reader submissions. It is an attempt to allow people to tell their
personal stories, in the hopes of bringing greater compassion to the
unique issues each of us face. If you would like to submit a story to
this series, click here. Today’s guest posts is by Krista Bordelon.
I want people to know that yes, I have my hands full…and I love it that way.
is impossible for me to go anywhere with my three children without
getting judgemental stares, jaws dropping to the floor, or mean snorts. I
will never understand why. I only have three children, but by the looks
on people’s faces you would think I have twenty trailing behind me.
Yes, they are close together, Irish triplets I guess some would call
them. Whenever I hear the comment, “Wow, you sure do have your hands
full” I just want to scream, or cry, depending on how many times I’ve
already heard it. It doesn’t matter if my children are being little
angels or having one of “those” days I will hear it the same amount of
times no matter what. My simple reply of, “Yes, they sure are. They are
full of love and joy” just doesn’t seem to do it for me any more. What I
really want to tell them is how hurtful it is to be treated like a
burden to society, or to be told that I need a hobby, or to have my
children feel like they are unwanted by people who don’t even know us.
What I want to tell them is that when they are out of ear shot my
4-year-old will inevitably ask me, “Mommy, why do they think you have
too many kids?” What I really want to do is pull every single person
aside and tell them how my arms instead could have been empty. How I’m
happy to have my hands “full” as they call it. How I’m bursting with joy
each time I have my children with me.
I want to tell each and
every one of them my story. I want them to know that when I was in
highschool I was told I would never have kids. After only 2 months of
marriage to find out I was pregnant was the greatest moment of my life.
Having a tremendously difficuly pregnancy was worth every single minute
for me, and although our first son was diagnosed with autism (something
we actually knew of from the first days of his life because of his
behaviors) I would not change one single aspect of him. We had a
miscarriage shortly after he was born and I had convinced myself that he
would be my only miracle. The day my daughter was born and made him a
brother, and made me a mom to two precious babies was no less
miraculous than the day my son was born.
Shortly after my
daughter was born I began having severe pains and tests showed I had a
prolapsed uterus. My doctor said I may be able to still carry another
child, but with my history of difficult pregnancies with my other two
there were no guarantees. Of course I convinced myself that my body was
too damaged to carry another child, that if I had another child surely
my body would not allow that baby to survive, so we opted for a
hysterectomy at the very young age of 26. I was put on the strongest
form of birth control while we made the “final” decision. The day before
I called my doctor to schedule the surgery I discovered my most recent
miracle. I was pregnant despite all the precautions, I was pregnant with
another precious life.
After weeks of terrible bleeding and
threats of miscarrying this precious miracle we learned that the
placenta had grown into my uterus. The talk of having to do a
hysterectomy at delivery didn’t scare me as it would have since I had
prepared myself for one anyway. At least this time I would get a baby
out of the deal too. After many, many ultrasounds confirming it I went
into my 20 week ultrasound only wanting to find out the sex of my baby,
but walked out with the news of another miracle. The placenta previa had
disappeared and there would be no need for a hysterectomy at all. My
baby boy was born big and healthy and thriving and my uterus was left
perfectly in tact.
So, yes, it looks like I have my hands full,
but they could have been empty. In fact, they are emptier than they
should be. My hands should be filled with two more babies than the ones I
have with me. The second miscarriage I had when baby #3 was only a few
months old. In fact, when I found out I was pregnant the fears of what
others would say and think kept me from enjoying what little time it was
that I would actually have with that baby. I dreaded every single day
what I would tell people. I dreaded every single say what they would say
to me, the looks that I would get, the horrible, ruthless, mean things.
I miscarried that baby and as I bled I cried over the loss of life, but
I cried more over the loss of time. I cried because all of these people
who don’t know me and who don’t know my family have caused such
scarring on my heart and such fear in my spirit that the joy I should
have had during the precious little time I actually had with what should
be my fifth child was robbed of me.
I wish for once when I go
out with my kids, that more than the occasional person would treat them
like a blessing. I wish that for once we would get smiles instead of
sneers and encouragement instead of judgement. I wish that if the
opportunity comes again for me to say, “I’m pregnant” that people will
be happy and that I will not have to hear about my lack of hobbies, or
asked if I know what “causes that”, or get rejected for my decision to
add to the love that is in our family. I wish for once people would see
my family the way that I do…as just right.