Life in this broken world has a way of battering and beating us down, but our God “heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. He determines the number of the stars; he gives to all of them their names. Great is our Lord and abundant in power; his understanding is beyond measure. The Lord lifts up the humble; he casts the wicked to the ground” (147:3–6).

For a few months, when my youngest son would name the members of our family of seven, he’d say, “Daddy, Mommy, Bubba, and Yaya.” Bubba is his brother, who is seventeen years older than he is. Yaya was his name for all three of his sisters, who didn’t mind being called the same thing. Whatever their baby brother does, they think it’s the cutest and most clever thing ever.

It’s a peculiar thing—this stage of life I’m in with my children ranging from age nineteen to two. I’m talking about scholarships, majors, and career paths with my oldest two. They both drive and pay for their car insurance with the income they make from their part-time jobs. My next two are old enough to stay home together, just the two of them. They go outside to ride bikes in the street without supervision and make breakfast for the family. All four big kids have camped outside with just peers and siblings for company. Then we have my little buddy who still wears a diaper and is small enough to be carried around everywhere on my hip—or on the hip of one of his big sisters because he does, in fact, have three of them who are all happy to carry him. 

When I was pregnant with him, I overheard a friend field the common question asked of us older moms: “So, are you going to have more children?” 

She quickly replied, “No! Goodness, could you imagine me having to start all over now?” She went on to name all the freedoms she’d lose and the inconveniences she’d experience. 

Truth be told, I couldn’t imagine what adding another baby would be like, even though I was six months pregnant. I had wanted another child for several years. Yet, when I was pregnant and tired and hurting from the changes in my body as another human grew inside of me, I had no idea what it would be like. My children had not needed diapers, sippy cups, pacifiers, or afternoon naps for many years. They helped with chores that kept our house running, could hike several miles on their own feet, and even packed their bags for overnight trips. We had a busy schedule with four active kids. What would it be like starting all over again—the labor and delivery, postpartum sleep deprivation, nursing around the clock, nap schedules, potty training?

When I had a miscarriage a year before I was pregnant with my son, I grieved for months. I didn’t understand why God gave me the pregnancy only to take it so quickly. It was actually my second miscarriage—I had my first after baby three—but the second one hit me harder for some reason. Maybe it was the reality of my advanced maternal age, as the doctor noted in my visit summary. Maybe it was because my history of miscarriage decreased my chances of having a healthy pregnancy. When I miscarried that second time, I had four children who were largely independent and capable. I still wanted another. Start over? Could you imagine?

I couldn’t. 

I wanted that baby I miscarried, and I wanted the baby who was born healthy eighteen months after the loss, and I didn’t even have a large enough imagination to know how much richer and fuller and sweeter our lives would be because of him. Baby brother has brought back wonder, affection, and playfulness for all of us. Today, I found him sitting in the lap of his nineteen-year-old brother as they played Legos together.

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