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The Greatest Story Ever Told

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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.

Finally, the day arrived. There was an air of excitement, mostly caused by my incessant high kicks executed with such force that I split atoms. As I drove my husband to the Vasectomies R’ Us clinic, his drugs hit. I looked over and noticed the birds circling his head.

“Hey honey, you ok?”

“This is why people become drug addicts.”

Indeed.

I had three of our children in the car so assisting him into the lobby was bordering on impossible. I pulled up next to the curb, opened his door and watched him stumble toward the office building. As soon as he touched the handle of the door, I floored it out of that parking lot. This was as close as I had ever been to the prize and I could not risk a) the drugs wearing off, and b) him having a last-minute change of heart. That sonofabitch would be cabbing it home if he backed out now.

Exactly 30 minutes later I returned. I unloaded the kids. We walked into the office and found him leaning over the receptionist’s desk, slurring his words. The staff was in hysterics. As me and the kids got closer, I heard:

“SEE! SEE! SEE! THIS IS WHY I JUST HAD THIS DONE! LOOK AT ALL OF THEM!”

Half the men in the waiting room went sheet white. Every woman in the waiting room laughed. I grabbed my Courtney Love impersonating husband and helped him to the car.

On the way home, he explained the surgery:

“I told the nurse that she was the first woman to see my junk since you.”

“How very proud she must have been.”

“I know, but, I told her to not take my current size into consideration since it was cold in the room and, I was on drugs.”

“Well, that makes sense.”

“I told the doctor that I think I have super sperm that will self-reverse the vasectomy.”

“That sounds fun! What did he say?”

“He said that was highly unlikely, but, what does he know anyway? He’s not the one with magic sperm." He slurred. "During the procedure the doctor asked me to drag one leg when I went back into the waiting room to freak the other guys out!”

"Hey Honey, what’s that?”

“Oh, it’s a prescription for a month’s supply of Vicodin.”

“WHAT DID YOU SAY?”

“I said I get a month’s supply of Vicodin.”

“You get a month’s worth of pain killers for this?”

“Well, the penis and balls are very important.”

That’s what she said?

After returning home and sleeping it off, he decided he could bring himself to play video games, but, only the ones that required minimal physical investment. Meanwhile, I was still nursing my back injury.

“Honey, look, I found a game where I only have to slightly move my wrist from left to right. This is perfect.”

“Sounds great. Can you please call my doctor because I believe my eyes are lodged in my brain stem. Also, can I have one of your Vicodin?"

This could be where it ends, but, no. Not even close. Because, you have to provide samples to make sure the sperm have been stripped of their super powers. The laboratory that processes the sample is 20 minutes away. Samples have to be no more than 30 minutes old. No problem! I’m sure the laboratory has a room made for this, right? Right? Wrong. Logistics made it very clear that this was going to be awkward.

His first sample day arrived.

Armed with an instruction sheet, a paper bag and a plastic cup, he made the trip. After a consultation with me, a nurse and possibly, a life coach, he decided he had only one option. A public restroom. The problem with public restrooms is that they are so often filled with the public and, contrary to the numerous arrests resulting from the use of these love dens, they are not romantic spaces. Especially when you have a doctor’s note and people are wandering in and out to use the facilities and you have no other choice but to be that guy in a public restroom. My husband is that guy, but, he was that guy for me and, that is actually kind of romantic in a totally back-alley, hooker-finds-love-and-makes-good kind of way.

He has to repeat this whole ordeal in 2 weeks. And now, honey, you finally have my full sympathy.

In closing, may I just say, VIVA LA VASECTOMY!

(Editor’s note: No husbands were harmed during the writing of this post. Husband in question gave his two-balled blessing. Amen.)

Bethany Thies is a writer and the proud mother to four, young Vikings. She is the author of the blog, Bad Parenting Moments and the chronically unread poetry blog, Room for Cream. She can often be found searching for socks, keys, discount non-perishables and a bathroom lock her children can not pick. Bethany’s work has been published on several parenting sites and, when they’ll have her, in old fashioned black and white in her local, independent newspaper. Her children are unimpressed. You can throw tomatoes at Bethany on Facebook. You can chit-chat with her on Twitter, and, re-pin her barely edible recipes on Pinterest.

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