Any way you slice it.

My husband brought up the dreaded word that makes most men simutaneously grab their balls in pain, and shout for sheer joy, screaming into the heavens. Vasectomy.

It’s not a shock that he brought it up, I have been hounding him for one for almost two years now. At first, it was subtle. An email attachment sent to him with information about a doctor we had heard about. A comment here or there about how crowded our place would be with two screaming babies. I took my time with this, not because I was hesitant to draw the line at one child. I wasn’t. I wasn’t even “supposed” to have this one, or so said many doctors and many failed drug trials. But this one just showed up. Much to our sheer happiness + infinity.

We are a one income family for right now. We have a two bedroom townhome. I have just enough to keep this kid’s head above water.  I have a very small amount of mental and marital stability that I work damn hard to maintain. And do you know how much it takes to keep a kid in daycare? My son’s school could finance a small but lucrative drug cartel country with that money, plus hire the Jonas Brothers and the corpse of Kurt Cobain to play at their next BBQ.  It’s a lot of money. Those fucking Jonas Brothers are nothing but trouble.

Anyway. My husband is a procastinator by nature, at least with the big important stuff. And this waited. And waited. And waited. And all the while, I remained patient and understanding, because this was his junk. Having my junk poked, prodded, tore into a gaping hole as big as a Chicago pothole and then stitched up with enough thread to sew a quilt, I had developed a fair amount of junk empathy. I even asked the doc if he was sewing a quilt. Literally. He laughed quietly and then politely refused to share how many stitches I earned that day having our son.

I then declared out loud that I would have nothing ever to do with my vagina again. The doc looked up from the sheet and said “you had better check with your husband about that first”. I don’t have to check on anything regarding my own patootie with anyone other than you, and that’s because you are stitching my shit up with a needle the size of a fucking sickle! I bravely said this on the inside, folks. I digress though, this is about my husband’s wang, not mine.

So almost two years later, my husband has decided to go to college. But he doesnt start until January. So he figures he has some time to kill. Apparently the two years give or take that he hasn’t worked has been jam packed with busy times, though I am not sure what he has been doing exactly. He thinks it’s time for a vasectomy. Next month. Now, I know for sure what brought this on. This valiant attempt to conquer his fears and give it up.

#1. The rhythm method, which I think is far classier and more pious sounding than the tried and true hillbilly method of pulling out, seemed to be working. But one never knows. And yes, much like birth control AND a condom, pulling out and the rhythm method may work for your random hard core Catholics and a good portion of the risk taking redneck and/or denial loving middle class-one step above white trash folk. But again, one never knows. Which leads me to…..

#2. We had a scare. I was two weeks late. I knew it was from an incredible amount of stress I had been under, and a funk that I was in. I knew it was my insulin being stupid because I abuse her daily. I knew it was me, and not a gift bestowed from the Goddess of Cell Division, as my friend Lulu maintains. I knew it wasn’t St. Rita, who I kind of dig and choose to pin my son on. It was just good old fashioned me. And as soon as we tested negative, it started. Like literally. However, during this scare, we discussed that we would do the best we could, switch hospitals because the last one sucked, and lie through our teeth about how this one was conceived. I have a press release and everything. TMZ has got nothing on me, ladies. But alas, it’s not going to happen.

#3. I don’t want to get pregnant. So, aside from being very tired and stressed, my next desperate decision to get him to listen came really easy for me. I wish it hadn’t. But it did. I pulled out the big guns. I closed up shop. Not 100% closed up for good. But office hours are few and far between. I didn’t want to rule with the poon, but I had to. Also, sex isn’t that bitchin when you are afraid all of the time. I think this might have really made his mind up for him.

Before we make this appointment, we did sit down and discuss all of the pros and cons. The pros are obvious. But the cons are worth sharing. We are broke, have one kid with special needs, and one of us will be in college for two years. We will be 37 and 43 when and if it would be safe to go ahead and try for another. The time difference between our kids would 21 (stepson) 5, and then a new one. The mental genetics in my family are sketchy at best, and the physical genetics in his family are something to behold. Our son is beyond adorable, handsome, hilarious, and so far in great mental health. It was more than we could have asked for. Do we really want to risk doing it again?

Nooooo.

So come next month, I will readily allow some strange human being to handle my husband’s junk and I think that the first snip will be the snip heard around the world.

Hallelujah.

Bebe

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