Working mum of three

Figuring it out as we go along. Blogging is cheaper than therapy.

‘The snip’ and other Father’s Day tales. 

on June 20, 2015


 “Why do people say “grow some balls”? Balls are weak and sensitive. If you wanna be tough, grow a vagina. Those things can take a pounding.” Sheng Wang, (not Betty White).

We’ve spent a lot of time laughing about the size of Rich’s vas recently. That’s vas as in vasectomy; the (very) wee pipes that get snipped. Apparently his are so small that the doctor couldn’t find them while rummaging around in his ball sack.

The whole thing has been a bit of a laugh, starting with Rich booking his appointment on his birthday (‘what would you like for your birthday darling?’ ‘No more children thanks’).  We do have a problem with contraception, in that, we are crap at it. And no amount of small children running head first into his crotch has had any impact on his fertility. Soon we started to hear the scary snip stories; years of pain in the balls, uncomfortable orgasms, eye watering complications. It’s enough to make anyone cross their legs and clench their buttocks. You know, just like those gruesome labour stories that strangers insist on telling you when you’re heavily pregnant. How we laughed about those, not so funny anymore, huh Richie? When he cancelled his first op, because it ‘didn’t fit in with work’, it seemed to be part of the ruse.

I’ve long ribbed Rich for his scrotum sensitivity, which, of course, I would ‘never understand’. The briefest of knocks to his low hanging fruit provokes an outraged squeal, a hunched over grimace and a how-could-you glare. These Crown Jewels need protection don’t you know. So I’m fairly astounded that he’s prepared to go under the knife. He REALLY doesn’t want any more kiddos.

Amidst the frivolity and dick jokes, the letter offering his rescheduled op was a bit of a kick in the balls. The punchline has taken a turn for the serious.

Now, we’ve got three beautiful boys, and just last night we lay in bed marveling at their unique and wonderful personalities. As the youngest approaches his second birthday, now is surely the time, if ever, to go for a fourth. A fourth? Now that is a joke. Of sane mind, I am certain that my brood is now complete, that three children and two full time jobs are perfectly satisfying. That I will never want for another child.

‘But what about a girl?’ they say, ‘and what about a football team?’ because once you’ve had three, everyone knows that you’re already outnumbered, so you’ve nothing to lose. Families are happier with four, you’ve read. ‘Aren’t you worried about the middle child?’. It’s true, we don’t want to cock up their lives, so maybe we should have a proper think about the salami slicing. It’s a big deal; forever, kaput, final, never again. It’s the sever of the surgeons scalpel. That’s what scares me most, no, not the cutting (that’s not my problem), but the ‘what if I change my mind?’. This is new levels of indecision (in-dick-cision).

But let’s be real; we struggle for money, for sleep, for quality time with our kids. We torture ourselves with guilt already. We are only just emerging from the weeds, and we are still exhausted. Not to mention that the world is overpopulated, economically unstable, conflict ridden. It’s frightening to think about what our kids will have to deal with in their lifetimes. So bollocks to it, I’ll drive him to the hospital myself.

Happy Father’s Day love. You’re welcome.


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