Right now my husband is resting, like a 19th century lady who has swooned upon hearing tragic news. He has a headache. He is justifiably behaving like a weenie, because today is the day he voluntarily allows a little old Pakistani man to take a laser to his nether regions.
We've talked about vasectomy for two years now. We've known for some time that one child is all we ever need and want. When you hit the lottery, you don't play again, right? Of course, some people don't understand why we're bothering. You're infertile, aren't you? Why submit my husband to this sort of medieval torture, when chances are his sperm are mostly useless?
Violet is something of a miracle. Sure, Clomid made the egg a bigger target, but that sperm still had to find it's way there and it did. Aaron's stock is not dead. It is profoundly lazy and kind of stupid, but we all know that lazy and stupid get lucky sometimes. As a family, we are semi-charmed. Blessings always come wrapped in stinky packaging. If an accidental pregnancy had happened, we would have loved that poop machine to pieces, but it didn't and it's time for us to move on. We've spent a lot of time coming to terms with our family size. It's a big decision, especially when you are as young as we are. I could spend the next ten years trying to have babies, but I'd rather not. It was too hard and we are happy as a threesome.
So, this afternoon my husband will bravely submit his crotch to the hot knife and we will never again need to wonder if nature has cooked up an inconvenient miracle for us. Aaron is terrified right now, but in a few days he will feel liberated and so will I.
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