By Melissa Norris 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. We married older than many LDS couples and rejoiced when our first child was born. Several years and many fertility treatments later, the realization of secondary infertility sunk in and we recognized that this daughter had truly come to us through a miracle. With an unplanned (by us) five-year gap in our children, we joke that getting our second child to earth was an expensive prospect and we felt uncontainable joy welcoming this second miracle daughter.  Years passed, with more failed fertility attempts and multiple miscarriages, yet more peace. As my potential child-bearing years are at a close, I occasionally have painful experiences (like when I finally gave away baby clothes that I held onto for many years and then sobbed for days). Through time the Spirit has repeatedly testified of God’s patience, compassion, and perfect love for me. Several personal and profound lessons over this decade and a half of potential childbearing years have strengthened my relationship with God and been a conduit to feeling the enabling, redeeming, and compensatory power of the atonement.     The first lesson is that my responsibility is to have a mother heart to every child that crosses my path in mortality. This is the most profound tutelage that earth life will give me to prepare to become like my Mother in Heaven. The second lesson is that while my current family may be smaller than my heart hopes for, I need to channel all that I am on my current family. This is enough, and will bring me continual joy. Third, the very thing that I feel as my mortal burden is what other faithful women wish for. Several friends have vulnerably and intimately expressed the stress of too easily becoming pregnant, having “surprises”, or their burden of feeling overwhelmed with the number of children they have. My compassion has grown. Fourth, I have repeatedly experienced the sweet impression that the specific number of children I have in mortality (whether two or twenty-two) pales in comparison to the eternal increase that awaits, but how I choose to mother my current two daughters is the sacred, holy duty I will report to my Heavenly Parents about. They will not compare me to others, they are preparing me to become like them. Finally, my desires are known to God. Through our years trying to grow our family all He has asked is that I lay my desires at the altar and do what is in my power. This continued demonstration of my desire is my bold statement of my testimony of eternal families.

By Julie L. Rowse   When I was 18 and adults were certain I’d marry by the end of my first year of college, I wanted six. When I was engaged to a non-LDS man who wasn’t very kind to me, I wanted four. When I got home from my mission at 25, I wanted three. When I graduated from college at 27, and the last of the post-mission boyfriends broke up with me, I wanted two. 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 needed to know where I stood on being older and procreating. It would not be for me, I decided. So I set about grieving. It’s called “disenfranchised grief”—a grief not acknowledged by society. I did not tell anyone I was actively grieving this loss, lest I be met with messages of hope and accusations of faithlessness. I grieved the loss of babies I would never hold. I did not attend baby showers. I did not smile at gummy-grinned babies at church. I did not play peek-a-boo with toddlers. I did not smile at children. I rarely prayed, and when I did, I raged at God for my childless state. These rage-prayers always ended the same: me on my knees at my bedside, sobbing, feeling the arms of Heavenly Parents enfold me in my grief. I did not set a timeline for my grief. I knew enough to know that one day the time would come to move on. That day did arrive, without fanfare or declaration. A few years later, one Sunday during Gospel Doctrine, a couple in their mid-twenties sat in front of me. The husband held their four-month-old son, the son’s face toward mine. The baby’s eyes gravitated toward the colorful Pop Socket on the back of my phone. I used it as a peek-a-boo game, hiding the colors, then revealing them. The baby danced on his dad’s shoulder. His eyes drifted to my face. I smiled a big smile and mouthed “hello” in that excitable way that people talk to babies. The baby smiled back at me. My arms ached just a little bit to reach out and hold him, but it was enough to entertain him for a short spell. I wasn’t sad at this interaction. I didn’t leave it feeling hollow. I didn’t leave it feeling angry. I will never bear children, and at last, I feel peace in that statement.

