I know the instant I type the last keystroke that we’ve “turned a corner” or something to that effect, chaos will ensue in our household like an Arab Spring for toddlers, so I’m not going to jinx myself. Still, life at home is finally beginning to stabilize a bit.
After the last seven months, a question has grown louder both inside my head and in casual conversation with others. To snip. Or not to snip. That is the question.
Getting snipped. A visit to Doctor Snipkin. Joining the varsity club. These were all comments on a Facebook status back in February when our population of kids outnumbered the adults.
First, the pros. Covered by insurance (I think.) Check. No more mouths to feed/college tuitions to fund. Check. Sleeping past seven on a Saturday is only about twelve years away as of today. Check. THE WIFE and I can sleep in the same room without fear even if we’ve split a bottle of bubbly and half a dozen oysters. Check.
Second, the cons. Let me recreate some of the comments I’ve received from men whose Vas Deferens are no longer connected. “One of my nuts swelled to the size of an apple.” “My balls felt like water balloons dangling from my crotch.” “She hit a nerve or something during the procedure and I wanted to cry.” “My sack looked like a deformed eggplant.” And so on.
Slow down all you mamas out there who are eager to tell me how many thousand times more painful it is to bring a child into the world not to mention the discomfort of carrying said watermelon for nine months in utero. You win. I surrender. Apples and oranges. I get it. Score one (or more) for you, and zero for me.
Still, I cringe at the thought of my beanbag becoming temporarily mutilated if even for just a few minutes. And the possibility of any “complications” makes my cajones retreat in a northerly direction along the inguinal canals while morphing into raisinettes. Even more challenging, is all my jazz going to just swim around the yambag once the tubes are disconnected?
Fortunately, a buddy of mine forwarded an entertaining and surprisingly educational article from GQ that answered a lot of my questions. (I did my best not to steal any of the material by the way, though it is worth mention that the author’s wife threw him a party before the big day called the Sad Sack Celebration.) So the momentum is beginning to take hold.
Now, the question appears to be more about when than if, which brings me to my next point. One of my best friends called me recently and proposed an interesting idea. It went something like this:
FRIEND: Hey, have you decided about getting snipped?
ME: Yeah, I think I’m leaning that way.
FRIEND: Me, too. (pause) Want to go to Vegas?
FRIEND: We could go during the AFC-NFC Championship weekend. Wheelchairs at blackjack tables. Bags of frozen peas and donut pillows. Free drinks. We’d make the most of the situation.
Now that’s what I call making lemonade from lemons. Or maybe more like peanut butter from peanuts. Eh, whatever the analogy, get my application for the Varsity club ready.