The Big V

So, as you know, I have two kids. I am happy with my two kids, I don’t need three. Therefore, The Agent has decided to get the Big V. Snip, snip.

I’m not sure how I feel like this. Sure, I don’t think I necessarily want anymore children, but KNOWING I can’t have anymore is completely different story. Yes, I can adopt again (for those who don't know, BK is adopted), but I will never again experiences the feelings that go along with a pregnancy. It’s a little sad. But, on the flip side, I already have two young kids. I am tired.

What we decided to do was go off the pill back in May, and just play things by ear, in case fate decided to step in. At the end of the year, The Agent would make his appointment, baby or not.

Well, it’s the end of the year, and Fate decided to stay out of the equation. I am not pregnant, and The Agent is getting cut.

Our insurance requires that The Agent take an hour long class before scheduling the procedure, presumably to make sure that the guy is really sure this is something he wants to do, and just using it as a way to have sex with as many women as he wants.

(Incidentally, I do believe that in the case of my niece’s father, who had sired 5 children with four different girls before he turned 20, a vasectomy should be state mandated. But that’s a different story.)

So, The Agent went to his class with about a dozen other guys (one who dragged his wife and infant child with him). They watched a movie, the process was explained to them, as well as recovery time and possible complications. The Agent is particularly concerned about the side effects, something about “perpetual blue balls.” My sweet innocent mind does not allow me to know much about this condition, but apparently it’s not very pleasant.

The Agent came home after the class with his mind made up. “I’m not going to do it,” he said. “We’ll just have to take our chances.”

“Sure, we can do that,” I answered pleasantly. “I think I would love being pregnant again, actually. And you know, multiples run in my family. Maybe we’ll get lucky next time and have twins, or even triplets. Wouldn’t that be exciting? To be 40 years old, and trying to potty train three toddlers at once? Fun!”

That changed his mind right back again.

“So, what’s the next step?” I asked.

“I get shaved,” he answered. “And then you buy me sweats that I can wear to work, because I am sure it will be at least a month before I can put on a pair of jeans again.”

Yes, Dear. They’re already under the tree.