By Abby Dunford 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 followed the prompting and many others that led me to get additional help. Within the following year my husband lost his job and we made a quick move to another city. All of these changes greatly impacted my mental stability. My medicine was gradually increased and I started weekly therapy just to be able to function and take care of my kids. Then, I unexpectedly went manic. In one day, I cut my hair off, purchased a dog, and created a dating profile online all before my husband came home from work. Within days, I was diagnosed with Bipolar II disorder and they changed my meds again. It has been almost three years since I’ve been diagnosed. The first six months I was stabilizing, and then the reality of not being able to come off the meds to have a baby surfaced. I spent so much time worrying about whether I should just do it anyway—that I should put my life at risk to have another one. It was so hard fighting the desire to add to our family. There was a long period of grieving for the children I had always envisioned we’d have. But I had to accept my new reality and be the best mom I could to the children I had. That had to be my new focus. I still have a hard time when religious friends share that they feel like they haven’t had all the kids they were supposed to yet. That there was ‘one more’ for them that Heavenly Father wanted them to have. I don’t believe that, because I don’t think it’s fair. In my mind I envision my other two babies, that I would love to have, standing in the queues and never getting a ticket to come to the family they were ‘supposed’ to be with. Due to my illness, the decision to stop having children was clear. My need to have a well-balanced life took precedence. I didn’t need to plead to my Father in Heaven anymore on whether or not to have more kids. I needed His help to grieve, find compassion for myself, and be grateful for the children I had to love, raise, and enjoy.

Content Warning: This story deals with domestic violence. By Shoshanna 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. The rest of me should have known better, though. The first time I said I love you, it was to end a fight. I meant it, but I also meant, “You’re scary when you’re angry.” I also meant, desperately, “Please love me too.” I should have known, but sometimes your body makes decisions for you. Kissing him calmed my nerves and his. It was less frightening than fighting. A couple of years into our marriage, we still had no children. At first this was our choice, but soon it wasn’t. We toured various specialists in an effort to “fix” me. Meanwhile, rage became my second husband. One night, he tore his shirt off, buttons popping everywhere. He spat at me and stormed out of our apartment into the night. Thank goodness, I thought—and hated myself for it. But he came back, like always. We had sex, and I suppose it was consensual. I said yes, and I meant it, but I also meant, “Please don’t hurt me.” I also meant, “Please don’t leave me.” I sorrowed every month that passed without pregnancy, but the quietest, truest part of me was relieved. More years passed, and still no children. The string of pearls adorning my ovaries became one more failure for my then-husband to use against me—unemployable, stupid, fat, and couldn’t even make a baby. The threat of divorce was his favorite weapon. He made it sound like a punishment, as if I weren’t already living something worse. Even as I learned to hate myself, a part of me was so relieved for my future, non-existent children. They’d be spared his anger and my worthlessness. One night, I stayed up praying, unable to sleep. I asked God for any one of three things to make my existence bearable: my husband’s heart, a miracle child, or death. God said no. My then-husband returned home shortly after this revelation. He left angry and returned home unchanged. He threatened to divorce me. The words popped out of my mouth before I could stop them. Sometimes your body just knows. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll contact a lawyer in the morning.” We filed the paperwork. I jettisoned as much of that life as I could. A friend commented on how lucky I was. She herself was mired in constant custody negotiations. We had no children, so my ex had no further claim on my life. In essence, I was free. I thought about that string of pearls and wondered. When the divorce became final, I laughed. My finally-ex-husband was in tears, appalled. I hung up and hugged my sister, still laughing. Sometimes your body just makes decisions for you.

