When I was walking into the hospital to give birth to my son, I said to the friend with me "Thank God this is the very last time I will have to wear this horrible blue flowered maternity crap." Even in the midst of the contractions, I was grinning with joy about finally being done with carrying another human around inside me. And then, not long ago, I thought I was pregnant again. An entire week, gone by in a blur of absolute horror. Don't get me wrong, I love my children with all my heart. That's just it. I have no more heart for any more babies. I thought about this "new baby" alot. I thought about her while driving home late at night. The 2 year old was screaming "no Mummy" over and over, and all I was doing was sitting in my seat. She kept it up until she got her 5 month old brother crying. I looked over at Hubby, staring straight ahead at the road, and I knew he was thinking the same thing I was - "oh god oh god we are having another one of these oh god oh god why me....". I thought about my tiny little newborn to come while I was changing Girl Terror's butt, and she kicked me in the boob and then shouted "Mummy! Poop! Boobie!" and lo and behold, she was right. Poop. Boobie. I did a great deal of thinking in the middle of the nights, while Boy Terror sat on my lap gazing around all bright eyed and bushy tailed, and I wondered what would happen if I tried to walk around in the dark carrying two squirmy babies when I know full well I can't even navigate the house at night by myself. Finally, I thought about the changes my poor body would go through with yet another pregnancy. Back to the blue flowered tops that I really should have burned. Just when I was sure I would need to be committed to an asylum, my good friend Aunt Flo arrived. I could have cried with relief and joy. But being a woman, instead I had a tiny little tear for the baby I will never have.