So I find myself asking other moms this question with great frequency.

“Are you done? Having kids, I mean?”

It’s no secret to any of my friends that I would love another. But there’s my age. (I’ll turn 40 in February.) And the little matter of money. Due to the newspaper biz’s tough times, neither Hubs nor I have gotten a raise for two years. And we remain on mandatory furlough, which translates to a 5-percent pay cut for each of us.

(Note to bosses: You are destroying my third-baby dreams. As punishment, I am going to spare myself the rising costs of daycare and send my offspring to your homes each day for safekeeping. I feel certain that after a few weeks of experiencing their buoyant {cough} high-spirited {cough} delightful {hack} behavior, you will find the money needed to address my daycare tuition needs.)

Still, I can’t seem to squash my baby fever. It doesn’t help that I keep seeing adorable baby pics posted by Kim over at Whirligiggles and Yavonda of Baby and the Beasts. I see those cooing little bundles, and … {sigh}

I figure a little recollecting of my epic yet non-epi labor might serve as a temporary deterrent. (Btw, when doctors says it’s “too late” for an epidural, they LIE. I got one at 9 1/2 cm because the on-call doctor thought it would “relax” me and help the baby turn. Also, he was secretly hoping for a C-section because, as he whined at one point, “I’ve been here all day.” Had I not been in gut-wrenching pain, I would have risen from the bed like a mighty Fury and throttled him. Jerk.

Anyway. Back to recollecting:

You’ll note the odd presence of a trick-or-treating Jack-‘o’Lantern in this photo. After the doula warned Hubs that I might get nauseated on the way to the hospital, he thrust this pumpkin at me after I heaved myself into the truck. Until that point, I had felt nary a twinge of nausea. Behold, the power of suggestion:

Pregnancy always gives me a triple chin.

Once at the hospital, my doula kept me moving. As I rocked, I noticed that the Enya CD kept repeating one song, which was really annoying, but I was in too much agony to mention it to anyone.

Rocking out to Enya.

Hubs didn’t notice the looping Enya track. Because by this point, having been up with me all night while I labored at home, he was snoring in the corner. I knew getting a doula was a good move on my part. Because of her, I was not consumed with hatred. Nor was I tempted to have him rolled off to the male snippy-snippy room while I finished the difficult task of delivering our precious child.

Those ice chips were the best thing I'd ever tasted.

Hubs managed to rouse himself eventually, and by the time I was ready for the hard part, he was downright peppy. Ugh.

Pushing. Very hard.

I will spare you the next several photos. I’m not a modest person, but the lady bits weren’t at their best at that moment.

Oh, look! A baby! And my epi just kicked in.

15 minutes later and all memories of excruciating pain are lost.

Project Baby Deterrent: FAIL.