By Calleen Peterson I had my children just 17 months apart. I was very overwhelmed with two kids under two and a husband deployed to Iraq. Our son has some major, at that point unknown medical issues we were trying to figure out. Having any more kids was going to have to wait a few years. Fast forward a few years. I found myself heartbroken with the truth that while I ached to hold another baby in my arms, it wasn’t going to happen. Our daughter has been lobbying for another sibling for years, praying every night that it would happen. Due to our son having difficult medical issues, I did not have the mental and emotional strength to be able to deal with another child full-time. The grief is real and deep. Tears have watered my pillow many nights. I don’t feel our family is complete, but I also know it would put me completely over the edge if I was dealing with a third child on top of all I deal with now. I spent over a year furious with God that this was the position I found myself in. I found that it is not a lack of faith, or a lack of bucking up and pushing through, it’s a process of coming to know myself and God’s plan for my family (even if I don’t understand it at this time), and accepting my limits. And that is hard. I see beautiful little babies and I ache to hold them. Occasionally out of nowhere jealousy hits me out of the blue and I am so jealous that the sight of a mother and baby are too hard for me to endure. Grief doesn’t make sense. It’s just grief. Sometimes, like Sunday, as a kind mother shared her baby with me and I cuddled it, another well-meaning person says, “Looks like it’s time for another baby for you.” And my heart hurts. Families like ours have had to deal with making this decision. For some, the risk is far too great that the next child will have the same or worse problems. For others, they are just stretched to their limits and that is as far as they can go. Whatever the reason, as I see people speaking up about miscarriages, rainbow babies and secondary infertility which I have dealt with, I want to recognize all the parents out there whose plan was never to stop where they are—who would give anything to be able to cuddle a brand new life that is all theirs again. For me, talking about this is taking a huge leap of faith and exposing my soul. For some reason, I feel drawn to write about it now. Maybe it’s for my own good and a way to help let go. Maybe it’s to help someone else feel they’re not alone in this. I don’t know. I only know I need to write what’s in my heart.

By Heidi Fluhman I am a 42-year-old mother of four boys, but they are only four of the sweet spirits who survived the journey. I actually have nine children. I was born in 1975 with a birth defect known as Bladder Exstrophy. All you need to know about it is that it involves your bladder and kidneys and is now easily treated at childbirth. Due to this condition, I also have Hydronephrosis (hardening of the kidneys), so I wasn’t even sure I could have children. Cut to me being an inactive, very rebellious 18-year-old girl with a longtime boyfriend. We found ourselves pregnant and terrified. At three months, I had my first miscarriage. There were tears of both sadness and relief. We realized that we were better off as friends and then I met my husband, Nathan. Nathan and I waited to have children and by Utah standards, were kind of late bloomers, but once we decided it was time, I quit the pill and was pregnant the next month. Three years after my first was born we tried for our second with exactly the same results. Number Three was supposed to come on schedule—every three years. When that didn’t happen, we did what you do and were tested and nothing was wrong. We went to a fertility specialist and then to the temple. At the temple, I felt I got an answer of “focus on the ones you have.” I did and a few months later I was pregnant with our third, but in the years in between, I had two miscarriages. We were devastated. Nathan was done, but I wanted a girl desperately. I was convinced if we had one more it would be our girl. So we tried and got pregnant pretty quickly, and then lost it. Pregnant the next month and lost that one too. Nathan started to think it was a sign we were done, but I kept persevering and we were pregnant the next month with Number Four…I couldn’t imagine a worse pregnancy. I assured my husband we were done. I was done physically and emotionally. Who was to know that the end of my pregnancies would be the beginning of much more heartache? My son had three congenital heart malformations. He had open heart surgery and it almost broke me. The last piece was finally there and I was now done spiritually as well. It is a bittersweet feeling. I both loved and hated being pregnant and to have that time and season pass is sad. I shared in the amazing blessing of creation. I felt closer to my Father in Heaven and leaned on him for comfort constantly. I am so grateful for the eternities. For the blessing of knowing that I will have an opportunity (given I am worthy) to raise those babies I lost, and to be able to create many more.

