A stranger at the store or the doctor’s office squealing, “Oh twins! I’ve always wanted twins” as I fail to muster up similar enthusiasm. The feeling of exhausted dismay, as I remembered the admonition to “sleep when the baby sleeps”, but what do you do when there are two of them and one of them is always awake?

My kids have shown me how the right outlook and a little encouragement can achieve all manner of things someone more closed off might deem impossible.

Now that I am a mother, I sometimes think back to that time in my life when things were carefree and easy — when my spunky side was front and center.

Only children are easily stereotyped as spoiled, selfish, and socially awkward but also praised for their self-sufficiency, maturity, and independence.

2 of my 3 children are extroverts. They love being social, they love being around other people, and my son could talk the ears off a field of corn. Don’t get me wrong, I love them with every fiber of my being. I just don’t want to be around them sometimes.

What is pruning if not the act of making room for something beautiful? The removal of unwanted parts so new growth can happen? In this season of life, the physicality of this task is something I can trust.

Anytime a friend or family member told me, “Oh, she’ll talk when she’s ready,” I simultaneously felt relief and concern. Sure, there were plenty of children who were late bloomers and once they started talking, they never stopped. But my daughter, Charlotte, wasn’t talking at all.

Unfortunately, they taught us about the dangers of eating disorders but we never learned about child hunger. My genetics gave me a small framed body but being malnourished kept it that way.

Between 1948 and 1951, my papa and granny fell in love, married, had a son, and called the island home for several years. But this story is about the second time our lives found convergence with the Royal Family.

He saved me from the choking grip of pain. He gave me a reason to smile, laugh, play, breathe, and remember what living was like.

Pregnancy is a daunting topic to write about. There are so many strong emotions connected to the act of carrying another life, growing a life inside your body. At 20 weeks pregnant, I am learning the beauty and pain of pregnancy.

At some point I imagine every new mother must have a sense of feeling trapped; leaving the house with a newborn is akin to training for an Olympic sport, however, not having a choice to leave, or the only choice being to potentially expose your vulnerable baby to a serious virus leaves little room for the freedom of choice.

I don’t have kids, and to say I don’t have kids “yet” would be inaccurate. Right now, having kids is out of my control due to infertility.

Music, dancing, and laughter. These are some of my earliest memories of growing up in a Puerto Rican, Jamaican, Chinese household. My family is a mix of cultures, woven together like a tapestry with colorful, contrasting designs that somehow fit perfectly together.

When my partner and I are ready to make our home together, my Nona and Grandma’s formal dishes will be in our cabinets. My bonus Grandma’s silverware will be in our silverware drawer. What better way to honor the memories of these amazing women than by sharing meals on pieces they had picked out and had used to feed their own family and guests?

Sweet moments shared between my kids, encouragement given to me even at times from complete strangers, all seemed so minor at the time. I’m beginning to realize they aren’t small.

There are no perfect families. There’s always something, right? That one weird relative who just doesn’t fit in, that other family member who always tries to stir the pot, and a host of underlying disagreements, disappointments, and betrayals—major and minor.

I admittedly have spent most of our time at home telling my children “it isn’t a big deal,” “we’ll do that another time,” or “this is not worth being upset about.” Except for one thing: it is all worth being upset about to them. My kids are grieving.

I wish I had this perfectly perfect answer as to why I don't want children. But then again, sometimes I wish it wasn't a question that had to be answered all the time.

I don’t know why I imagined that tantrums would end by the time my children turned five, but for both girls, five has been an inflexible and explosive age.