The Uterus Store

When my daughter was younger, after school I would often take her back to work with me (just by Bryant-Denny Stadium, in the back). Snack and homework time while juggling work was our daily routine.

Mother’s Day has a different meaning this year.

I have an only child. I shut down my uterus store at 31. The “We are closed” sign went up and no more babies were to enter as customers. The womb is in the tomb. “One and done,” I still joke to people.

But that’s not what I wanted.

Growing up I always pictured a large family. At least five kids, I said. I will be a great mom, I said. It will come naturally, I said.

None of that was true. Mama said there would be days like this.

I struggled through the first year. Postpartum depression hit me like a sudden car crash. I was T- boned. I was scared and scarred after almost dying during childbirth when an artery tore, ripped my uterus and cervix and I essentially bled to death before transfusions saved me.

I know about life, death, birth and rebirth. I know God.

Were I to get pregnant after my daughter’s birth, I would almost certainly die and — at the least — the baby’s health would be in question. Yet I felt the safety net of options beneath me.

This Mother’s Day I worry, once again scared, that my daughter — my now-19-year-old baby — won’t have those options. What if she gets pregnant and acknowledges how difficult motherhood is? What if she decides she is simply not ready to be a mom and…