The following essay was written for Mommybloggers.com by the wonderful Carmen, of Mom To The Screaming Masses.

Today, well, it was a funny thing. An eye opening thing, if you will.

Today I took my oldest daughter, my second oldest child, to the pediatrician.

Now, before you write this off as not that important, let me clarify. I have six kids. SIX. I spend an insane amount of time at the pediatrician’s office. In fact, the office staff has jokingly declared that one room of the new offices will be dedicated to our family. So I’m there quite a bit.

Having six children means that I’ve always got someone going through a stage. Often it’s one that a sibling just went through, so the firsts often get lost in the next stage of the older child. You’ve got a new tooth? Great, tell me about it on the way to the orthodontist with your brother. Learning to climb the stairs, or ride a bike? I’ll look at you as soon as I sign this homework/talk about drugs/fill out the science fair form for your sister. Sound out your letters while I fold this batch of clothes for your brother, who clothes are almost as big as mine.

And when I left the office today, it was the first time ever, in fourteen years, that I didn’t need to make an appointment for another child. I had no one up and coming for the monthly appointments. It was surreal. Every time I have ever checked out, I have to make follow ups for one child or another. This time, though, I paid and left. No six month check up, no eighteen month check up. For the first time ever, no one was up and coming.

I’ve never celebrated a child’s second birthday without expecting a sibling.

That felt odd to me. I’ve passed the time of monthly checkups with all my children, and we are firmly into school age with most of them. School age brings its own set of worries. Bullying, drug use, suicide, polynomial figures, the periodic table of elements, can I shave my legs, when will you give me a driving lesson, can I have a cell phone; those are all more often discussed than baby topics.

I remember, though. I remember being firmly in the trenches of young motherhood. Should I breastfeed? Absolutely – only the best for my baby. Baby Bjorn or sling? Sling, all the way. Organic or not? Milk or soy? Homeopathy or conventional medications? I stressed and struggled with these and other decisions. The concrete decisions, the visible ones that made an impact on my children. Just when I had made the decision, another baby came along and fell right into the spot that was recently vacated. Those decisions were crucial to me. I felt as if the weight of the world rested on my shoulders, so vital were my actions to my little children. I scoured the malls and stores, looking for other mothers like me. Any mom with a baby in a sling was fair game. I attended playgroups and La Leche League meetings, trying to find a group to fit in with. I was defined by my peers, and felt that my identity was emeshed in my children. I was wrapped up in my children; whatever they did either good or bad, was a reflection on me.

The latest set of littles, though, tend to get, not ignored, but less attention paid to the decisions. Not that the decisions aren’t important, because they are. But I’ve already made them and moved on. I’m solid in what I’m doing. I’m no longer in the baby camp. I’ve moved on.

My daughter loves babies, and when we were in the office, it was the day for all of the new, fresh from the oven babies to come in for their weight checks. “Oh, Mom. Look at all the babies. Can we have another baby, pretty please? I’d love a new baby!” For the first time ever, I wasn’t pulled. Yes, they were cute. Adorable, in the way that only a brand new human can be. But I felt no urge to have another. I’m no longer obsessively opening the newborn clothes box, smelling the baby powder scent and dreaming of another. I don’t know if I want to go back to the sleepless nights, the discomforts of pregnancy, and the early days of new babydom.

Today’s pediatric appointment centered not on sleeping through the night and starting solids, but on puberty and keeping her body safe. We’ve entered a new phase. Am I sad about it? I’m not sure.

I saw a lady at the bookstore, and she had on a beautiful baby sling. I complimented her, and she quickly gave me her business card and encouraged me to give her a call, maybe we could get together. In years past, I would have run to the phone as soon as I got home and made a playdate. Today, though, I put the card in my pocket and went about my shopping. I think it’s telling that the card went through the wash.

Part of my dilemma stems from the fact that the last year has been pure hell. My youngest daughter was diagnosed, after months of difficulty, as being on the autistic spectrum. “They” say that these things are random, and hardly ever occur in the next child. I’m not sure I want to push the envelope again.

For the first time in fourteen years, I’m no longer wearing a nursing bra. My maternity clothes are loaned out. The high chair is put away, and the crib has been dismantled. For the first time, I don’t have a new occupant on the way. It’s a very strange time. I have nothing to look forward to, and yet I have everything I could ever want.

But do I want to be done? I’ve always resented that term. Done. As if I was a loaf of bread, or a steak. Are you done? Are you finished? I don’t know. I do know that I can go to the store without worrying about leaving a bottle of breast milk, and I like that. I only have to buckle one person’s seat belt now – everyone else can do their own. New teeth come in now of their own accord – no more sleepless nights walking the floor. When the stomach flu hits, most of the family make it into the bathroom in time. Almost all of my kids can swallow pills and vitamins. My oldest son can show me how to use the text message function on my phone, and we can talk world events.

I have the added twist in my life that I have both a half sister and step grandchildren the same ages of my own children. Yes, I’m one of those few people who can talk toddler issues with both her father and step daughter. So I could continue to enjoy the baby aspects of life vicariously.

Do I want to go back to the stage of leaky breasts, extra pregnancy weight, labor and delivery? Do I want to worry about a new child’s development? The child born after an autistic child is always watched more carefully, you know. Do I want to continue to buy infant Tylenol, worry about car seats, and wash infant socks? Do I want to dig a hole of sleepless nights and no napping? I’ve begun to write, to plan, to think, to DO. I started running and would love to work up to a 5K. I’ve discovered how nice it feels to think of myself as a person, and not just a mother of little kids. In 5 years, my oldest will move out.

Do I want to start over? Start back at the beginning again? Will I lose the me that I’ve recently discovered, if I do?

How can I not want another, though, when I look at the beauty of my children?

Read more by Carmen at her fantastic blog: Mom To The Screaming Masses.