Today I signed paperwork. I handed sheets of paper over. I gave Isobel a banana and some stickers and plunked her down to be silent. I smiled. I thanked. I didn’t celebrate.

I should be celebrating.

Today was the day that my separation agreement got finalized and filed in court.

I don’t have to go back again, unless one of us takes the other back, in the hopes of changing or enforcing something we’ve agreed to.

I don’t have to scramble through my wardrobe for something that is smaller than a size 1 from my corporate days - since everything I wear now is by no means anything professional enough to wear in a court room (and I’m wearing smaller than a 0).

I don’t have to arrange babysitting for ‘hopefully only a couple of hours’ or take Isobel with me, looking pristine, and stop her from doing anything to mess that up on the way to and during proceedings.

I feel like I should breathe a huge sigh of relief cuz now, it’s done.

But like, I guess that means it’s done, right?

I’ve never thought about that much without anger in my heart. I’ve pretty much always been angry.

But I’m not, right now. And so in writing these lines, I started pondering that sentence, "It’s done, now."

I’m done thinking about it now. We’ll just add that to the list of ‘do not go there.’

When I was breastfeeding, Isobel totally favoured the right boob. I think it’s because my milk didn’t choke her nearly as much on that side, which of course led to the other side always being full - a varietable damn waiting to break down upon her little tiny throat - and a bit of a difference in size.

Having fake boobs is helpful in some ways. I had a slight size difference automatically corrected, as was a tiny, barely noticeable symmetry issue (one was higher than the other, pre-saline). Breastfeeding really interfered with that surgical perfecting.

Plus you know, even straight chicks think I’ve got a nice rack.

Isobel weaned herself a few days after her first birthday because it just took too much sitting still and there were things to do! Like go outside! And eat cheerios off the floor! It was fine with me. Not even really bittersweet, initially.

Six months later, I still had milk and a infrequent, but still occurring feeling of let-down - I still do. And suddenly one day, I couldn’t wear a bra because it felt like my nipple was being scoured with an SOS pad.

I don’t remember the exact number or the title of it, but it came down to me having like, three clogged milk ducts that had lead to an infection all the way through to the usual milk-exit points. That cleared up with some antibiotics, but I was told that if it came back, we’d have to look at removing the involved ducts.

You know, it’s pretty impossible for them to do that without removing an implant, right? You know in Canada, even though plastic surgery is a claimable medical expense, any maintenance you need to do on twins (or you know, whatever else) is coming out of your own pocket. So, I’d be looking at paying someone to remove an implant, have some ducts removed (which is covered by medical) and then have a new implant put in.

Then I’d have to recover. Which took about two weeks, from the augmentation - and some awesome drugs - but is not anything I can picture myself doing well, being Isobel’s sole care giver.

So I was pretty happy that no new clogs showed up in the next few months.

Until I found a lump. Small, about the size of a pencil eraser. Painful. Very palpable. All good signs, right?

I was referred for an ultrasound all the effing way across the city - not a fun place to try to travel with Isobel on public transit. I didn’t go.

And then I got knocked up and immediately, my Ds starting wanting to move into DD land. And with this hormonal boob job, the lump went away. And I breathed a shallow sigh of relief, as much as my constricting bra would allow.

After the miscarriage, it took almost no time to get my body back to it’s former post-Isobel shape. About a week, I’d say. ‘Cept for the twins they took a couple of months.

And it wasn’t until about two weeks ago that I noticed the effing lump again.

Then I saw the tabloids talking about Christina Applegate’s breast cancer.

Then this morning, I see two more clogged ducts.

Can anyone tell me why I wanted these things again?