Deciding we're done

So at my last appointment with the midwife, she asked if I was having any more children. Two years ago, I wasn't sure at all. Last year, I was pretty much thinking I was done. This year, I'm sure. I'm done. We're taking permanent measures to make sure that we are done. My older sister's surprise pregnancy 7 years after her reportedly last child was born prompted that decision. (That will be the topic of a later blog post - right now I'm not allowed to talk about. My husband won't let me. If I try to bring up the impending "appointment", he just closes his eyes and puts his hand over his balls and sighs like he's about to lose a dear friend.)

I know this is the right decision. I look at my family and it feels complete. I try to imagine another baby, another place at the table, another person on my lap... and I can't. I try to imagine myself pregnant again, nursing again... and I can't. I remember asking my mother how I would know when I was done. She said I'd just know. I didn't believe her. Now I do. I just know.

But I am still a little bit sad. My friends are still having babies. I hold their infants and remember how it felt to smell a baby and tickle tiny toes and pat cute little padded diaper butts. I see a mother nursing and remember that closeness and warmth and love. I miss that. I won't ever have that again.

Then again, I also won't have nursing bras, diapers, and spit up stains on every suit.

The other day my husband and I were having lunch and a toddler boy passed by, babbling and laughing and being very adorable. We watched him and we both smiled. I asked my husband, are you sure you don't want more? As if on cue, the boy started throwing a monster tantrum. We both just laughed.

Yup. We're done.