Gimme a V: Part 1
You might remember last year I gave birth to a third child and while I love all my special snowflakes (to borrow a phrase from the hilarious Sarah) more than life itself, there better not be any more blizzards in my house. Three is our limit, both in terms of space and sanity, and we are confident of our decision.
So confident that we knew Josh would eventually man up and get a vasectomy. Back when I was still pregnant with Maeve, he talked a good game about going in and getting it done. But I knew it was bad luck to make permanent birth control decisions before giving birth and besides, I knew he was bluffing.
Then, a mere 12 minutes into my labor, when I was epidural-less and contracting every minute for a minute, I gave him my express written consent. He then proceeded to spend the next few months talking a great game, but never booking a consultation. And I proceeded to nag him ad infinitum, which resulted in an appointment only when I finally threatened to shut it down. He was on the phone within the hour — clearly, I know how to get results.
He went to see a doctor recommended by his cousin’s husband way back in May. He came home with what can only be described as the awesomest brochure in the history of the written word and an appointment for a Friday at the end of May. Which he canceled and rescheduled. And rescheduled. And rescheduled. And rescheduled again.
Perhaps someone was a wee bit concerned about the state of his balls. I, on the other hand, had no concerns at all for his balls because I have undergone three, count ’em THREE, cervical surgeries and three, count ’em THREE cerclage removals without the aid of painkillers. Not to mention the three babies I have vaginally birthed. One little procedure done in the doctor’s office — puh-lease. Gimme something I can actually feel bad about, perhaps a foot amputation.
But throughout the long wait leading up to the actual appointment, I kept picking the brochure up and then dying laughing, because it’s just so … well, let me show you what it is.
Honey, I know we’re on a sailboat and I look like a total douchebag with this sweater knotted around my neck, but I just want you to know that I love you and I will totally get my balls chopped off for you.
Hey baby, I know you’re still sexually attracted to me even though I just got my balls chopped off. You want a piece of this, don’t you? Don’t you? Oh, you just want a piece of my pizza?
And any man reading my blog just cringed and readjusted himself.
I went out for lunch and came back with no balls. And I am going to file a report about it right here with my paper and pencil.
I love you and your sterile balls, honey.
The big day finally arrived last Friday and in typical Snarky Mommy fashion, I convinced the doctor to let me observe. We live-blogged the births, why in the hell would I pass up a chance to record Josh’s vasectomy for all the Internets to see?
Part 2 coming tomorrow. And let me just say, it involves the phrase, “I guess I am a little sensitive when it comes to my testicles.”