"It's so hot today" my uber driver said. I agreed and made a comment about the weather in return. That was all the conversation there was until ten minutes later when he said, "It's so hot today" again.

I wasn't in the mood for chit-chat. On my way home from the clinic, copper IUD newly fitted, my head swirled with empty thoughts and the heat of the day swept through my tired worried mother mind. My husband was at work shooting a sitcom. He'd struggled with sleep the night before, battling (not covid) flu and nose bleeds. My daughter had stayed home with her aunt and cousins, and I had traveled further than 350 meters from my house for the first time since birth.

The visit to the clinic had been an interesting one. The most clinical of experiences through the entire pregnancy and post-partum journey, though all in all not that professional really. Leaving the house was a struggle. Up against the emotions of leaving my little one at home, I called ahead to say I was running late. Ten minutes past my appointment time, I walked through a rickety white security gate in a down-town office and gave my name. There was no hurry in the space. The receptionist took my details and directed to a waiting room where I sat with another woman for at least half an hour. We rolled our eyes in unison at how long it was taking and I stood to find out how much longer it might be.

The receptionist directed me to the nurses. They sat in an office, dressed like security guards, chatting away and eating their lunch. "We'll be there in two minutes, darling" one of them said, and they began to scuttle about. It was an African-Time two minutes before I was greeted by a pretty woman, bubbly and kind. She asked when my last period was. "November 2020, I recently gave birth" I said.

"Was it a natural birth or ceasar?"

"Natural."

"And what contraception were you using before?"

"A copper IUD."

"Oh! So you know it."

"Yes, I had it for seven years."

"And why did you take it out?"

"We felt it was time to call our baby in." I chose to spare the details of the birds that knocked on the windows with a message to remove it, and the way I took the coil out myself in the bath at home.

"How long did it take you to fall pregnant?" she asked.

"I bled once and then she came."

"Wow" she remarked before leaping to her feet. "One moment my love" she said, leaving the room in a rush. I expressed it wasn't a problem and waited while she saw to her urgent matters outside. She returned with two bottles of juice and two bars of chocolate, of which I later saw her giving to a colleague in gratitude. Matters of human-connection meant more to her than professionalism. Somehow I appreciated that.

The insertion process was cold and abrupt. She was kind, but hurried, as though getting it over and done with would make it easier for me. I partly wished that there was a process of consent that ran deeper through it all. A care for my nervous system and the way my body responds to the insertion of a foreign object. I'd spoken my intentions to my body prior to getting on the table though, breathed into the discomfort and felt my belly and shoulders relax. Birth is now the new benchmark. Nothing compares to that and I wasn't quite sure what I might have asked for had I voiced my requests for a different process.

I returned home, tired. My daughter slept sprawled across her aunt's body, arms wrapped either side of her chest. Bottle glugged empty the heat of the day blanketed me. I looked at my child, gently wondering how many years until her siblings make their way to us. I wondered how she'll take to the process of pregnancy and birth when the time comes. How we'll communicate matters of the body with her and guide her to the most beautiful relationship with her own. One of breath, knowing and deep communion with the voices inside.