Remember when we decided we’d like to become parents? We decided. Together. We took the plunge like it was going to be a joint endeavor from day one.
But after that, things got a little one-sided.
You had a series of lovely, unprotected romps in the sheets, while I spent the better part of a year with morning sickness, sore boobs, insane cravings, strange nightmares, swollen everything, aching hips, and perpetual indigestion — not to mention raging hormones that made me sprout chin hairs and cry when I got the wrong salad dressing. I became large and uncoordinated and had to waddle everywhere.
Oh, and then? I gave birth in a long, painful process that culminated in me pooping in front of strangers and someone stitching my genitalia back together.
Or how about that one time when I was surgically eviscerated via emergency C-section? Wasn’t that so much fun? “They pulled your guts out and laid them on your chest!” you exclaimed in awe.
In both cases, I was subjected to enormous mesh underwear, a maxi pad the size of Russia, and my sore boobs became sore and leaky. And oh yeah — yay for a raging case of postpartum acne! I won’t even go into detail about the aftereffects, but let’s just say this body didn’t get stretch-marked and droopy on its own.
I love our kids and I don’t regret one single (exhausting, burning, leaking, nauseated) moment of my pregnancies. But that doesn’t mean I’m up for doing it again, and we can both agree that we’re too busy spending our money on school wardrobes and video games to add diapers and teething toys to the mix. We’re in the same boat when it comes to more kids: That ship has sailed.
So now that we’ve decided we’re done with this whole “having babies” thing, we really need to take some precautions. But let’s face it, nobody enjoys condoms. I’d say I’ve done more than my fair share of the work where our reproductive capacities are concerned (two words: pregnancy hemorrhoids), so I’m really not into taking sole responsibility for the birth control too.
I think it’s your turn. For once, let’s take the burden off of my “V” and give you a V-word of your very own. That’s right: vasectomy.
I know… The thought of somebody snipping around on the family jewels isn’t exactly pleasant. But neither are bony little knees and elbows scraping your ribs from the inside or having your doctor wrist-deep in your nether-regions. The point is: I lived, and so will you.
I’m not saying you won’t experience some discomfort (did I mention my sore, bulging, pregnancy-induced varicose vein?) and maybe even a little embarrassment (like, I don’t know, displaying your private parts to a roomful of people). I realize it’s not going to be a picnic. However, it virtually guarantees that “we” will never have to experience the joys of pregnancy (bleeding gums! back pain!) ever again.
Trust me, my love, I’ll make it worth your while. I know recovery is going to be an involved process — I’ve seen you with a cold — and I’m prepared to make you as comfortable and pampered as possible with all the fluffy pillows, bottles of beer, chips, and ESPN you can handle. I’ll invest in the best testicle-soothing ice packs money can buy. And if you need help with those post-vasectomy “test” ejaculations to make sure there are no swimmers left in the pool, I’m your girl.
I sense that you’re still not exactly excited about the prospect, so let me put it to you this way: The older I get and the more independent our children become (no more wiping butts!), the more frightened I am of a fateful condom failure, i.e., having to start all over. So unless you’re interested in the fail-proof birth control method they call “don’t touch me with a 10-foot pole,” maybe it’s time to dial up the urologist for a vasectomy consultation.
Just think of it: You’d never have to deal with a (justifiably) cranky (uncomfortably) pregnant wife again.
Or a condom. Because, yuck.