June 23, 2009 by skwishface
So what did you do this past weekend? I got my husband fixed. People say it’s barbaric, but he just would not stop marking the furniture and OMG the middle-of-the-night caterwauling. Something had to be done, and it was either get him snipped or take him back to the pound.
The birth of The Girl was …. complicated, let’s say. The end result is we’re all whole and healthy, but it would be “medically inadvisable” for me to ever get pregnant again. So The Husband and I sat down to explore our birth control options. Like a mature, adult married couple ought.
Getting my tubes tied is out of the question, as most of the complications were due to my body’s very negative reaction to surgery. We already know from past experience that birth control pills turn me into a weeping madwoman. An IUD, the birth control that is a thingy that hangs out in one’s uterus, simply wouldn’t work, due to the state of my girl parts. It would be a bit like installing new carpet in a haunted house. (The metaphor works, okay? Just take my word for it.) And when we tallied up the cost of condoms for the next 25 years or so, we realized that we would be putting the Trojan Man’s kids through college. That left one option.
The silence that descended over our mature, adult married conversation at that point was deafening. The Husband broke it by declaring that he didn’t want anybody messing with him “down there”.
The silence that descended at that point grabbed the previous silence by the scruff of the neck and shook it like a terrier with a rat. I watched as The Husband, all on his own, mentally reviewed everything that my “down there” had gone through in recent years. He remembered how our first pregnancy didn’t end so happily, and procedures had to be done on my uterus to clear things out and start over. He recalled watching, holding my right leg, as a doctor calmly and efficiently widened an already stretched opening (with scissors) so that our son could come screaming out of my body. He meditated briefly upon the weeks that we spent worried that there might be cancer eating my cervix alive, which concluded with entire layers of flesh being sliced away and cauterized. And finally, he pondered my most recent adventures wherein emergency major abdominal surgery saved the lives of his wife and daughter, but led to a string of medical mishaps not the least of which was a catheder and a resulting wicked infection. I saw all of these thoughts flit through his head in the blink of an eye.
My “down there” is a battle-scarred warrior. A force to be reckoned with, if only because it has survived this long. His “down there” has never been through any real trauma. I’ve got General Patton “down there”, and he’s got Gomer Pyle.
Still, he was reluctant to go through with the vasectomy. Why? Just because. No good reason.
Maybe, as a wife, I should have been more understanding of his masculine anxieties. Men have irrational relationships with their genitalia, probably because they can actually see most of the working parts, and I should be more respectful of that. But you try telling The General that Private Pyle needs a little sympathy and support.
Ultimately, The Hubs did the right thing and consented to the vasectomy. He even made all necessary appointments himself and made sure Private Pyle had a fresh shave for the occasion. There’s been some soreness, but nothing a little codeine couldn’t fix. From what I can tell, the worst part has been putting up with his wife taking every opportunity to say the word “balls”.
In polite inquiry: “How are your balls today?”
Cautioning The Boy: “You can’t climb on Daddy’s lap. You might hurt his balls.”
Cautioning The Husband: “Mind your balls!”
In sympathy: “Aw, your poor balls.”
Helpfully: “Would you like an icepack? For your balls?”
Hopefully: “So when can we use your balls again?”
As a verb: “Don’t balls it up!”
As an adjective: “That’s so balls.”
As a preventative: “This is one blog my mom won’t be sharing with her church friends. Balls!”