The first time I decided to try to get pregnant, Hillary was six months along and another friend called to tell me she was pregnant. I remember getting off the phone with her, looking at the husband and saying, "I'm ready to have a baby."
Something clicked inside of me. If they were grown-up enough to do it, I was too (I was 27 at the time, which seems silly now that I wasn't quite sure if I was grown-up enough for a baby then. Also, I always joke that my friend's daughter is the reason Peanut is alive.)
Five weeks later, a test at 3 a.m. on the husband's birthday confirmed our life was about to change.
Right before Peanut turned a year old, I had baby fever. My sister gave birth to her second child. Hillary was pregnant again. It was hard for me to wait to have another baby but circumstances weren't right for us. Less than a year later, I was pregnant with Gizmo.
As I've mentioned before, I opted to have my tubes tied when Gizmo was born. The doctor and nurses asked me many, many, many, many times if I was sure, reminding me many, many, many, many times that this was permanent. There is even video of the doctor asking me after Gizmo was delivered, "Are you sure you don't want to try for another?"
My response, "Good Lord, no."
There has only been one time that I questioned that decision and I blame hormones. Days after Gizmo was born, my dad said something about how she was their last grandchild. Something about it struck me as ridiculously sad I couldn't stop crying.
Now? My brother-in-law and sister-in-law announced they are expecting their first child at the end of the year. That first friend (the one whose daughter sparked my need to get pregnant) is pregnant with her third child and another friend is pregnant with her second.
My only thought is this: How wonderful for them. We're good.