This morning, I had an appointment for my annual exam. I found myself sitting in a room that I hadn’t been in since Abby was a newborn, looking around at all the pregnancy paraphernalia. Along with signs and brochures, there was a poster on the wall illustrating the 9 month transformation from embryo to baby. Even though I had seen it all before, been witness to it’s power first hand, I was transfixed.
I did that. I had that. 3 successful times. 4 others that were not. The embryo illustrated at 8 weeks, which is when all of my miscarriages occurred, was so small, looking nothing like a baby. But it’s eyes, it read, would have been completely formed.
I felt a slight ping of envy. Suddenly, I missed being pregnant. I would almost say that for a brief second, I contemplated doing it all over again. Do I want another baby?
That’s when my doctor walked in, clearly expecting herself.
We made pleasantries, like always. She asked how I was, problems I may have been having. All while I’m dressed in a rather revealing robe. Then, she wondered how I was getting along with my IUD. No complaints, I replied.
“Do you want any more kids?”, she asked in her line of questions.
“No”, I immediately answered, without even thinking.
“Well, that was quick,” she jumped, slightly taken aback.
“That’s how done I am”, I realized. And it was. It is. I guess that’s my answer right there. I am done. I am a mother to 7; 3 here with us, 4 someplace else. But 7 nonetheless. I’ve made peace with that. I am full. Done. Complete.