How are my reproductive organs like a Madden Brothers song?

I'm retiring my uterus.

In the words of the Madden Brothers in their little earwormy tune, we are done. Done, done, done, done, done, done, we are done. 

She has done me well. It has held two children for a total of just over 82 weeks, then pushed them out when their lease was up. It needs a golden handshake or a watch, or whatever it is you get when you retire these days.

It feels like the right thing to do. I feel finished. It isn't because I have the often hoped for "pigeon pair" (I saw myself with two boys in my dreams), it's because that urge to procreate is gone.

I don't yearn for more babies, though I reserve the right to coo over newborns in the future... then hand them back. I don't feel sad that I'll never be pregnant or give birth again, on the contrary, I don't think my hips could handle pregnancy again, so I'm actually glad.

Over the long weekend I packed up all of Bobbin's baby things, ready to pass them on. Some were Tricky's too, so there are lots of memories attached to them.

Instead of feeling sad that this chapter is ending, I was overjoyed to be getting so much junk out of my house. For such tiny creatures their stuff takes up so much bloody room. 

I watched Bumbos, walkers, rockers, toys, hammocks and stretchy wraps being loaded in to my brother- and sister-in-law's car, ready for their babe who is still a'cookin' and it was brilliant. I'm excited for them, and I'm over the moon to have a niece or nephew. Because aunties rock.

I've known quite a few people who got rid of everything and then unexpectedly fell pregnant as if the world was waiting for them to sell so they'd have to buy all that crap again. So right now I'm shit scared. Going by our track record of getting pregnant first try, every time (which is enviable to anyone struggling to conceive but terrifying for us when we don't want any more), one mistake and the pitter patter of tiny feet will be heard once more. So as I handed them over to SIL I told her they were a looooong term loan just in case the universe was listening, ya know?

Now comes the hard part. Convincing MapGuy to get the snip. Any and all advice to convince a bloke to willingly let a doctor come towards his crown jewels with a scalpel is much appreciated.

Are you "done"? Or do you still feel the urge to create tiny little poo machines? How did you know?