She has three children and a basketful of eggs.

Twenty-seven-year-old Amber Vazquez of Deerfield Beach is not the Easter Bunny.

She's an egg donor, the kind who gives the eggs she produces to a fertility clinic so that other women can have children of their own.

Vazquez, who works at Office Depot in Boca Raton, has three sons, ages 9, 7, and 3. Yet when a co-worker who was struggling to conceive suggested she become an egg donor, Vazquez liked the idea.

"It sounded cool," she says. The co-worker was being treated by doctors at IVF Florida, the state's largest infertility practice, which has put out a call for donor eggs. Vazquez decided to explore the idea. Her husband, Josh, was supportive, as were her parents, although she said that she considers the decision totally hers.

"My husband thinks it's awesome. He has a daughter from a previous marriage. He was really shocked to see what people go through to have a baby."

The next step was attending the classes that IVF Florida requires for prospective donors. She viewed slide shows showing how to give herself injections of hormones so her eggs could be retrieved in sync with the prospective mother's cycles, and heard discussions of the medications donors are required to take.

"No, it didn't scare me," she says. "For me, it just seemed very sad, seeing what other women and couples go through to do something that's so simple for other people." She felt no qualms about someone else using her eggs or about the impact that a half-sibling might have on her own children, she says.

"They (the prospective parents) have to tell the child... they require them to tell the child because it's medically necessary (if there are future health issues.) They can tell them, 'You have three half-brothers that would possibly love to meet you.' They asked if we're going tell my children and would I allow the (egg) recipient to contact me.

Absolutely. Giving the gift of life is really special."

There are doctors who are concerned about the possibility of half-siblings meeting and never knowing of their relationship. Vazquez says she expects her sons would get a DNA test before marrying.

"Even if they (the half-siblings) look nothing like me, it's always a good idea... you never know."

Dr. Judith Horowitz, a Coral Springs psychologist specializing in fertility issues, believes a national donor registry — to track donors' health updates and other data — must be set up.

"We don't want half-siblings getting married," she told the American Fertility Association. And a registry could be a depository for health information that might be needed by a child conceived with donor eggs — although many agencies already require donors to agree to future contact by the recipients or child in a health crisis, as Vazquez has.

She wouldn't have a problem meeting the baby her egg produces, she says, and sees a vast difference between egg donation and putting her children up for adoption.

"I could never adopt out any of my children... it's not really that way," Vazquez said. "I just donated some cells. This person went through the pregnancy. It's not my baby, it's their baby."

She has already donated twice. She is unaware of any pregnancy that has resulted and hasn't been in contact with any mothers. But she did receive an anonymous note from a woman who was considering using her eggs that was effusive with gratitude. And that made her day.

"Just hearing the words, that they want to be parents so bad they're willing to take extreme measures to have and love a child... it's a life-changing thing," she says. Despite the terrible side effect of the second donation process — her ovaries got twisted — she'd do it again. "I was in the hospital one day afterward and I was fine," she said. "The No. 1 risk is infertility as a result of the whole procedure. It happens to one in 300,000 donors. I have the family I want. I wouldn't recommend it to someone who's single, who has no children. Anytime you're messing with hormones, you don't know what can happen."

She wasn't even frightened of the possibility — no matter how remote — that she could die. "That seems a little extreme. If I died because I gave life to someone else, I would feel that was justified. I am a spiritual person and I think everything has a purpose." She was paid around $5,000 each time she donated, to compensate her for her time, her traveling to the doctor's office, the injections, missing work. That's considered a reasonable fee, fertility experts say, and doesn't equate with "buying" a baby. Vazquez is adamant that money was never a motivator for her.

"It feels really, really false to me, to do it for the money. You do it for the betterment of people. I don't have time for community or charity work. This makes me feel good.

"There's no downside... I honestly feel that way."