My husband told me I wasn’t fun anymore while I was exhausted, making breakfast for six kids, and asking for twenty minutes to shower. I didn’t argue. I just smiled and let him leave.
My husband told me I wasn’t fun anymore while I was standing over a pancake griddle yesterday morning, with spit-up on my shirt.
Technically, it was closer to ten when Carter finally came downstairs.
I had been awake since three.
When we met, Carter told me on our third date that he wanted six children.
Our youngest, Noah, is eleven months old and teething like his gums have declared war on us. By five, I’d given up on sleep. By six, two more kids were awake. By seven, all six were moving through the house like they had separate emergencies.
All six are under ten.
Carter slept through every second.
We’ve been married nine years.
When we met, Carter told me on our third date that he wanted six children.
He talked about a loud house, crowded Christmas mornings, family vacations where we needed two hotel rooms.
“Six?” I asked.
“Minimum.”
I laughed.
He wasn’t.
He talked about a loud house, crowded Christmas mornings, family vacations where we needed two hotel rooms, and a dinner table where nobody could hear themselves think.
Carter was great with our first three.
“You really want chaos,” I told him once.
“I want a life,” he said.
And for years, he seemed to mean it.
Carter was great with our first three.
He changed diapers. Packed lunches. Knew pediatrician appointments. He could braid our oldest daughter’s hair badly enough that she complained, but well enough that she still asked him.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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