No Tears For V-Day

God willing, forever four.

I remember reading about women who were heartbroken to say good-bye to their reproductive years.  They wrote moving prose about how their husbands’ vasectomies marked the end of an era, how a small part of them grieved for the passing of that fertile time.

I am not one of those women.

The only things I’m grieving are my weekend plans, since my husband has informed me that he will need to be “laying on the couch for at least two days”.

Granted, I’m not the one being sterilized this afternoon (which is, I need to point out again, different from actual castration, Jared).  I do have some sympathy for my husband in that regard, although he doesn’t seem to be at all concerned with becoming infertile, but maybe that’s just because he’s distracted by the idea of “HAVING MY PENIS CUT, BRITT!” (and, no, that’s not actually how it works, Jared).  In any case, I recognize that having your husband get a vasectomy is entirely different than actually getting a vasectomy.

But still.  As a couple, this is a commitment we make together to be finally and officially done with making babies.

Thank you, Jesus!

I keep waiting for a twinge of what these other women have talked about.  I even remember my own mother’s sadness when she had her tubes tied after my youngest brother was born, but I don’t feel even a trace of that remorse.  Nothing.  Nada.  Zilch.  The only thing I feel is relief and excitement and anticipation about moving out of the potential baby making phase and into the next phase of our life.  The official raising rather than having children phase.

It’s not that I don’t love my children.  I adore them both.  I physically ache for them when they are away from me for more than a day.  Last night as I stared into the darkness looking for a sign of regret about the upcoming vasectomy, all I could see was an overwhelming longing for the crowding of my daughter in my bed and the never-ending chatter of my son that is supposed to fill my home.  As a person who never fantasized about having children when I was one myself, I am often caught off guard by how much being a mother means to me.

No, not being a mother.

Being their mother.

I’m not sure I have that seemingly universal gene that screams to produce offspring.  I love squeezing other people’s babies and I delight in watching my friend’s children and my own nieces and nephews.  But naturally maternal I am not.

But loving my children, loving these two people specifically, is the single greatest joy of my life.  It fills me up in a way that no quiet yearning for unborn children ever could.

And with them, I am full.

I get the sense that I have met my children.  Both of them.  All of them. I feel like the four of us, me and Jared and Devin and Emma, create this perfectly balanced unit, a circle that is eternal and complete.

So I don’t know if it’s a sign of my meager maternal mojo or what, but I’m not bidding a tearful farewell to our fertility today.  I’m excited to be free of that tiny voice that constantly reminds me I could still get pregnant if I’m not “careful”.

And I’m grateful to my husband, for taking this one for the team.

Thanks, baby.

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