Happy Birthday to my IUD
My youngest child, my baby girl, just had her fifth birthday.
It was a reflective time, full of rainbow cupcakes and dancing.
It was a time to celebrate my littlest kid becoming a Big Kid.
It meant there would soon be another five year old in the house: my IUD.
I remember the six week checkup at my OB/GYN's office like it was yesterday. He told me to start having sex again, and I told him, "Not until you put my uterus on lockdown, Mister."
The joy it has given me all these years of not making babies has felt like dancing on rainbows while eating cupcakes.
It is time to change it out for a new one, and appreciate how well it did its job.
Some women use this time to consider having another baby, now that their Lady Parts have only a small window of opportunity left before the cobwebs settle in.
When I had my son, I knew he wasn't my only child.
When I had my daughter, I knew that was it. Done. Close the factory: There will be no more deliveries through this loading dock.
People said I'd change my mind.
I can hear the ticking time bomb of an about-to-expire IUD much, much louder than my own biological clock.
I'm still positive I have all the kids I want, ThankYouVeryMuch. They are a pure delight (sometimes) that light up my life (when not having tantrums).
I see all I have done for my kids.
I think it's time I do something for myself now.
I'm standing on the precipice of the next stage of my life. The stage when my kids are old enough to be fun to hang out with, but young enough to still be edibly adorable. The stage when they don't need me at every waking moment, so I can finally start to have moments of my own. Conversations with adults that don't include SpongeBob Squarepants or bowel movements. Possibly even a career again.
As my daughter blew out five star-topped pink candles, I wasn't just celebrating her. I was celebrating myself.
I made it. My kids are smart, funny, and rarely ever show up on America's Most Wanted.
So I am sure that I want to celebrate my IUD's birthday by replacing it with a brand-spanking new one.
This means next month will be the first time in 20 years I'll be excited to see a cold speculum come my way in the gynecologist's office, since it'll mean I'm about to get five whole years to finally make myself a priority.
It's about damn time.