Did I ever tell you all that, when E was born, I asked the doctor that did the c-section to take a look at my remaining tube and tell us what she thought? No? Well, I did (ask, I mean). And then I felt bad, because she came into our room the next morning looking terrible, and hemmed and hawed and clearly thought she was delivering the terrible news that I am, indeed, infertile. We quickly reassured her that we knew that already, and that we were just checking in the hopes that, I don't know, maybe the tube had decided to become straight and unscarred while I was pregnant. But it hasn't, and that's ok. I think The Boy and I are both happy with the two kids we've got, and have come to terms with the fact that we won't have a son (heck, even if we did have a third, who's to say it wouldn't be another girl? Which, I hasten to add, we'd be fine with. I adore my girls and am glad that they are who they are).
Anyway, I know I can't conceive. I know this. And still, my body's messing with me. Specifically, these last few days I've been noticing that my breasts are sore. And so, even though I know that the chance I could be pregnant is infinitesimal, I'm still seriously considering buying a test. So far, I'm holding out, because I figure it's more likely that my period is getting ready to return and I'd feel like an asshole if I tested then got my period the next day.
But serious, when am I done with this? When will I really, truly accept the fact that we're done, there are no more kids coming, and that I will not be pregnant again? 'Cause I'd like to skip to that time, please. I have better things over which to obsess.