Biology is a Bitch

Eight and a half years ago, when I was 27, I went into labor 5 weeks early with my little Bean.  I hadn't even gotten far enough along in the pregnancy for those last few visits with my doctor to schedule my fourth c-section.  She has always done things on her own terms and time and she kicked it off by arriving early.  I was pretty far along in labor by the time we made it to the hospital and my doctor took one look at me and ordered my epidural to get me into surgery as soon as possible.  Red went to school with his son, and we were on friendly terms, so I had no qualms about hitting him up as soon as he entered the suite for a tubal.  Four times in labor resulted in four c-sections, and four surgeries resulted in four new daughters.  My dad one time made the joke that instead of stitching me up, they should consider installing a zipper.  My doctor fussed a little because I hadn't discussed this with him prior.  I reminded him I wasn't even seeing him every other week yet.  He raised a stink because I had already been given the epidural and no paperwork for consent had been filled out.  He very firmly let me know that it is indeed a permanent solution and had I considered other alternatives?  Was he out of his mind?  I told him four c-sections is twice the amount the medical community likes to see and quite frankly, nowadays four kids is more than you see in most families.  I was quite content with my gaggle of girls and at some point I'd really like to date my husband.  As for the alternatives?  Forget it.  I have never had a problem getting pregnant and the permanent solution was the solution for me.  Time to put my baby factory out of business.  He reluctantly agreed, had the nurse draw up papers and I happily signed consent.  When I broke the news to Sean when he came in, he looked like he wanted to protest but he didn't.  He asked me if I was sure, and I assured him.  I even joked during the procedure that he had better make sure he double-knotted me.  I'm all about inappropriate humor in case you didn't know.

It's the best decision I have ever made and apparently my insurance company agreed because they covered the procedure in full.  It was apparently cost effective.  Ahem.

I've had my hands full for almost 18 years now.  I've been a mother half my life.  I've nursed and potty trained four kids.  I've spent a disgusting amount of money on diapers and even cloth diapered Bean.  I can't count how many tantrums I've endured or how many times I suffered through the SpongeBob Movie because that was the only thing Midge didn't go nuclear over.  I learned how to get crayon off walls before the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser.  I taught four kids how to read before kindergarten.  I've bandaged dozens of skinned elbows and knees, doled out gallons of pink antibiotics, given thousands of baths.  I've compensated for countless sleepless nights with obscene amounts of caffeine.  I'm still navigating uncharted territory with the Banana and Red.  Just because they can blow their own noses and don't literally depend on me for their survival doesn't mean they don't still need me to parent them.  It's just a different kind of parenting than it is when they're small.  I've learned that one-size-fits-all parenting might work for some, but it doesn't work for me.  Or them.  Even though Midge and Bean aren't Banana and Red, I at least have experience in the ages they are now.  Not every day is someplace I haven't been before with the older girls.  I've said it before, but my time with the older girls is getting small.  When Bean turns nine this July, all four of my kids will be on the back nine, so to speak.  That time that I talked about where I get to actually date the man I married is a lot closer than it seems.

I went to go see my cousin's new baby again yesterday.  She is one of those horrific women that don't even look like they've given birth mere weeks after bringing a new baby into the world.  Where my abdomen now resembles a jiggly topographical map and gravity has not been kind to my upper half either, she's walking around like gestation ain't no thang.  She does, however, look tired.  I understand. I've been there.  I happily took her weeks-old daughter from her arms to get my fix.  She now smiles and makes noises and my body automatically bounces and sways they way it always has with an infant in my arms.  Sometimes I catch myself doing that with a basket of laundry on my hip.  Her toddler came upstairs and climbed all over the couch and her mother with her sippy cup in tow.  She insisted on picking out her own clothes, which of course were just clean pajamas.  She even has the same hang up about certain socks the way Banana did at two.  She bounced around and talked as my cousin and I chatted and I saw myself in my cousin when I was 20 and 27 with an infant and toddler sucking up all the time and energy any of us can muster.  I knew she'd have to dig even deeper in a few hours when her 6th grader came home.  Good shit.

Baby fingers.  I die.

I sat on the couch and held a peacefully sleeping baby with a full belly in my arms.  I stroked her soft, round cheeks and ran my finger across her tiny pink lips.  I brushed my index finger under her hand and her fingers instinctively wrapped around it like my girls' fingers did.  I watched her round little belly rise and fall with each breath and listened as she occasionally let out a sigh.  All of the sudden I was 18, woefully ignorant of what lie ahead, holding my Banana who made me a mother for the first time.  I was 20, arms full of my first redhead Red, amazed that the immediate love you have for your babies isn't just a one-time magical experience.  I was 26, looking into the blue eyes of a perfect pink baby that somehow redeemed me after a few very long, hard years of drug abuse.  I was 27, holding five pounds and three ounces of redheaded sweetness that would complete my family and forever hold the title of "Baby of the Family".  And then I finally allowed myself to feel what I knew had been there for awhile.

I regret the choice I made eight years ago.

Now don't get me wrong.  It's irrational.  I'm 36 years old and while my friends might be having kids now, I shudder to think how tired they are going to be. I was exhausted when I had mine, and I'm exhausted now.  I can't even imagine how my old bones would cope with the lack of sleep.  If I'm so much as up past midnight now, I feel like I've been on a three day bender for a few days.  We have six people in a three bedroom house.  Short of putting a crib in my bedroom, I don't even have the physical space in my house to accommodate a baby, or their obscene amount of shit.  Midge screamed for four years.  FOUR YEARS.  I don't think anyone here is up for that mess again.  I won't even get into the financial anxiety.  Banana is spitting distance to college, and while I can't afford to pay for her to take off to a four year university, I still intend on helping her as much as I can.  College notwithstanding, kids are expensive.  I was such an idiot when Banana and Red were babies and I would look forward to all the money I would save when they were out of diapers.  Holy shit was I ignorant.  On all rational, cognizant levels, being done is a good thing.  It's a great thing.  It's the smartest thing I've ever done.  Seriously, the way my body wants to procreate, if I hadn't asked the doctor to double knot my tubes, I could very well have my own TLC show by now.

Now if only my brain can talk my heart out of the pity party it's having for itself.  

I don't know if it's the fact that half my girls are so close to spreading their wings and finding their own way in the world.  It might just be that holding a perfect, beautiful baby will always trigger memories and even though I come off as a hardened, black-hearted soul, it's really just a defense mechanism to protect the emotional basket case that lives inside this stretch-marked and battle-hardened body.  I'm sure the fact that I'm 36 has something to do with it.  I confess I always smirked when I heard someone yammering away about the ticking of their biological clock.  I didn't realize that the whole "biological clock" was, like, an actual thing, guys.  What the hell.  Biology is a real bitch.

The good news, of course, is the very thing I'm lamenting.  The shop is still closed for business.  My husband and my kids can thank me later.  Best.  Decision.  Ever.

No, really.