My body last thought it was pregnant three years ago today. I’d lost the baby far earlier, in May, but much like hope for another child, I just wouldn’t let go. (Speaking of not letting go, I still have that voicemail where my surgeon drops the phone. What do you do with that?)
Of course (mostly because I’m too stubborn for my own good) there hasn’t been a doctor handy to help my mind let go as ‘easily’ as my body did. But three years is a long time, 43 is an old lady and time is supposed to heal all wounds right? So I think I’ve finally talked myself into believing this is a good thing. I mean, babies are loud and smelly and who wants those middle of the night feedings, right?
Damn allergies, acting up again.