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.