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By Marilyn Bushman-Carlton I was satisfied after having the last of my five children in fewer than seven and half years that our family was complete. Like his siblings before him, the youngest was adorable, and I loved having a new baby to cuddle. My love for them was fierce and total, and my life was given to caring for and teaching them and to managing our domestic lives like the captain of a tight ship sailing calmly through any weather. But that was how it looked from the

Much as I wanted to say, “Well, of course I know that,” it didn’t come out. Instead, I thanked him for the visit, hopped off the exam table, and pushed the stroller out the door in front of me, noting how easy it was to maneuver without my middle child sitting on the front wheel. By the books, there should not have been anything wrong, but there was. Twice.

Post-children years—the years that split my life into boxes. As I now unfold the flaps of that thirty-year block and rewind them, vivid memories come floating back through buried layers of subconscious soup. It was a place filled with juxtaposed emotions: tearful joy alongside aching sadness; thankful pride mixed together with profound heartache.

After our fourth child was born, I felt there was room for one more pregnancy in my body. My husband, however, felt that we were done. After a year, we felt the need to pray about it, but before that, I needed to be willing to hear, “No more. You’re done,” and my husband to hear, “Yes, one more is waiting.”

My husband and I married young. When the time came for children, we had a plan. Have our first child after college, get a job, buy a house, have four or five children two years apart. Infertility and multiple miscarriages were part of the Lord’s plan. It took three years and two early pregnancy losses to have our son. The pregnancy was difficult, with bed rest and a premature birth. We were scared to get pregnant again, yet wanted more than ever to fill our home with more chi

Childbearing came natural and strong for me. I know this may not be common, but it was true for me. I had my first child when I was 22, and the childbirth was textbook and perfect. At that moment I knew that having babies was my calling. It took me three years to have another. After that I had two more children in quick succession.

As a young girl, I always wanted to have five children. As I entered my late 20s and still wasn’t married, I came to grips with the fact that I likely wouldn’t have five. I’d settled on having three by the time I married at 31, and my husband was in agreement with me.

Once you have gathered ingredients and baked a delectable variety of breads, it’s good to let them cool and then feast on the warm crustiness. You try sampling different spreads to experience what works for one loaf and what is better on another. The varying tastes are delightful and lead to new tastes. This is what the end of childbearing was like for me. The loaves were baked and cooling and the time for tasting all the experiences of life together were being continually la

Just two. Living in a metropolitan area of the United States, the irony is that the only time I use this phrase to describe the number of our children is at church. We often jokingly explain, “We wanted a big family but our other kids are on backorder.” And though there is always a smile on my face, and often a twinkle in my eye, too often I have felt the pain return uninvited, like a tsunami that cannot be restrained.

And when I finished graduate school, unmarried and childless at 35, I decided to grieve. It was the age I’d been told that I would officially be a “high-risk pregnancy.” I decided I didn’t want to put a baby or my body through that level of risk, so I chose to give up the dream of children. I needed to choose, just in case I did meet someone I might want to marry and he wanted children.

I have three children and as each of them came, my postpartum depression became worse. While pregnant with my third, my doctor planned to have me take Zoloft as soon as I had him. To no avail, my postpartum escalated and I became suicidal. One night, I was making dinner in the kitchen while everyone else was upstairs and had an overwhelming desire to take my own life. Just as immediately, I had a distinct prompting to put the knife down and go upstairs.

I was for sure done after four, thinking that was a nice number of children to have. However, four years later I had a clear impression that we needed another child (number five) and the door of childbearing was again opened, which eventually led to a sixth child. Because physically my body hit a done button, I felt we were done having children—not Heavenly Father’s plan.

Because my mom was an “older mom” (I was the ninth of eleven children), I wanted to have all my children by 30. I had five by 28! Ever since baby number two, I had felt we would have another boy, but our third, fourth, and fifth were girls.

Last month, my youngest child started first grade, and for the first time in 22 years, I no longer had a little child under my wing all day. My oldest son was born in 1995, followed by three more sons, an adopted daughter, and a caboose daughter. I had outside projects—I earned a master’s degree,and I always had paid work, but it was usually freelance and from home. So for 22 years I watched over children, shaping every day to their calls and rhythms. The first day of my bab

Some decisions your body makes for you. The first time I saw my future ex-husband, my body knew. He had strong, smooth hands and a Texas swagger. Yes please, my body said. He was funny. He kept me safe. My heart agreed with my body pretty quickly.