In a few weeks I'm having the lining of my uterus lasered to oblivion. I imagine it smelling like smoke and burning skin, but I don't think lasers work that way. I am done being a fertile woman. Sick of the pain and fucking monthly bloodbath. And God knows I don't want any more babies. I can hardly handle the two I have.
That I had to reschedule my "procedure" for one of J.'s depositions led to a minor shitstorm on my part. He weathered it well. I told him I still couldn't forgive his job for the depositions he did in the days right after Claire was born. He said only, "I know." I think he's a little bitter, too.
I couldn't have handled those few postpartum weeks without my parents, who took shifts around the clock so J. could work and sleep and I could not go insane.
They are coming to Seattle tomorrow, my parents. I'll be taking them to a tulip festival and on a chocolate factory tour. My dad will tell the kids knock knock jokes and my mom will bring presents and we'll actually have some childless time, too, while Max and Claire are in school.
They must think it's weird that I'm of age now to sterilize myself. They must look at each other and say, "Forty-two! Our daughter is forty-two." Because that's what J. and I do about Eight and Six. Holy Shit, we'll whisper in wonder, Max and Claire are Eight and Six.
At the same time, it seems like we've had littles forever. I can't even remember my life before, except in snatches where I might wax nostalgic about things like free time on weekends, toyless rooms, and visions of my future, hopefully as a mother.
It's very different than I expected. So much better. And so, so much worse.