As a pediatrician and mother of five children, I’ve been asked a lot of questions about family life. But there is one question that is asked far more times than any other. It is posed by Christians and non-Christians alike, by good friends and by total strangers. It is not a request for advice, but for explanation. “Were they planned?”
I’ve never thought of a satisfying response to that question, though I’ve been asked it again and again. It seems simple enough. Of course, I understand the intent. Did my husband and I set out to have five children? Furthermore, did we want to have them so closely spaced in time? Or were we careless—perhaps even carefree? The question became more frequent as our family grew larger. Somehow, my family’s composition called for explanation.
Ours is a society of planners. And when it comes to pregnancy and childbirth, more aspects may be planned than ever before. In some places, women can opt for a scheduled Caesarean section to deliver their babies, not for medical reasons, but to control delivery dates, to avoid the process of spontaneous labor and to decrease maternal anxiety. Several clinics in the country allow couples to select their baby’s sex through a sperm separation technique. The couples interviewed said this selectivity was a critical factor in their willingness to experience a pregnancy.
I, too, am a planner. Some of my children seemed—at least initially—to follow my plans better than did others. And in regard to delivery, all of them were on schedule. We even have both boys and girls. As several women I know and love struggle with infertility, I am grateful for my relative ease.
But the truth is, my confidence in family planning is limited, at best. Time and again, I’ve been taken by surprise. People often assume physicians have such a storehouse of medical knowledge that they are exempt from the physical cares and concerns that others face. But despite my professional expertise, each of my pregnancies had unpredictable moments. Once, I had an odd pain that didn’t fit any descriptions in the medical textbooks. It was then that I received a truly helpful piece of medical advice. “All sorts of unexpected and mysterious things happen when you share your body with a growing child,” the obstetrician said.
Unexpected moments
Pregnancy and childbirth were only the beginning. Unexpected and mysterious things continue to happen all the time. One child learned to read—without my knowledge—at age two, all by herself. Another could swim and climb the monkey bars as a preschooler. I never mastered the monkey bars, and only swam for survival. Our oldest composes music. Our youngest dances in the aisles during church. We have extroverts and introverts, comedians and critics, sensitive souls and strong-willed warriors. I never could have planned all this.
And then there are the things that I do plan. Admittedly, some go just as envisioned. But there are also times like our vacation to Busch Gardens theme park in Tampa, Florida. It was a special mother-child trip, planned for months ahead of time. After flying across the country, we happily arrived at the amusement park just as it opened, getting in a short line for the first ride of the day. It was a runaway mine train, the type I’d been on before—sure to be a lot of fun. I did wonder why we had to put all dangling objects in lockers as we made our way to the front. My oldest daughter worried but I reassured her.
We got in the cars, were securely strapped into our seats, and pulled out of the covered station. Then we all saw it. We were going up a huge incline to the top of one of the biggest roller coasters in the park. As the cars clacked slowly up, I tried to calm my terrified children, telling them just to hang on and close their eyes. A couple of minutes later, I got them all off, alive and crying. We went on very few rides that day.
All parents have times when the best we can do is to hang on and close our eyes. Sometimes it’s just for a few minutes, but other times we don’t ever return to the station. Illness rarely suits our plans. Emergency room visits interrupt our nights and weekends. And then there are the unwelcome wounds to our children’s spirits—a friend’s betrayal, a classmate’s ridicule.
Despite our careful parenting plans, we fail to always listen, to always love well. Our best intentions may meet unexpected resistance. Our children sometimes choose wrongly. From the moment she first rolls over, even the most well planned baby moves steadily toward independence, spontaneity and individuality.
So I am ambivalent when asked if my children were planned. The question assumes that from their very conception, my children have been either a product of my control or my lack thereof. But while I take responsibility for permitting their presence in my body and my life, I take little credit for their personhood. The particularities of their entrance into my life have not explained our relationship.
My maternal anxiety and parental satisfaction have little to do with the spacing of my children or with those moments back in the labour and delivery room. My role in planning parenthood seems to be more like an operations director than a creative producer.
Yet, I still plan. I planned my wedding—but not my husband. I plan for my children’s financial and educational needs. I plan my calendar; I schedule musical, athletic and social opportunities. I plan to enjoy my family and to be generous with love. When confronted with failure, I hope to offer apologies and forgiveness. I desire to show my children that I trust God with the mysteries of life and death. I suppose I do plan much of my parenthood—but not my children.
Getting personal
Some remark that it is a very personal question to ask—if children are planned. It strikes me as a question more technical than personal. If you want to get personal, ask me if my children are loved. Ask me what I hope and dream for them. Ask me what brings me sorrow as a parent, what fills me with joy. My plans are only that—plans. At best, they mirror my longings. But often, my plans reflect self-imposed limits, constraints on what is allowed to shape me. Focused on the future, my plans view the present but cannot take in all the sights between this place and that spot down the road.
Perhaps my difficulty with the question so often asked of me is its assumed importance in affecting the quality of our on-going family life. I resist any implication that I might cherish my children less because of an interruption in my plans. Rather, I find that the moments that matter most in my parenthood are typically unplanned. A child writes me a love letter, delights in a sibling or praises God with sincerity and purity. Questions asked during carpools provide opportunities to profoundly shape character. Hopelessness over my own sinfulness as a mother is met with God’s forgiveness and my children’s surprising mercy. These really are the wonder years.
Yes, my children were planned—but not by me. My confidence rests in the One whose plans always satisfy my deepest longings; He plans for my children and for me, plans to give us hope and a future.
Jennie McLaurin is a physician and student at Regent College in Vancouver. She lives in Ferndale, Washington with her husband Andrew and their children (counter clockwise from top right) Anderson, Maggie, Rainey, Ellie and Kennedy.
