I used to think people with big families were completely insane. Truly. Growing up as an only child to immigrant parents, I could never wrap my head around why anyone would willingly choose that many mouths to feed, that many clothes to buy, or that many tiny humans to keep alive and accounted for—especially while working two full-time jobs just to afford food and shelter. While I’m deeply grateful for my upbringing, I was absolutely raised with a scarcity mindset. To me, multiple children didn’t just feel impractical; they felt excessive, even indulgent. If I’m being completely honest, I never dreamed of becoming a mother at all. While my peers played house with baby dolls and talked excitedly about becoming moms and dads, I cycled through ambitions that involved caring for no one but myself. I guess you could say selfishness came naturally to me.
You know those old sitcoms where the music screeches to a halt and the camera zooms dramatically onto the character’s face? Let’s pause right there—because I know you’re wondering how I got here.
And where is “here,” exactly? Here is a 1950s brick house tucked into the middle of Idaho. Here is me, standing in a faded blue nightgown, hair held together by dry shampoo that’s working overtime. Most shocking to my younger self, though, is that “here” includes five kids age ten and under, zooming through the house smelling like sweat, Cheetos, and—if we’re honest—probably a little bit of pee. Six years ago, I would have laughed if you’d told me I’d one day be a mother of five by choice. But life has a way of handing you exactly what you never thought you wanted, only to reveal it’s what you should’ve been dreaming of all along.
Let me be clear: motherhood is HARD. It takes pieces of you every single day, crushes them, and somehow uses those broken fragments to rebuild you into a stronger woman than you were moments before. Each child tests your patience and mental stamina in ways you never imagined, stretching you thinner than the latex condom that absolutely should not have broken. Maybe I was wise beyond my years when I knew motherhood wasn’t my dream, or maybe I was just self-aware enough to recognize that I didn’t yet possess the capacity for sacrifice I saw in other mothers. Even now, many of my struggles stem from my reluctance to share my time, space, emotions, and belongings. I call it a personality trait, but I also know it’s my responsibility to manage those instincts so my children learn healthy boundaries—without ever doubting that they are deeply loved.
I joke with friends that I wouldn’t have had kids if I hadn’t gotten knocked up, and while my oldest truly was an “oops” baby, the other four were very intentional. Some of them, I quite literally signed up for. Lincoln was born in 2012 to a young, terrified version of me who had absolutely no idea what she was doing—as a mother, a woman, or a brand-new wife to the man who got her pregnant on essentially their first date. I was adjusting to a culture vastly different from the East Coast world I grew up in, while trying to assimilate into a community rooted in religious beliefs that didn’t align with my own. Shortly after Lincoln’s birth, my husband and I decided to have one more child because I longed for my son to have a built-in best friend and never experience the loneliness I knew so well. Just weeks after stopping birth control, I saw a positive test and felt certain our family was complete.
Donovan arrived on my birthday in 2014, and I should’ve known the universe was laughing. He was the greatest birthday gift I could’ve imagined—a tiny version of myself. His quiet curiosity, gentle nature, and deep love for his family brought a joy I hadn’t known before. He was an easy, beautiful baby, and I was confident: I was DONE. No more kids. Factory closed.
After my divorce a year later, that certainty only deepened. I don’t even like kids. I love mine fiercely, but I never volunteered to babysit or attend children’s birthday parties. I wasn’t the fun aunt or the natural nurturer. I planned to raise my two sweet boys, be a young, cool mom, and celebrate their high school graduations in my early forties. My dreams of career success, travel, luxury, and freedom were temporarily shelved—but not gone. Or so I thought. Joke’s on me.
In 2016, I swiped right on the man of my dreams. He was funny, charming, kind, a veteran with a real career, a house, and a Harley Davidson. At 25, he was more settled into adulthood than I ever imagined being at that age. After years of instability, he felt like solid ground. We moved fast—first date June 27, proposal August 15, moved in together October 27, courthouse wedding December 6. Everyone assumed I must be pregnant. We laughed. Absolutely not. When I signed that marriage license, I knew I was signing up not only to marry him, but to love and guide his two incredible kids, Colter and Remington. I meant it—literally.
Surprisingly, the transition from two kids to four was seamless. Our children instantly became best friends. Even now, the first question they ask when picked up is whether their siblings are coming too. With shared custody schedules, rotating work shifts, Guard duties, and my work running East Idaho Moms, our lives revolve around a calendar that rarely slows down. So when a late-night, “How would you feel about having a baby?” came up, it felt both absurd and inevitable.
Emmett arrived in 2018 after a 19-hour labor, right on his own schedule. We gave him the middle name Quentin to signify that he was the fifth—and the final—addition to our family. He’s the wildest toddler I’ve ever met and also the most adorable. His siblings adore him endlessly. Even now, I’m not entirely sure what the universe saw in me to trust me with five little souls, but I’m endlessly grateful.
We’re a camping, traveling, Pokémon GO–playing family who dreams of Disney World and an RV someday. Our weeks are filled with practices, homework, and carpools. Kindness is our top rule. Chores start at age three, laundry is everyone’s responsibility, and teamwork keeps our household functioning. We remind them often that their help matters—that it gives us more time to enjoy life together.
People often compliment how well-behaved our kids are in public. We don’t see it as exceptional—just expected. Clear rules, simple phrases, and mutual respect keep us safe and connected wherever we go.
I am not an expert at motherhood. I fail daily. I worry about the mistakes I’m making and the lessons I didn’t mean to teach. I manage anxiety and depression with therapy and medication, and I brace myself for my husband’s upcoming deployment with equal parts fear and resilience. I’m not a supermom—I’m just trying not to fail them.
And somehow, through it all, the life I never planned became the one I treasure most. The cards were unexpected, the river flipped, and my hand turned into a full house. The pot is mine—and I plan to savor every bit of it.
