Some women encounter terrible morning sickness while pregnant. Others have aversions to lots of foods and smells or swell up like Squishmallows. I could go on and on about pregnancy masks, acne, stretchmarks, hemorrhoids and headaches–but I won’t.

What was I made for? I was made to create life. My stepmom said to me recently that when I’m pregnant and nursing, I’m an entirely different person. I’m infectiously happy, serene and patient. Now, my husband may disagree (hormone rage and pregnancy brain is real), but I had to ponder her observation more thoughtfully.

I am 41. I have four healthy, stunningly beautiful children, two with bright blue eyes and two with a golden green. I have been pregnant six times. Two were terminated by choice when I was too young. My husband is fixed. Yet, I want more children. Not all the time, but often enough that I decided to write this piece. Every pregnancy was a surprise. Actually, when I tried with my first husband, it didn’t take.

While pregnant, I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. But I also don’t exercise or eat the healthiest all of the time. While pregnant, I teach myself to knit and do macrame. I drink green smoothies for breakfast when I usually never eat breakfast. During pregnancy, I barely drink coffee. My nails are healthy and my hair shines.

I was made to give birth. All four of my children were delivered naturally without a pill, needle or doctor (I prefer midwives). I have delivered on all-fours twice and once squatting (I pulled her out myself, with the midwife spotting me). I’ve eaten two of my placentas in pill form postpartum, and I successfully nursed all four infants into toddlerhood.

Now–not all of these events occurred without complication. During my first delivery, I had a serious postpartum hemorrhage and then a blood transfusion. A month later, I suffered a golf ball sized mastitis, which had to be lanced in surgery. It then had to heal from the inside out (yes, I had an open wound on my chest for weeks). High on pregnancy hormones, I can fly into violent rages. I locked my keys in my car once in the parking lot of Good Will at eight months pregnant.

Pregnant with my daughters, the constipation was unbearable without an OTC aid. I got a weird fungal infection on my fingernail while pregnant with Isla and they thought Ever had a brain tumor during her anatomy scan (she doesn’t). Micah’s nuchal fold measured large three months in utero (a signifier for Downs), turns out he’s just big. Isla slid out with a crooked toe, Ever had a bunch of raspberry-colored stork bites, and the nurse on duty with Wilder tried to report me because we wanted to sleep after birth (instead of nurse more).

That being said, I would do every single pregnancy and delivery again. I would relive all 4 of their first years over if I could… Because I was made to mom. My infants didn’t really cry. None of them had sleep problems. They all latched fine and grew at alarming speeds. They were all born late and at 7, 8 and almost 9lbs.

Why do I want to do it again at almost 42? Maybe I’m feeling my youth slip away. Or perhaps I want to put us further into debt. Maybe I just like chaos…or baby barf and poop.

No– I want to do it again because it is what I was made for.

I can’t, so I won’t. But I would, if I could. I am a strong vessel, endlessly mystical and magical. I often think of all the awesome names I’d give the children I’ll never have: Starling Jane, Brighton Cole, Sailor Sun, Margot Moon, Booker Truth, and a whole list of other super dope, unique combinations. So, I’ll probably use them in my first book. Stay tuned.