I had just sat down on our couch, totally surrendering after the long day that was eerily similar to the day before and the one before that, when my 4 year old son asks me ever so nonchalantly, “When are you going to get pregnant again?”. I almost spit out my wine, another piece of proof that this mama was done for the night and said “What?” He repeats his question and I say, “I’m not buddy, you are my last baby” to which he follows up with the question. You know what question I am talking about. The question. How do mommies get pregnant? That one.
On the couch (I am never on the couch). My feet are up (my feet are never up). I am drinking a glass of wine. Well that’s normal. But all these signs say mom is done. Mom already helped with homework, dinner was made, everyone ate, dishes were washed. My shift was over. And I certainly was not ready to discuss the mechanics involved to produce a baby to my 4 year old son whom I still think of as a baby and have no idea how he even computed the thoughts to even wonder how babies are made. He is still a baby.
“Well sweetie” I began, ready to give the most robotic, unthoughtful answer to his question, when he comes in with his own sweet version, saving himself and me from my awful G rated rendition, and he asks, “Did God take a part of your heart and make me out of it?”
I stop. I sigh. This time a sigh of a mother that just had her heart inflated to double the size and a breath to keep her tears from coming so to not totally freak him out, and I reply, “Yes buddy, God took a piece of my heart and made each of your sisters and then he made you.” He was completely satisfied with this answer and so was I.