Eligibility is up. It's time to retire her jersey.

Ricardo and I are very happy with our two kids. They are perfect, hillarious, wonderful, and they are absolutely all I can handle. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. To throw another kid into the mix would not be nice to said kid, nor Max and Lucy. Farley the WonderDog would reject baby and assume she was a snack or something. The only one who would benefit from another kid is my therapist, and her drug rep.

Once, long ago, back in the days of archaic birth control that I still have yet to confess about because I don't feel a bit guilty - nor do I need to be absolved by a celibate priest - once I forgot to take my pills. For a couple of days. The kids were about 2 years-old and I was worried I might be pregnant for like 2 hours. By worried, I mean, I'm sure I would welcome life and all, but I remember driving and looking in the rear view mirror of my minivan and trying to figure out if I had another baby, how I'd get three into the minivan on a cold snowy day. I worried so much about it in fact, I went straight home and willed my body to start my period. The most terrifying two hours of my life. Granted, my minivan holds a family of seven, but we are family of giants. So, four is just right for leg room and sanity. And getting them in there and out, and some who can walk, baby carrier's are heavy, there's wigglers and fingers to be crushed in doors and windows. No way I could cart around 3 kids without CPS tailing me. I'd have to just stay home until the twins were old enough to drive themselves.

In summary, Ricardo and I are very happy with what we have. We acknowlege our (my) limits and know when not to push said limits. We know how lucky we are to have had two healthy babies - to walk out of that hospital all together, not one day in NICU. We beat a lot of odds. So, when I say no more kids, really, I'm the guy at the casino who has the audacity to hit the jackpot and then leave while I'm way ahead.

Somewhere in there, at my annual doctor's visit, I may have mentioned that a) I'm done making superbabies. and 2) I'm really sick of periods. Soon I learned of a procedure to take care of all that. And I had that done. It was the start of what apparently has turned into an annual narcotics fest. About once a year, I end up having a procedure that involves insurance-paid narcotics. More bang for our premium-paid buck, I suppose.

If there's any men out there still reading, (I probably lost a lot of you at the mention of periods) it might behoove you to skip the rest of this post. Details of my uterus are about to ensue...and 3....2.....1.

So, for 2 1/2 years, I've had the luxury of no periods. Nope. No. Seriously, no periods. Really. Yes, they really can make that happen. And they did. So, you can imagine my surprise when a few months ago, I got what seemed to be a period. Then a month later another one. Then another one.

I'm pretty sure I went to the bathroom one night and Ricardo heard me yell something like, "Oh NO MY UTERUS DIDN'T!"

I went in to talk to my doctor. Does insurance cover a re-do? And after I described all my symptoms to her, she was pretty sure the ablation was still in tact, but that it sounded like I have adenomyosis. Don't be alarmed. It's not life threatening. However, it can get worse, stronger cramps. And eventually, I might need a full hysterectomy. Or, the only cure for this adenomyosis is to go ahead and have a partial hysterectomy. They'll leave my ovaries in and I won't need to go on hormones. After my ablation, I had no bleeding, but all other symptoms of a period - bloating, the monthly zits, all that fun stuff. But with my cervix and uterus gone, no more bloating, cramping, bleeding. OBGYN SAYS WHAT!? Sign me up!

Did you say 6 weeks, no lifting more than 10 pounds and 2 weeks of absolute couch potato, no driving? Let's effn do this! I realize the effort to prepare for this luxury vacation will be overwelming. No lifting more than 10 pounds for 6 weeks, just so y'all know equals no laundry. No grocery shopping - well, the way I do it anyway.

Don't tell anyone, BUUUTTTT, I really like taking care of this household. I think I'll enjoy the time off until the narcotics run out. I've finally found my niche though - I feel like I have more of a right to master groceries, menu planning, chauffering, and laundry than owning that Masters of Communications. Still, I'll stop bugging Ricardo about a Carribean vacation getaway.

So, in a few weeks, I'll go in and have this "work" done. I'm sure it will all go well, and I appreciate my second, third, and fourth opinions on this. Yours too, Mom. It's not life-threatening. I'll put it in jock terms. She's gone from benchwarmer to starter, to mvp. She finished up her eligibility a long time ago. It's time to just take her out back, retire her jersey. (But leave the pants.)

That's how I roll.