By Angela Ashurst-McGee 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 baby’s first year of all-day school felt like the end of an era. Motherhood taught me to hold two different feelings at once. As a young mother, I was stunned by the experience of holding bigger love than I had ever felt along with greater anger than I had ever felt, both in one hand, both toward the same child, in rapid succession. The boredom and engagement, the insignificance (rounds and rounds of laundry and dishes, the quest for a missing sock) and the magnitude (raising people, shaping lives), the loneliness and crowdedness. Now my children orbit a little further afield—two are young adults living on their own, two are teenagers who need much emotional attention and so, so many rides, and two are elementary schoolers. I don’t yet have an empty nest, but most of the time I have an empty lap, and again I’m learning to hold two feelings at once: First, the indulgence and luxury of having time and space to put two thoughts together. I’m learning to play the violin—signing myself up for lessons and taking time to practice. I’m growing my business that for years got short shrift. I volunteer with a refugee family. I keep a cleaner house, I read more, I write more, I exercise more. Many of the things I sacrificed for years—gladly, for the most part—are now available. Each new project feels like a little thank you gift for those years when tending children was my primary endeavor every day and nearly every hour. But also, a loss. Or maybe at least a let-down. I don’t believe I’ll ever in time or eternity do anything as magnificent as raising small children. I’ll never feel a child squirm under my skin, never push a child into the world, never nurse a hungry babe, never be the sun, moon, and stars to a newborn with heaven in his eyes. I honor those years I spent always in their reach—almost literally always, almost literally within their arms’ reach. I was there and I was focused and attentive. I did my best in the greatest work of my life, perhaps the greatest work a person can do. Nothing will ever match it. I say goodbye with respect and gratitude. Now excuse me, I have a new book and I’m going to read it.

By Ann Ebert 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. In the temple my husband and I both had an impression that our family was still not complete and that we needed to adopt a sibling group. Crazy, overwhelming, and scary. It took us four years to build a house and another year to finally get a sibling group of three which brings our total to nine. I could not imagine life without my younger “fab five” group. So thankful for the whisperings of the Spirit that brought them into the family. By Angelica Berggren   We had two children and thoughts of having a third child kept coming all the time. I knew we were not done which was a little bit of a struggle for me because I was so comfortable having just two children. So when I was pregnant with our third child, I was worried that the thought of having a fourth child would come after. But the birth of our third child was horrible so I received my answer right there. No more, never again! So even today almost three years later I never think of having a fourth. By Anonymous I didn’t think I’d ever be able to say that I was done having babies. After 6 c-sections (the last one being a little scary), the doctor was adamant that I not have any more kids. He already advised stopping after c-section #5. We adopted our next child through foster care and then I unexpectedly got pregnant with child #7 (c-section #6). We still talked about more children.  I wanted to adopt another child. However, we were honestly, completely, and totally out of room in our tiny house. We decided to wait 3 or 4 years until our oldest left home and then maybe start foster care again, with the idea of adopting. However, over those few years my children grew, and when we got to the point that we could have started looking at adoption again, we just knew we didn’t want to start over once more. The longing had passed and I realized that I’m actually exhausted and OK with the kids we have. I never thought I’d say ’no’ to another baby, but I’m done. There are times when I think about adoption/foster care again. Sometimes I see children who need homes and I almost think I can do it. But I have my own kids (including special needs kids) who already take up all of my time and attention. We just can’t add more to the mix.  And—my oldest is 20. I’m not that far away from grandkids now. I can satisfy my baby addiction with them.

By Larae A. Merritt 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. When I turned 30, I asked my husband if he was up for one more. He said, ”Absolutely not! We are done!” I reluctantly agreed, figuring I had just been wrong about my feelings. A few months after my 35th birthday I found out I was pregnant. I was absolutely devastated! I was going to be an “old mom.” It was the hardest pregnancy I had ever experienced. The thought of it being the boy I knew was waiting kept me going. At 20 weeks, we went in for the ultrasound. She put the wand on my belly. The first image that appeared told us it was a little boy! Usually, my babies had to be coaxed to show us. I lost it right there in the room! It was like a big hug from Heavenly Father telling me everything was the way it should be. There’s a seven and a half year gap, and we are often asked if he’s our last. I have complete confidence in telling them, “Absolutely!” We have a four-year-old amongst teenagers, but he honestly has been the best thing for us! He reminds us of the fun, happy things. Definitely what I needed.

