Today was V-Day. 

Vasectomy, that is. We are now permanently in control of birth. Which seems surreal, after so many years of careful pill-taking and such. Now we can have all the sex we want and not have to worry! Except … we have small children in the house … so … no. Not really. But at least we know we won’t be adding to that number of small children.

 Some people don’t understand why we would choose to sever the baby line before Pepper’s arrival, but the fact of the matter is that we are just SO DONE with making babies. Even if down the road we wanted another one, would it really be the best decision for us? No. Making our family has been hard on our marriage, frankly. We are both ready to close that chapter to focus on raising our three children, and enjoying the rest of our lives.

Having babies is no picnic. It’s hard work, like running a marathon. But we do it because it’s also exhilarating and magical and AMAZING. And it’s not constant hard work. There are breaks between the impossibly difficult parts that are so full of joy I can’t even put it into words. I’ve tried. Nothing is quite right.

So now that I know I am officially closing this baby factory down, I’m excited. I very much look forward to a few years from now when my body has fully recovered, I have a gym membership again, all of my children know how to use the bathroom by themselves, and we have rebuilt our social life. Husband and I agree that our best years lie ahead of us.

Today’s step towards our future was the snip-snip. Dun dun dun.

We decided months ago that this would be our last child, and I flat-out said I won’t be going back on birth control because I am fairly certain it makes me crazy. So, Husband made an appointment for a physical with a new doctor and said he would ask her for a referral to a urologist while he was there. The appointment ended up taking months to schedule, and when he finally went he learned that he had three doctors to choose from: two men … and one woman.

Husband is funny. He really wanted a man doctor. Like, REALLY. Not like, “I would prefer a male doctor.” I mean like, “No way in hell do I want a female cutting on my balls, that is horrifying and I won’t do it.” Alas, the male doctors didn’t have openings until June and July. Clearly I will need Husband up and walking around to help with our three kids for the entire summer and the idea of him being out of commission after the baby is born was just out of the question. So.

He scheduled a consultation with the female doctor. 

Meanwhile, my parents offered to take the boys on Memorial Day weekend, so Husband and I could have time alone together before the baby is born. A babymoon! Wow, a whole weekend to ourselves. That hasn’t happened in a long time! We were really looking forward to it. 

Until, that is, Husband scheduled his vasectomy for that very weekend.

Also, when he arrived for his consultation he realized that he went to middle school with his female urologist. So his worst nightmare was coming true: a girl he grew up with was going to cut open his scrotum with a tiny knife. He texted me, “It’s pretty awkward to catch up with someone and then they tell you to drop your pants.”

I bet so. But don’t pretend that’s never happened before.

A few days ago I looked her up and discovered she’s a very pretty girl. We were watching TV when I blurted out, “I looked up Dr. Schmeeckle and she’s not ugly!!” And he just looked at me with a look that let me know that he was already aware of this and it was probably adding to his mortification.

I feel like a terrible wife, because he was unhappy that he knew his urologist, and he was also super nervous about the procedure, and I wanted to be kind to him. But I have troubles of my own. There is a person in my abdomen who feels like she is beating me to death, and my morning sickness has returned. So I tried really hard to be supportive, but basically the poor man was on his own. His dad took him to his appointment this morning, and I tried not to think about what was happening.

A few hours later he returned, high as a kite, and announced “I couldn’t go through with it. I chickened out.” Which was clearly a lie because he was walking like … well. You know.

Then, he proceeded to pull one of those sterile cups out of a bag, the kind of cup that you pee in at the doctor’s office, and explained in front of our children and his father what it needed to be used for later … like once he has recovered, later. All the while he was waving that cup in the air … and then he said, “YOU’RE GONNA HAVE TO HELP ME WITH THAT!” before I took it away and put it back in the bag and suggested that he go lie down.

Spending our “babymoon” this way was not what I had in mind.