During the second trimester of my final pregnancy, I began the pitch.
“This really feels like our last. I think you should go ahead and get a vasectomy. Because, you know, it’s easy, fast and because I’ve been vomiting for 5 months. Also, my legs are now the size of prehistoric mammoth cubs and because, DO IT.”
This was met with a less than lukewarm reception. To be fair, when my head spun around, it killed his reconciliatory spirit. He was not ready and, was not convinced I was certain we were finished ushering stage divers into the world from my great beyond.
As we inched closer to our daughter’s arrival, I became no less certain of my doneness. My pleas changed shape. I leaned in to my knowledge of my mate and went the James Brown route.
*Deep voice* “Hey baby. Yeah, you! You know, if you get the snippety-do-dah now, by the time my 6 week postpartum check-up rolls around, we’ll be able to rock and roll in a totally natural way. Uh-huh. You pickin’ up what I’m puttin’ down? Hey, sexy, while you let that marinate, please pass me that tube of cocoa butter. That’s right, you can watch while I grease up my stretch marked hips. Shhhhhhh, just be pretty, baby.”
Alas, this did not inspire the wheels on the vasectomy bus to go ‘round and ‘round. It instead blew a tire just shy of Decisionville. Population, 2 testes.
After the birth, I knew. I knew it hard. And, again, my pitch changed shape into the much loved, “I’m not touching you!” technique. After that yielded no results, I began the full court press of nagging him until either he got a vasectomy or died from nagging related complications.
Finally, weary from my nails on his ear chalkboard, the appointment was made. On the day of his procedure, our baby was 14 months, 1 week and 6 days old, but, who’s counting?
The vasectomy patient is coddled like a newborn. There are talks and more talks and even more talks and then drugs. So many drugs. Two weeks before the vasectomy, the patient is given a prescription for an RX cocktail to take the edge off and make things generally hunky-dory pre-op. When he came home with his bag o’ pain killers, I cracked my back against the dishwasher where you could still see the shape of a baby’s foot on my lower spine. You shall have no sympathy from me, sir.