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But, it could be worse.
You could have all the stress of a financially strapped forty-something with ungrateful teenagers and still get pregnant and have to start all over again. With a tiny human who shits him or herself. And when that starts to sound absolutely horrifying instead of endearing, that's when you know it's time. Time to take control of the ball. Or balls. Before the game stops being fun and time runs out.
Before it's game over.
After carefully weighing the risks for a millisecond, the procedure was scheduled. Having a physician for a husband who knows that a vasectomy is less risky than a tubal ligation and insists he takes one for the team, earns him an MVP. When the day finally came, I drove him to his appointment and sat eagerly in the waiting room. Mostly because I brought along a new book and was looking forward to the peace and quiet to begin reading it. Then, my husband emerged a mere 15 minutes later, completely done. "I didn't even finish a chapter yet!"
That's when I started getting snippy.
Not that I had any right to, because I didn't. But, that didn't stop me. I mean, I did take care of him and everything. He did lay on the couch with a bag of frozen corn on his balls while watching a marathon of Walking Dead episodes all day. Which I've never seen him do ever. Giving a whole new meaning to the trademark 'corn nuts'. Anyhow, later that evening we sat down to watch a movie together and he suggested some guy movie. "Noooooo. Can't we just watch a documentary?" I asked. Seriously, why couldn't I just give in and give him some of his manhood back, if only for just one night?
Because I'm a selfish middle-aged bitch approaching menopause watching the fertility I didn't think I wanted anymore wane.