J.D. and Usha Vance describe their decision to add a fourth child using distinct narratives. The vice president’s account, shared on campaign stages, carries a sly, almost mischievous vibe, like someone who thinks he’s pulled a fast one. In their early agreement, they faced a single heavy choice for their household: either another baby or the vice presidency.
“But ladies and gentlemen,” he tells the crowds, “I am persuasive, because I got both!”
Usha presents it in a different light—not as if she lost an argument, but as if watching the seasons change. She grew up as one of two children and has described that arrangement as the “right” size for a family. “Then I had two kids, and I felt a sense of incompleteness,” she told NBC News. After three kids, she found a quiet acceptance about stopping, at least for a while. “But as time went on, I began to feel more and more, almost, excited by that possibility,” she said. “If a chance existed, I should take it, and I knew I’d be content with three, and I’d also be content with four. So here we are.”
Usha’s description of her thinking, and her openness to whatever happened, mirrors how many Americans approach pregnancy and parenting. Amid talk of “planned parenthood,” many people conceive during stretches of uncertain emotion. As fertility guides sometimes frame it, there’s “trying to conceive,” “trying to avoid,” and “trying to whatever.”
Scholars and clinicians often rely on binary categories that miss the nuance of how men and women feel about expanding their families. The National Survey of Family Growth (NSFG) prompts women to classify their pregnancies as intended or unintended (defined as “wanted at the time of conception”) and further splits “unintended” into “unwanted” or “mistimed,” depending on whether they wished to prevent pregnancy entirely or hoped for another child but not right away.
In one pilot, researchers compared responses to a blunt question about current pregnancy attempts, with choices like “yes,” “no,” or “don’t know,” and found that only 2 percent chose the ambivalent option. However, when the same participants were given a broader range of responses—“trying to get pregnant,” “wouldn’t mind getting pregnant,” “don’t know,” “wouldn’t mind avoiding pregnancy,” and “trying to avoid a pregnancy”—about 22 percent selected one of the middle three ambivalent choices.
For the Guttmacher Institute, a research arm that emerged from Planned Parenthood, this kind of ambiguity is something to address. Guttmacher investigators carried out a survey among young adults aged 18–29 who were sexually active and identified a definition for pregnancy ambivalence of their own. They examined individuals who gave inconsistent answers about the importance of avoiding pregnancy and whether they would welcome pregnancy. Men and women with mixed feelings about pregnancy tended to use contraception less reliably, especially when the male partner was the one expected to prevent conception.
Guttmacher concluded that outreach on pregnancy prevention should target men as well. In their view, helping both men and women articulate their pregnancy intentions—and align those intentions with their use (or non-use) of contraception—could improve use patterns and lower the rate of unintended pregnancies. Notably, they did not mention a possible upside: that clarifying desires might lead some couples to discontinue contraception more deliberately and realize a pregnancy sooner.
Yet many couples find that ambiguity just as stubborn to resolve as it was for the Vances. For numerous couples, the question “Are you trying for a baby?” requires ongoing, daily consideration. Some may be diligent about tracking fertility signs and timing intercourse during the fertile phase, while others weigh each night whether using a condom feels worthwhile or whether a baby would be a welcome addition. Couples facing infertility may struggle to answer whether they’re “trying” at all—does it count if you’re simply cohabiting but haven’t begun any medical steps?
One aspect I value about Natural Family Planning—the suite of methods that helps people track fertility to conceive, to abstain, or to diagnose cycle issues—is that it treats the question of whether you are “trying” or “avoiding” as a night-by-night, month-by-month consideration. You don’t require a fixed verdict on whether you’re “done” having children to decide what you’re willing to risk tonight. In NFP communities you’ll often encounter couples who have a baby that counts as a “method failure,” yet still chose to make love on a night with uncertain fertility signs because the chart’s ambiguity echoed their own ambivalence. Choosing to abstain during clearly fertile days felt sensible, since they weren’t sure they should try. Opting to go for it on a borderline day, when the odds of pregnancy were perhaps 5–10 percent, also felt reasonable because it kept a door slightly ajar. Like the pairs described by Guttmacher, they were comfortable avoiding—with a hint of exhilaration about the possibility of an unplanned outcome.
In real life, fertility questions usually resist simplistic yes-or-no labels. While it can be useful to discuss intentions in general terms, it becomes less helpful to ask someone outright, “So, are you done, or do you want another?” when she’s cuddling a newborn. The response given right after birth may not be the same one she has once her cycle returns or as her child grows into a toddler.
There are occasions when asking “how many children do you want?” is useful. If three or more is your goal, you’re probably aiming to begin efforts sooner rather than later. If your aim is a larger brood, then guidance that treats babyhood as a brief, temporary disruption to your life won’t be helpful. The costs of intensive parenting differ greatly between a mother of one and a mother of four. Still, often the practical choice is to handle one infant at a time. You cannot settle how you’d feel about a future child before you’ve already welcomed the current one.
As someone raising three children thus far, I’ve found that a rigid, long-term plan isn’t necessary. With time passing and the kids growing, I continue to discover possibilities for our family’s future. And as someone who has endured the loss of six pregnancies, I recognize that my plans are always loosely tethered to what the future might bring. For the moment, much like Usha, I feel a quiet acceptance of three … or four—and, for now, I don’t need to decide how I’d feel about a fifth.
