I meant to take those birth control pills, I swear.
I am happy I never got around to it, though. If I had we wouldn’t have been blessed with our little Novalee.
And who knows? Maybe we never would have had a little girl if I had went on those pills.
Maybe it was luck…or divine intervention.
Whatever it was, Matt and I had made a deal with each other when we found out we were expecting our fourth child.
If it was another boy, we would (eventually) try one more time for our elusive girl.
And if it was a girl, I’d let Matt get a vasectomy.
When the ultrasound revealed that we were having a daughter, the fate of Matt’s sperm was sealed.
An hour after she was born, Matt was on the phone with the urologist’s office, making an appointment.
Much to my dismay, four weeks later, I drove him to the clinic for the procedure.
Crazy as it may be, I tried to talk him out of it.
I know I should be relieved that I will never have to endure another rough pregnancy or another excruciating labor and delivery.
Actually I am, but…
there is this small part of me that is sad about closing this chapter of my life. I’m not even thirty yet. I don’t feel like I should be finished having children already.
I don’t feel like I am ready to be done.
Especially since little Novalee is growing so fast. It’s bittersweet knowing that she is our last baby.
Then again, after spending the past five years in a sea of poopy diapers and spit up, a huge part of me is looking forward to what lies beyond the baby stage.
My husband is right. We have to be done.
After all, there is no more room for car seats in our van and I refuse to drive a bus.