By Eva Witesman I was carrying my sixth pregnancy—which ultimately ended in the happy birth of my son, William—and watching my family as they dealt with my physical and emotional absence. I observed how all of us (me, my husband Owen, and our three daughters) were afraid to hope. After a miscarriage and two stillbirths, my family was weary of sadness and wary of loss. My last stillbirth—at 34 weeks gestation—had occurred not long before we became pregnant with William. Pregnancies for me are accompanied by severe morning sickness that lasts the entire duration of the pregnancy. With so much vomiting, I frequently became dehydrated and extremely weak. It was everything I could do to carry out the essential day-to-day tasks of caring for myself and to contribute what little I could to the family. During this, my last pregnancy, it became clear just how much I was asking my family to endure. The fear for the baby’s life was palpable, given our birth history. And it was felt by all five of us—even my youngest child. To this was added concern about my own diminished capacity. Because of a physical abnormality, I carry pregnancies differently from most, and this has taken a toll on my hips and spine from which I have still not fully recovered. The thing is, I would gladly sacrifice all of this and more. The risk. The fear. The sadness. My health. The emotional weight of it all. Even my life. I would gladly have given this and more over and over again. But once I saw the ways in which I was depriving my living children of their mother, my perspective shifted. Pregnant, I could not be the mother I wanted to be. I had already made the choice—due to my own desire and a confirmation from God—to conceive William. And it was my choice. My husband deferred to my choice—not unlike Adam in Eden—in acknowledgement that conception, pregnancy, and birth were my stewardship and that if I felt that this is what I wanted, desired, needed to do, he would not stand in my way. But then after William was born, I knew that even though I desperately wanted to go through pregnancy again, this was not the right choice for my family. It was time to end my childbearing years with gratitude and to look forward to an afterlife in which I will meet and raise my unborn children as well as any others that may be mine in the eternities. It still stings. I hunger for the opportunity to create life again, but every month I replicate the calculus of my decision, come to the same conclusion, and hug my children a little tighter.

