My friend Jodi had a beautiful baby boy this weekend named Gavin.

Jodi and I both studied journalism and were floormates at Ryerson, and have stayed close since. We don’t see each other much, but usually email once a month, and she is a regular reader of this site. For as long as I’ve known her, she was never sure she wanted children. So when she announced she was was pregnant, most of us were shocked and incredibly tickled. It’s been such a pleasure to watch her grow these past months.

Jodi’s husband Brad shared this photo on Facebook over the weekend, and it hasn’t strayed far from my mind since I saw it Sunday.

You all probably know that look as well as I do. That’s the first look of love when you hold your minutes-old baby in your arms. There is no duplicating it. There is no faking it. That is pure, raw love.

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This morning as I tidied the house, I started absentmindedly sorting toys. Alice has started growing out of those soft, small stuffies and plastic rings, gravitating more towards larger, louder, more interactive toys. I’ve started a pile to sell/donate, and a pile to keep for family and friends’ babies.

The last time I packed toys away, I knew they would be played with again in our house. We knew we were not finished having kids, that there was one more wee McDougall-Foster to bring into this world.

But this time. Today. Today it slammed into me that we are done. Really, truly done. I will never be pregnant again. I will never breastfeed again. I will never carry a teeny being inside a pouch slung across my chest again. Those newborn coos and wails will never reverberate off our walls.

I will never have that look of new love again.

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The Gentle Vasectomy Clinic called today. It’s been almost two weeks, and they have yet to receive Eric’s results. Receptionist Brian — who 11 weeks ago candidly demonstrated how to put a numbing patch on my husband’s testicles — is now on their trail.

We are anxious and excited.

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My friend Carolyn once said when you are done having children, you must mourn for the babies you will never have. That always rang true, and I understood it from a practical level. But today the process has started.

I honestly do not want more kids. My capacity — emotionally, physically, financially — has been reached, good and bad. Our family feels right and complete.

And I’m OK with that.

But it doesn’t mean it can’t ache once in a while.

The past week I’ve fitted back into two pairs of In-Between Pants. Not pre-pregnancy pants, but pairs I bought, dazed and confused over the state of my post-partum body, after giving birth to Lucy the spring of 2006.

I put on the same amount of weight this time, just over 35 pounds, but because my body shape was different when I got pregnant with Alice than when I got pregnant with Lucy, I wasn’t confident I’d fit into The In-Between Pants this time around. I’ve been trying them on weekly since about three weeks after giving birth — so desperate to get the hell out of pregnancy clothes –but the hips, they’re a tad wider. Not with chub extra padding, but the bones are literally wider after Child 2.

(I’ve doubts I’ll ever get back into pre-baby clothes this time around at all, ever, because of this.)

My sweet friend Lauren is due with her second baby in April, and all my pregnancy clothes are boxed and bagged to go to her this week. There’s no better motivation than when the bulk of your wardrobe is leaving the house.

So the timing of the pants couldn’t be better. Just because one pair is held up with a hair tie — the same trick used to extend the life of non-maternity pants — doesn’t matter. They’re up. And I’m just a bit muffin-top like.

I also got my wedding rings back on, something I’m terribly excited about. Because I was pregnant through the summer heat, I had to remove them in, like, May.

Here’s Eric and I on Saturday, for the Big Night Out. We had a great time chatting with adults and not having to tell our dinner companions to stop throwing your food and no, I don’t want to see what chewed up corn looks like.

But Alice’s two night wakings on Friday, combined with two glasses of wine, meant Eric and I were both falling asleep at the table by 10 p.m. We were home by 11. Oh, the joys of early parenthood.

But we were out! Together! Without children! Hurrah!

Anie, one of the women from my weekly Durham Mom’s Night Out group, is due with her first baby right about now, and is already thinking about daycare for her daughter — and rightly so.

She is only able to take four months off from work.

Can you click here to pop over to the Durham Region Daycare blog, where I’ve done a post with her questions, and share some advice?

