Braniff lacks self awareness, and this is ultimately my problem with this memoir. She talks about a desperate yearning to have another child, then another, then another, and shows little respect for her husband's needs or opinions, being dogmatic that adding more and more to her brood is what God wants, and is what will be done, hell or high water, whether her husband wants it or not, so he best get on board ASAP. There is an unhealthy toxic urgency and desperation emanating from every page, as though Braniff is terrified of having a second to breathe or think. She seems to need to fill her life with children to quell the existential crisis creeping up on her. Before a newly birthed or adopted child has had time to catch their breath, she's frantically scurrying for the next child, and no number of children seems to soothe her existential terror. There is something psychologically unsound here, and self-awareness of this would have made this memoir a much fuller and interesting one. Instead, her prose, like her life is just rush rush rush. Her narrative pounces from one child to the next, with little reflection on their adjustment process or the family's. There is hardly any mention of her husband's input in any of this. Is this narcissism, ADHD, depression? She justifies her unilateral decisions for her family, not with personal reflection and negotiation, but with aggressive proclamations that "This is God's plan!"