Let’s face it. You and I have never really gotten along. From the start you’ve been unruly, tilting the wrong way, bleeding profusely and being a literal pain in the ass.
Each month your shenanigans cause me inordinate amounts of grief and I’ve had it. The pain is more than I can bear, the cramps make me homicidal and the bloat–don’t even make me go there. Not to mention the fatigue and that little stunt you pulled when I was twelve. (Seriously. Hemorrhaging in the middle of science class? I’m still recovering from the embarrassment.)
In all fairness, you did do two nice things for me, and I thank you so much for them. You helped me grow two of the most amazing humans ever made in a uterus. It’s almost not worth mentioning that you evicted them both too early, turning what some refer to as an oven into the more convenient microwave.
We’ve been through a lot, you and I. We both mourned the loss of the one baby we couldn’t keep. It wasn’t your fault and it wasn’t mine. It just was. I think about that baby from time to time. Did you know that he/she would have been 17 this year? It blows my mind every time I think about it.
That aside, you must admit that you’ve been really busting my chops lately. The constant pain and inability to stand for significant amounts of time has driven me to an extreme decision.
I want to break up with you.
The doc says there are tests and procedures we have to follow, but I think a clean break would be best. Considering our dubious history and the fact that we’re already 40 years old, I think it’s time to hang up the whole procreation crutch. You and I have to be honest. We’re done having babies.
So, you go your way and I’ll go mine.
You should know that I intend to keep the twins. I’m not ready for the commitment Menopause is asking for just yet.
This post was originally featured on Miranda’s blog.