Go Forth But Don’t Multiply

by Mike, Mona’s husband

I’d like to tell you I’m sharing this story in the hopes that one other guy will read it and feel more fully informed or that the subject will be somehow demystified. But the truth is, I need to write about it to process it myself.

The tadpole party is over! I had a vasectomy today.

Mona is pregnant with our second child, due in early 2010. I will be almost 54 when that magic moment arrives. My first child, Nathan, was born two days after my 50th birthday. What a wonderful surprise! I didn’t think fatherhood was in the cards for me despite the fact I always wanted desperately to be a dad. So now to have a second on the way is a double blessing that makes me so euphoric I can hardly breathe. Without question, being a father is the most important and rewarding role I have ever experienced, in part perhaps because I have never met my biological father. But I will be 72 years old (God willing) when our second child graduates from high school. By then, I may be incontinent and without hair or teeth (hopefully I will still have my wits), but it would be reckless to think that reproductive common sense isn’t now obligatory.

Plus, I hate condoms.

Mona and I arrived right on time and were led to the operating room by the nurse’s aide, a hot young Asian woman I’ll call Bev. She handed me the gown, told me to get undressed, and to crack the door open when I was ready. I complied and then the nurse entered the room, a very nice woman probably around my age who I will also call Bev. She glanced at Mona and said, “It’s perfectly OK if your wife wants to stay throughout the entire procedure. Many couples elect to do that.” To which I replied, “I just met this woman in the lobby, but if she wants to hang around it’s cool with me.”

This is what is called “an icebreaker.”

Nurse Bev then washed me down, applied iodine and the whole time with both Bev’s I kept praying I wouldn’t become aroused. Mentally I focused on baseball, who was the better hitter Hank Aaron or Willie Mays, and luckily my happy horse stayed in his corral. (BTW, Aaron was the better hitter, Mays the better fielder – secretly I was sure you’d want to know.)

The doctor came in and he was all business. The procedure took less time that the prep. He explained exactly what he was doing in a methodical and reassuring voice that would be perfect for “books on tape” or audio instructions from your car’s navigation system. With him, I wasn’t worried about arousal but flatulence, though again my southern hemisphere did not betray me.

Here’s a question for you: does anyone besides me find it ironic that throughout the procedure, an operation where one slip of the knife can make your best friend your wife (OK, it was done with a laser not a knife, but still…), Mona was reading a magazine called Real Simple? I mean, couldn’t it have been Guns & Ammo or at the very least Field & Stream? I mean, if the surgeon had sneezed at the wrong time, I could have ended up singing soprano in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Even more disconcerting, she was reading an article entitled, “The Ultimate Small-Space makeovers.”

In less than an hour it was over with minimal discomfort or pain, and I knew I had done the right thing. Then, I took off my gown to get dressed and I almost passed out! There on the pad below me was blood everywhere! It was an old-fashioned ball-sac bloodbath! Thankfully, Mona informed that it was just the iodine and not blood at all. She really had been paying attention! That’s my girl!

When our newest bundle of joy arrives, our family will be complete. If Mona wants anymore additions, there are regular goldfish sales at Petco. And guys, if you’re convinced this is the right decision for you but you’re still hesitant, all I can say is get an ice bag and plenty of your favorite beverage because you are about to relax on the couch for a week guilt-free knowing you’ve done the right thing.

Also, while I’m thinking of it, remember to get your pet spayed or neutered!

August 29, 2009 | Filed Under Uncategorized | 13 Comments 

pregnant women are smug

I was walking up the stairs and kept hearing a tick, tick, tick with each one of my steps. When I stopped, the sound would stop. The irritating ticks kept echoing in my trail and suddenly, my brain jolted with the horror: IS MY ASS CLAPPING? HAVE I BECOME THAT FAT? Luckily, the snaps of my back pockets hadn’t shut, so it was just the metallic snaps tapping against each other, not my body morphing into Rasputia.

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I don’t have pregnancy insomnia, I can fall asleep. Even though I toss and turn, complain that it’s TOO HOT. My pregnancy has interrupted my sleep, though. I have been waking up at 3 in the morning when there’s nothing to watch on TV other than infomercials about poop or some show about how a woman didn’t know she was pregnant and had to give birth in the forest. I hate those shows. I have enough fear and worry in my daily life that I don’t need to be bothered by what will likely be my fate: delivering in the Target clearance section. It’s like, labor isn’t traumatic enough, producers have to find these rare stories of women who didn’t even see it coming and are wondering why the Indian food buffet isn’t agreeing with them.

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I haven’t taken any pics of my bulging belly but I figure I have about two or three weeks before my pregnancy shape sets in and I don’t just look bloated. So who wants to go to ladies night at the bar with this hot mama? It’s naughty school girls night but don’t worry, I’ll pass on the mechanical bull. That’s a third trimester feat.

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My mom doesn’t get my sense of humor, especially when it comes to food. The other night I joked that my pregnancy was going great, especially since I started drinking coconut milk straight out of the can. She screamed, “Noooooo! THE CHOLESSSSTEROL!” but I said in my defense, “Well, what else am I going to wash down some pork belly with?”

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I know it’s the politically correct thing to say that I don’t care if it’s a boy or girl; I just want a healthy baby. But I’m not going to lie. I want a girl. A little girl in my image who will grow up and compete in speech and debate and attend Junior Statesmen of America. None of this princess frou frou pink fairyland crap. And it is utter crap. I don’t even know why I have become so anti-glittery-Daddy’s-Girl-t-shirts, maybe it’s because there many choices for girl’s clothing and yet, I am faced with a world of ugly cheap pink overload and nipple tassel shirts (!) for a child who could also very likely be a boy. Which would be fine. Boys look good in pink.

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And finally, the truth:

August 28, 2009 | Filed Under Uncategorized | 9 Comments 

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