No more babies for me. Not that I was planning any. But today I gave away the pram, the cot, the portacot… the essential hardware is out the door. Part of me is okay with it. The operating system required to have a third child fell apart soon after the birth of Mr4. Very soon after. Like 10 minutes after the birth.
“That’s it,” I said, gazing on the perfection of my second little boy, relief that he was here, in good shape, flooding my bruised, battered and re-zippered body. “We’re done.”
The Builder, dreams of little girls with red hair dancing in his head, wasn’t so certain. Hoped I’d change my mind, to be honest. But I didn’t. I haven’t.
For reasons that are too long, complicated and boring to go into in a blog post, I think another pregnancy would do my head in completely.
And, let’s face it, I’m no spring chicken in the baby-making stakes. Any baby that I had today would be looking at a very grey-haired mum at the High School Graduation ceremony. Sixty may be the new 50, but try telling an 18 year old that.
So, that’s it. The hardware is gone. The software has malfunctioned. The garage is empty.
I’m okay with it. I think. Part of me reminisces about tiny feet, the scent of freshly washed newborn skin, little starfish hands patting my arm while breastfeeding, those chubby layer-upon-layer baby thighs. Another part of me punches my fist in the air at the idea of never, ever spending another night walking the floor with a screaming scrap of misery. Or spoon-feeding mush to a hungry little mouth (oh, God, the monotony). Or sitting through another Wiggles video.
I’m glad I went there. But it’s not necessarily a trip I need to take again.
End of an era.
What about you? Is your garage cluttered up with baby hardware? Are you done?