Last week A went under the knife, and we officially closed the baby shop. The permanent closure of the factory — yes, I just referred to my reproduction system as a factory. It’s been shuttered for a while (birth control for the win), but this was the death knell.

Having babies came easy to us. With both boys, I became pregnant the first month we started trying. C was a honeymoon baby, for Pete’s sake! Both my pregnancies were relatively easy as well. Only mild bouts of nausea, a few weeks of sciatica early on with C, mild hip discomfort at the end with J — he was a big baby. Delivering C was smoother than J, only because my water broke on its own. With J, they broke my water with something that looked like a crochet hook — A’s description — then I had to wait to become fully effaced. I almost kicked my doctor in the face when the full power of a contraction hit, and I wasn’t allowed to push.

The only hiccup was my placenta tearing on the way out — both times — and the doctor had to go in and get it. The first time, she forgot that I hadn’t gotten an epidural and went right in. Unpleasant isn’t a strong enough word to describe what that felt like. With J, she remembered — a different doc than the first time — gave me morphine, waited for it to kick in, then went in. It only made a slight difference.

Each time they put my boys on my chest, I was filled with pure joy and relief that they were perfectly healthy, with all ten fingers and toes, strong lungs, and nearly perfect Apagar scores.

One night while I was pregnant with C, I was on my way home from work, and it suddenly hit: I would never be alone again. I wasn’t unhappy about that. Little did I realize that that meant even in my sleep, I would have a human furnace trying to crawl back into my body every night.

So now that A has undergone surgery — with no pressure from me — the window is officially closed. At five years older than me, he knew he didn’t want to have kids past 40. He wanted to still be young enough to run around and play with them. We snuck J in one year and a month under the wire.

I’ve hemmed and hawed about wanting another baby. In my mind, pre-marriage and babies, I always thought I’d have three. Then I had two babies and didn’t get enough sleep, with no good childcare options, not enough time in between, and the prospect of having an eleven-pound baby. I changed my mind…kind of. It was never enough to really push the issue, though.

I’m happy with my family of four the way it is. I wouldn’t trade my boys for any other kid in the world. A few of my friends trying for their second, just had their third, or are accidentally on their fourth. I’ll enjoy the new baby smell from their little ones, but it will never be my own again.

No more umbilical cords to clean around or redundant foreskins post-circumcision to keep an eye on. No more monitoring poop colors. No more first smiles and laughs. No more sore nipples. No more tiny clothes and socks. No more coos, no more seeing the world for the first time again through their eyes.

So, am I sad that having another baby is TOTALLY off the table? Lamenting a little bit about what could have been? Of course, but I think we’re good the way we are — the four of us.

As we approach C’s fifth birthday, I look forward to taking our first steps out of toddlerhood and becoming a “big boy” mom. He’s already so amazingly independent, confident, and intelligent. He spins these wonderful yarns with his overactive imagination — totally my kid! He knows right from wrong and tries his best to keep his little brother on the straight and narrow (definitely a story for another day).

There is so much good yet to come with these two. So goodbye, baby era. It has been amazing and transformative.