One.

I remember that morning.  Walking downstairs, pulling out the last pregnancy test, and for my own peace of mind, peeing on it.  The results read positive immediately as the liquid soaked across the strip.  I had never gotten a positive.  In our almost ten years of marriage, and countless test, there had never even been a possible hint of a second line.
My whole pregnancy, I resisted the urge to take more test. Just to see it again. I wondered if I'd ever have another positive test, or if we'd go back to 'unable to get pregnant.'  It didn't end up mattering because we made the permanent decision after things went horribly, to prevent any future pregnancies.  The risks for my life and our sons were too much for us to take again.

That test. That one and only positive pregnancy test, it resides in my underwear drawer. I still look at it occasionally.  I try to figure out how I feel about our whole journey.  It's such a mixed up thing that I can't think on it too long. Most of the time.
But, even with the aforementioned permanent procedure, I know there's still a small possibility.  Occasionally, things will play out and I'll get anxious enough to take another test.  And, every time, despite logical me wanting it to be negative, I whisper, 'Be positive, be positive.'

For a long time I refused to call myself infertile.  And, I certainly didn't struggle with my infertility.  It just was. We were content with our children being adopted.  I had long since stopped wondering what it might be like to have biological children.  It didn't matter to me.
The whole and honest truth is that in the parenting, the day in and day out stuff, it doesn't matter. They're all amazing, and silly. Maddening, hard, and wonderful.  They each come with their very own set of incredible gifts and challenges for us as parents.

So my longing is separate.  My longing is for that of feeling like I finally belonged as a woman.  I didn't feel excluded before so my words may be hard to completely understand.  But, it's the best I can do with the words I have available.
If I'm completely honest, it's the longing to redeem the things I feel like I still missed out on.  Asher never had hiccups in utero that I felt.  He never woke me up moving or kicking.  The further along I got, the less I felt him move (likely from his small size, my ample fluid, and his low muscle tone).  The birth. Even if I could just be awake and have my husband in the room, that would be enough for me.  To hear his first cries.  To see him still connected to me through his umbilical cord.

So I keep that test.  I moved it to our new house.  Jason asked about it.  He thought it seemed weird.  And, a little gross.  It is.  I know this.  I hope that someday I'll be able to just take a picture of it, and throw the actual plastic test away.  But, for right now, I need it.  I need it tucked in that drawer, reminding me, that even if it was only that one time, I didn't carry the label of 'infertile.'  And, when my heart longs to do it again, as it occasionally does, I can look at it, hold it, and grieve the way things went. I can wonder for a bit if things hadn't gone so wrong, if we might have gotten to experience it again.  Then, I can tuck it away safely, with all of my other hopes for what I wanted things to turn out like, wipe the tears, and move on with my new set of hopes and dreams.