What to Expect When You're Not Expecting

My youngest child will be turning 2 in April. She isn't just the youngest, though. She is also the LAST baby. Yes, no more children will be passing through this baby chute and I'm ...... OK with that. I'm actually more than OK with that. You see, it's a great thing that we stopped at 4. Anymore kids and I'd be writing to you from a psychiatric ward. Seriously. Don't get me wrong: I love my kids and I'm glad they are all here. I'm pretty sure, though, that each child has taken at least 2 years off the end of my life. I'm not that great at math, but if my calculations are correct, this means that I am slated to die at least 8 years early. But, anything for your kids, right?!! I'm just gonna hang on long enough so that I can experience the joy of one of them having to wipe my butt for a change. I don't care which one of them has to do it, either.  Pay back is a bitch!!

I am very commonly asked (often with a faint look of horror), whether we plan to "go for number 5." After I'm done laughing hysterically, I bluntly inform the asker "Hells no!" Then, with happy tears in my eyes, I tell (sometimes perfect strangers) that we've burnt that bridge to the ground! YOU SHALL NOT PASS little baby makers. To give you an idea, 10 minutes after our last child was born, I was on the phone scheduling my husband's vasectomy. Why a vasectomy vs. a tubal ligation? My reasoning was simple: after 10 years of being pregnant, birthing babies, and breast feeding babies, I felt very strongly that my loving husband should experience the joy of having his genitals smacked around a bit. Fair is fair and the vasectomy procedure is faster and less invasive. He agreed and so the factory is closed. 

Now, here's the million dollar question: how did I know I was done? How do you know that your family is complete? It's such a tough question, but I will say that I knew after my first, second, and third children that I didn't feel like everyone who was meant to be in our family was here. The picture wasn't complete, so we knew that we wanted one more. As soon as my daughter was born, I felt it! She was the last piece of the puzzle and I haven't had any second thoughts since. 

How else do I know? Seeing other babies does not make "my uterus ache with longing" as I've heard others poetically describe it. Newborns are obviously adorable and sweet, but the feeling I get is more so of my uterus trying to detach itself from my body and escape via any orifice it can find! I can picture my uterus galloping away from me like a runaway horse. In fact, if I didn't still need my lady parts, I might be totally OK if I woke up some morning to find them gone! I'm so bad, that it's not safe to sit me next to an expectant mother. God forbid she asks me "what's labor like?" or "what's it like having 4 kids?" My eyes suddenly glaze over and I start saying very unhelpful things like, "have you ever felt like your lady bits were doused in gasoline and lit on fire?" or "I haven't slept in 10 years" or "I have a hemorrhoid for each child, you do the math." And then I laugh and laugh and laugh! Yup. So, I think it's fair to say that we are done. 

Now, if you know me, you know that I adore my children. I would never take them for granted. I know how lucky I am to have 4 healthy kids. But real talk ... kids are hella hard. I think it's OK to admit that too. My kids have a really early bedtime and it's not because I'm a conscientious parent. Once 7 o'clock rolls around I'm in search and destroy mode. Objective: find the children and neutralize the threat. I need them to not be in my line of sight after a certain time at night. It's not them, it's me! I sprout hair, teeth and fangs when the sun goes down and it's just in every one's best interest to go the F the sleep. 

I think sometimes we go into this parenting thing with the expectation that kids will some how make everything better. Study after study shows that kids do not necessarily make life better or marriages stronger. I've learned to approach this parenting adventure from the standpoint of: I'm just trying to raise good human beings. My kids were not put here to fulfill some image of myself. They are unique, individual people whom I have committed to guiding towards adulthood. But boy do I live for the funny moments, the peaceful moments, and the joyful celebrations. Those moments make all the little daily struggles well worth it.

Pregnancy: I'm Doing It Wrong

As many of you may know, I had my fourth (and FINAL) child in April. What you may not know is that I am terrible at being pregnant. Now, this may sound like an odd thing coming from a woman who has been knocked up 4 times, but it is the truth. If there was an Olympic category for "worst pregnant person ever", I'd be bringing home the gold!

Some women just exude pure joy when they are pregnant.  Little birdies chirp around them. Angels sing when they enter a room with their glowing skin and perfect little bumps. They say things like, "I am just soaking in every moment of this pregnancy" while sipping organic juice and eating a healthy salad topped with grilled chicken. They talk about taking prenatal yoga classes and lovingly chart each milestone and prenatal appointment on a special keepsake calendar. 

I stomp around with a permanent bitch face slapped on. I get horrible morning, noon, and night sickness that lasts well into the second trimester. I eat hot dogs and cold cuts and sometimes cold cuts on top of hot dogs sprinkled with freaking soft cheese. The only exercise I do is throwing up. Occasionally I may rise from the sofa to hand my kids some money so they can run to the ice-cream truck and bring ME back a King Cone. I gain at minimum 50 pounds each pregnancy. On a small framed woman, 50 pounds is a whole lotta pounds let me tell you. There ain't too many places for that weight to go, so it goes EVERYWHERE. I get heartburn so bad I walk around with a Maalox mustache from guzzling the stuff. Speaking of mustaches. My pregnancy hormones get so out of whack, that I could compete for the role of bearded lady in my very own freak show. I become so forgetful that my doctors have to call ME to remind me that I do in fact need prenatal care. It's unreal how bad I am at gestating human life!

Well, every pregnancy, I have what I call a "come to Jesus moment." It is a moment in time where I realize that I am seriously done being pregnant and cannot imagine waking up even one more day looking and feeling like I've swallowed a basketball, a football, and a dang soccer ball. About 25 weeks into my last pregnancy, I had my come to Jesus moment.  Picture this: I am standing in my kitchen angrily slapping together a sandwich when my youngest runs in screaming about something or another. All toddlers sound like drunk people when they talk, so I really couldn't understand what he was saying.  Bending down to hear him better, I hear a loud "RIPPPP!!" In confusion, I quickly stood back up in search of the noise. Looking down at myself, I realized what had caused the sound.

I had split my pajama pants wide open. My pajama pants. Pants that are supposed to be stretchy and loose. Pants that had failed me. Apparently sensing the fragility of the situation, my son fled the room.

As I stood in my kitchen, suddenly nude from the waist down, all sorts of irrational thoughts flooded my head like, "could I sue the manufacturer of these pajamas for intentional infliction of emotional distress?" and "the youngest child witnessed everything - he will just have to go." Letting out a wail of pure horror I fell to my knees and gathered the tattered remains of my beloved Victoria Secret pajama pants in my hands.

Never again, I whispered, my fist clenched in the air. Never again. My husband Lou, alerted to the commotion by my toddler's drunken babbling, chose that moment to unwisely enter the kitchen to investigate. 

Any way, that's how Lou was scheduled for a vasectomy 6 months later. I wasn't kidding when I said never again. What was your "come to Jesus moment"?