I used to hate to tell other moms how quickly I got pregnant. I would actually lie and say it took a few months because I never wanted anyone to feel bad if their journey was longer than mine. However, the truth is that I got pregnant each time on the first or second month. We then named my husband, “The Great Impregnator”. He loved the title and you can see that a part of him truly believed that he possessed this amazing super power.
After we had our second child, we talked about him getting a vasectomy. And I have to admit, I wasn’t sure if he was just talking the talk or if he would really walk the walk. Today, he walked the walk.
He’s currently sitting on the couch, a bag of frozen corn on his privates, and relishing in me getting him beers and folding the laundry. He asked the nurse if she could write a script for a bell that he could ring when he needed my services. He also asked if it were possible for the sperm to find another exit from his body, seeing that they were always quite determined little fellas.
But none of that was bad until the nurse said something that made me want to reach across the table and muzzle her. She informed us that we needed to be “intimate” 20 times before returning in 3 months to guarantee that all the sperm are eliminated. 20 times???? That is seriously going to screw up my reality tv watching. I’m now wondering if a blow up doll might be a good xmas present but I’m thinking my 16 month old might think it’s a toy for him…
