cozy place in my heart. I consider the other members my friends. They are my tribe now—my village. They’ve been there to answer all my questions, laugh at my jokes, pray for me, and support me both emotionally and physically in the darkest of times. I am so thankful for them. I hope I’ve done a decent job giving these same gifts right back.

Their friendship has also made me more confident in finding friends “in real life.” Having a readily available and supportive social outlet makes me feel stronger and more worthy of new friends when I attend local events for Catholic moms, or see a family I’d like to get to know better at Mass on Sundays. Slowly, I’m building a network of local friends, too, who can add to my village in more tangible ways.

I’m here to tell you that you can be introverted and be a member of the greater Catholic community. I’m here to tell you that you are worthy of faith-centered friendships in whatever context you seek them—whether that’s in online forums of like-minded women, or in-person groups where you might be the only fresh face.

Take baby steps if you need to. Send a text to an acquaintance just to say hello. Compliment a woman you’ve admired from afar (we all see those familiar, happy faces Sunday after Sunday) as you’re leaving your parish this weekend; next week, smile at her as you see her family arrive at Mass; the week after, introduce yourself.

Search for Facebook groups that line up with your vocation. Once you join them, let loose your questions and, even more importantly, provide loving answers to others’ questions. Comment on Instagram posts by people who embody the kind of woman you’d like to be. These platforms can be abused, but they can also be used to give glory to God and to build the Church in today’s always-connected world.

When you feel ready, find out when your parish (or another one nearby) has their next mothers’ or young women’s gathering. Ask for whatever help you need to make attending a reality. Bring cookies or another goodie to share, introduce yourself with confidence, and be an attentive and thoughtful listener when others speak. Exchange phone numbers and make plans right then and there.

If these things are hard for you, I understand. I am right there with you. Turn to Christ and ask for his help in forging the relationships that will make your burden lighter and your journey straight. He won’t lead you astray.

Why I’ll Teach My Daughter Real Fertility Lessons (Which She Won’t Get in School)

We all remember sex ed, at least in bits and pieces.

The giggly trip to the health center as elementary schoolers, separated by gender and learning about “our changing bodies.”

The awkward days in middle school health classes, when we cringed at the thought of walking around with cotton sticks up there and didn’t know how to ask the questions that were really on our minds.

The stiff conversations in high school health, where at least one class clown made crude jokes and cackled immaturely when the middle-aged (or, even worse, young adult) teacher first said sexual intercourse.

And do you know what I—and so many of my peers—took away from those classes?

That’s mostly it, actually.

The awkward memories and sort of icky feeling of it all. Some vague understanding of sex, of contraception, of “being safe.” The difference between boys and girls. A deep-seated fear of pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases. A certain sense of taboo curiosity about it all: What does that feel like? Who’s doing what? Why can’t we just be adults already? Why can’t we just go back to being kids?

I learned that boys were “slower to mature” than girls, and that girls could take the Pill to treat acne and painful periods (even if they “didn’t need it” for contraception). I learned that “miscarriage is when a woman thinks she’s pregnant, but then she isn’t anymore.” (Yes. Seriously.) I learned that boys were driven by their hormones and girls should take good care of themselves.

What a load of junk.

Because you know what I didn’t learn?

How my body actually works, independent of how it may be of use (or at risk) in sexual intercourse.

I did not learn about the patterns in which several different hormones rise and fall during my cycle, ensuring my health and ability to carry a pregnancy. I did not learn how cycles are naturally irregular early on, but tend to normalize over time—and, if they don’t, doctors can help achieve proper function instead of just slapping on the bandage of hormonal birth control. I did not learn that hormonal birth control often causes depression. I did not learn that taking birth control could have lasting effects later in life, or that menstrual problems likely won’t be “fixed” when I stop taking it. I did not learn that there are many ways to understand my own fertile patterns instead of assuming I’m fertile all the time, always.

And I certainly did not learn that all of this is worth knowing well before you decide to have a baby, and regardless of whether you’re sexually active. Because you’re entitled to understand how your own body functions, even if no one else is using it at the moment.

In short, sex ed taught me that my fertility was a burden to be managed with birth control and feminine hygiene products, until the time came that I chose to become pregnant—at which point, everything will likely function normally and conceiving will be easy as pie.

But that’s just not how it works. Fertility isn’t always “typical” when we decide to take advantage of it. And conceiving is not easy. In fact, 1 in 8 couples have trouble getting or staying pregnant—and 1 in 4 pregnancies end in miscarriage.

So many women end up in an awful position as adults. When they’re finally encouraged to become familiar with their fertility for the very first time, the stakes are as high as they’ll ever be. Their dreams are spreading out—or being cut short—in front of them. Their family is on the line. Their marriage is being tested. Their unborn child’s life is at stake.

I don’t accept that path for my daughter.

It is nuts just how many circumstances must perfectly align to achieve ovulation, let alone conception. The interplay of hormones, physical function, emotion, and general health is staggering. We should not feel obligated to interrupt a perfectly healthy process so that we can minimize inconvenience, for ourselves and especially not for others. If that process isn’t functioning perfectly on its own, we should feel entitled to medical care that will find a root cause and fix it.

If my heart wasn’t working well, I would find a doctor and he would want to help me fix it to restore good health. If my ovaries aren’t working well, I should be able to find a doctor who would want to help me fix them to restore good health—not just turn them off because “I’m not using them right now anyway.”

Fertility, perfect or otherwise, is not something to be squashed like a nagging bug.

So when my daughter hears about the birds and the bees, she won’t just hear about what’s convenient or inconvenient about her changing body. She won’t be told only how her fertility needs a man’s fertility to make a baby.

She’ll learn how her body performs a quiet ballet each cycle, and how that function affects other aspects of her physical and emotional wellbeing. She’ll learn to observe how it’s all working, and what understanding she can take away from her unique patterns each month. She’ll see how my fertility has changed over time, so she can be prepared for how hers will, too, and ask me whatever questions she may have.

And yes, she’ll learn that sexual intercourse makes babies and, if pursued improperly, can put us at high physical and emotional risk. But she’ll also learn how intimacy means loving a whole person—not just the pieces that are convenient at the moment—and why she deserves so much more than what’s being pushed in her face by a broken and lonely world.

What do you think about this? Join the conversation on Facebook and let me know!