Thanks!

p.s. — I finally finished Alice’s birth story this weekend. You can find it here.

Dear Alice: It is a true testament to life with you and your sister that it’s now a day after your official two month birthday, and almost a week since you turned eight weeks old, and not only has there not been time to write a letter to you, but your birth story is still banging around in my head. But today, the first day of a new year in which you will morph from a flailing, smiling blob into a giggling, crawling girl, I promised you and me it would get done. Here, my sweet pumpkin spice loaf, is how you came into the world and completed our family.

October 31, 2008.

This day, it didn’t seem odd that it was rather uncomfortable to stand up. After all, Alice was was a week late, and I was aching and awkward. In the grocery store parking lot the day before, spasms of pain ripped down the fronts of my legs, and I collapsed to my knees, clutching the cart.

To say I wanted this baby out was an understatement.

This day, it was unusually sunny and warm for late fall, and the maple leaves on our front lawn reflected the brightness of the morning. Jen O., Eirinn and Avery came out for a little Halloween party, and we enjoyed a great morning painting pumpkins and decorating cupcakes. Jen knew I was miserable, and she and the girls were such a welcome distraction.

It was when we went upstairs shortly before noon to show off Lucy and Alice’s rooms that I noticed something odd. There was a tightening from across my lower back that ripped to the front of my stretched belly, and I immediately had to sit in the flower sheet-covered Ikea Poang chair in the corner. I wrote it off as yet another late pregnancy symptom.

But a few minutes later, another one came. When we were outside snapping photos of the girls giggling and careening around our giant inflatable pumpkin, yet another one. As Jen packed her daughters into the car, I mentioned I was feeling funny, and might have to call Eric. I can still see her excited face asking what I was feeling and wishing us a quick and painless (haha) labour before she drove away.

I popped Lucy into her booster seat — no longer able to run after her — and started some toast. I also jotted down the time (12:41) when another wave of tightening hit. In the middle of spreading Cheez Whiz, I had to write the time again (12:47). And again while pouring milk (12:50) and grabbing grapes from the fridge (12:55). I finally understood that I’d been having minor, sporadic contractions all morning long, but the paper in front of me showed a pattern.

This day, I went into labour.

This day was the one and only day I didn’t want to deliver. Even being a week late and desperate, it was really important for me to have Halloween to take Lucy trick or treating like I’d done the past two years. Eric, my Mom and mother-in-law all listed no-baby dates because of important work or church deadlines, but I had none until it became clear Alice was going to arrive later than we thought she was. And of course she came then.

First I called Eric, warning him something was up. He headed out to grab lunch.

Then I called my Dad, just a few minutes away, to come to the house to look after Lucy. Next came my Mom, at work in Aurora. Then Eric again, in the middle of chili and garlic toast at Tim Hortons: “You, um, need to come home right now.”

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It was the perfect late August day for photos: Slightly overcast outside and not too hot.

Karla is a calming, cheery, pixie-personality woman, and armed with a camera she is a dangerous lady: Her talent and demeanor result in just gorgeous shots, as these show.

Look at the outside colours. The sky. The grass. They are surreal. And the photo of Lucy — she looks like a porcelain doll. Her eyes just pop off the screen.

I was around seven months pregnant with Alice when these were taken. I was admittedly a little uncomfortable with the one on the couch — not being wrapped half-nekkid in white, but that the pics would turn out suggestive or something.

But then I saw the photos, and was so glad I trusted Karla’s instinct. They are beautiful and warm and such a lovely keepsake.

(The start of the third trimester is a great time to take pics like this, too. It’s that time when you’re cutely rotund, and before you get really big and clunky and the beloved stretch marks appear.)

Karla is a sweet friend I wish I saw more often, a frequent commenter here, a touching and humourous blogger at Untangling Knots, and lives in south Durham with husband Mark, son Nathan and pup Samson.

She specializes in family portraitures with her recently-launched Karla Cadeau Photography.