I gave birth to our first son at age 21. When he was three, my husband became very sick and was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. I had always felt like our family wasn’t complete with just one child, but the future had become painfully uncertain. I just didn’t know if we would be able to handle having another child with the challenges we had.

We weren’t planning on being done. My husband always wanted a big family with lots of little faces running around the yard. Seven, he said, was the perfect number. I was not so sure. After our second child, we miscarried twice. My heart carved identical holes where the children would stay, unable to come into this world any other way than through the piece of me they’d taken when their little hearts stopped beating.

I grew up the fifth of seven kids, around a close knit extended family—all of whom had large families. I always expected to have a large family, “At least five, of course.” Then time passed, and I didn’t get married until I was 29. I knew seven kids was off of the table because of my age but also because of desire. I guess as I matured I better understood the realities of such a large family. When my husband and I talked about how many children we’d like, we always figured at

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.