This is my tribute to some of the best years of my life. My thirties were filled with one pregnancy after another. At age thirty-one I had my first baby. He was followed by a miscarriage at 11 weeks. Soon after, we conceived our second son. He was born when I was thirty-four. At thirty-six, our third son came into the world, and at thirty-nine, I welcomed our fourth – and final – son to our family. Each son carries with him a unique blueprint of genes that can never be replicated in precisely the same way. They are each miracles.

With a house full of boys and a neighbor next door thrown in the mix, it is a lively home I commandeer. Our family is complete in so many ways. We have a wonderful home. We live in a beautiful part of the country. We are rich with all the necessities of life. Room for growth is reserved for altitude and longitude as the boys grow taller and we renovate the basement to make more space. There is no room left energetically for a new addition. By that I mean, and forgive me if this sounds too metaphysical, the experience of bringing new life onto this planet does not have the same power for spinning into extreme growth of the soul as it once did. My soul, to be exact, is finally done understanding what it sought through the birth experience. 

Now my tubes are burnt and the years of pregnancy and childbirth are behind me. My uterus must concentrate on bestowing this family with female wisdom and maternal support. Ahead I have years of practical, hands-on, mothering to do. It is important work, vital in fact. I have given this planet four more mouths to feed. The time has come to teach them about life that they may live appropriately and well – nurturing the ground that holds them and supporting whatever future awaits their impact. All of this, the attention I give them until they no longer need me and the state of my own internal landscape, will shape the men they become. I want them to see in me a mother who loves and honors her essence as a woman and as a role-model.

So it is with pride and love that I offer this “Tribute Song to My Uterus” for all posterity to see. My uterus has served me well over the years and she is a great friend to me. In the years to come, we will have new adventures together. That these adventures will not include gestating babies and trips down the birth canal does little to affect her usefulness as a constant companion and trusted partner. We are a team, my uterus and I. We walk upon this planet with a beauty that no phallic symbol can ever match. My husband loves his manhood. He named his penis long ago and relishes in its uniqueness.  Well, I do the same. I declare my uterus named Hope and delight in our path as woman.

There is no way to describe what it means to give my attention to my uterus in this way. I can accept and let go of the need to bare any more children. I can accept my female goddessness and use its potential for being a mom to my four boys that will light the way for their greatness. I am great with a uterus. We have much to look forward and anticipate with full expectation of extraordinary gifts. It is only just beginning, this relationship with Hope, the uterus. I have named her now. We have to stay friends. And, as I mature into my crone years, I will honor her again with another Tribute Song.  This time, I will call it “Tribute Song for an Old Crone’s Uterus.” You can read that article in thirty years. 

Before we do that, however, tune in next month for another installment from The Way of the Toddler lady.