By Sheila Sjolseth Using keen eagle-eyed mommy skill, I kept tabs on my toddler as he played in a new friend’s backyard, while I breastfed my 7-month-old son. Quietly, I looked around the room, taking in all these new people I had met several minutes ago. Eight ladies gathered, corralling little ones, while we soaked up the rare occasion to talk. Ladies around me chatted, planning their futures, including their childbearing futures. (That’s a hallmark conversation for moms at playgroups with kids three and under, I learned.) “Oh, I am for sure going to have number four,” one mom next to me squealed. “I just feel like it is going to happen. I mean, why would God give me a desire for more kids if it wasn’t going to happen?” She turned to me with this, maybe, rhetorical question. Maybe? I didn’t know what to say. It took us ten years with the miracle of fertility drugs and in-vitro fertilization to get pregnant. I held in my arms our second son brought to us through a frozen embryo transfer. I wanted more kids, but I didn’t know if it would happen. I had two embryos waiting in frozen storage. Two cryo-frozen embryos stored in a facility that I no longer lived near as we had just finished a cross-country move. There they sat awaiting the decision of our own family planning. Not only did I experience infertility, but I also did not handle being pregnant well. My first son arrived seven weeks early, premature even with four months of bedrest. My second son, while in utero, kept me on restricted activities, and he still arrived five weeks early. I decided to sit quietly, leaving my story and perspective unsaid, not acknowledging the question posed. When I left that morning, I felt remorse for not speaking up for my fellow sisters experiencing infertility or their own righteous desires being unmet. Fast forward two years: My four-year-old runs through the house leading along his toddler brother. If I am going to have another baby, I need to start now. Each year that I wait, pregnancy becomes more difficult. Each year I wait, we pay even more in thousands of dollars for storage fees to keep our cryo-frozen embryos chilled at the perfect temperature with Mozart playing in the background, surrounded by masterful pieces of artwork. (Okay that part about Mozart and artwork is probably unlikely, but I can believe that if I want to.) Getting pregnant? This is not the giggly conversation with pillow talk and candlelight. It means doctors, flights back to DC, expenses, shots of hormones into my belly and butt, and side-effects from the hormone treatments including large welts from my allergies to serum. I logically thought through the process of getting pregnant. Husband travels extensively. Pregnancy will be hard, maybe bedrest. The embryos reside across the country. I”ll need to leave my boys behind for weeks for the process of another transfer. No guarantee that I will get pregnant or be able to carry the baby to term. I couldn’t see it coming together in a way that would work. Emotionally, I couldn’t let go of the opportunity to have another child, and intellectually, I couldn’t get it aligned with a good plan. I felt stuck. I prayed about it. A lot. For months. Nothing came to mind. No answer. I knew that logistical pieces could be conquered, but I wanted an answer from God that this was or was not the way to go. I wanted God to tell me that my family planning was over—I wanted a clear answer to remember when the going got rough. But, I got nothing. While mulling it over with a trusted friend, she said, “Maybe God is letting you decide this one. He knows all that you went through to have your two sons, and He might be allowing you to choose this particular challenge or not.” I paused and recognized the truth in her words. Logically, the indicators of success for this next round of frozen embryo transfers remained low. In no manner of moving the pieces around could I see a way that all of this would lead to success. As we decided to say goodbye to the embryos and went through the necessary paperwork, I felt sad—a bone-deep sense of loss and grief. You know the kind, where a weight settles on you, pushing you to your knees? Even sitting here writing this, years later, I still cry. On that day of saying goodbye to the embryos, I still wanted to have several kids. Ever so grateful for my two boys, I decided I needed to find a way to find peace with that unmet desire. After completing the paperwork and leaving it with the right people, my family drove home. During the drive, I felt a sweet feeling of peace settle over me as I felt God telling me that it would be okay. About eight months later, on Mother’s Day weekend, the thoughts of our decision to stop fertility treatments came to mind. A part of my heart still remained heavy. Standing at the top of the stairs holding a white basket of laundry, I felt the answer I had sought for so long. “Sheila,” I felt God say to my saddened heart, “The challenges of having a large family are not the challenges I have in store for you in this life.” Stunned, I walked down the stairs, set down the laundry basket full of dirty little boy clothes and reflected with gratitude. In that moment, I recognized my fortune in getting an answer when many women live their lives with that same question staying unanswered. I would love to say that the desire to have more kids melted magically away–no more to remind me of a loss, but, that wouldn’t be true. Instead, I learned how to continually turn to the Atonement with those feelings of loss and grief. My boys are eleven and nine now. I still want more kids, but that hurting part of my heart is lighter, steeped in the blessings of the Atonement and the experience that God is mindful of me.

By Sage Gallagher   Some people use birth control to avoid pregnancy. We just didn’t move to a new house until we wanted another child. Every time we moved to a new house we got pregnant and before that, even if we tried, we couldn’t get pregnant. Even with our first child the pregnancy came after a move to the first home we owned and three months worth of fertility medicine. Three and a half years passed between the first child and the second. We moved to a new home and at last we were expecting. Another three years passed and despite not using birth control we hadn’t conceived. My husband had a job offer across the country. I went with him to see if this would be a good place to move. I got pregnant with our first daughter on our trip. Six years went by in our new home. We moved to a condo and did not get pregnant. I joked that we needed to be in a house for it to work. We sold the condo and moved to a house with plans for a major remodel. Still no pregnancy. I joked again that we would get pregnant when it was completed. By this time I was 39. When the house was finally done, I got pregnant with our second daughter. Within two years my husband was offered a job back in Utah which he took. We got pregnant with our third daughter despite not actually moving since the job fell through shortly after when the economy tanked so he returned to his previous job. We moved again a few years later from New York to Southern Utah. By this time I was 46. During our courtship we had agreed that we both wanted between four and six kids. We had five. But our neighbor had a new baby and she was as cute as our babies had been. We looked at each other and asked if we should have another one since we made such cute kids. After all, we had just moved. We agreed to pray about it separately. I started to pray and ask if we should have another. Before I finished the question I got a definite “NO.” I thought it was a bit funny the way I didn’t even finish asking when I got a verbal answer. That night I relayed the experience to my husband and he laughed and said he too had received a definite “NO” before his prayer was done. We knew our family was complete so even if we move again we won’t worry if we should have another.