Undercarriage Update

It’s been almost two weeks since my vasectomy. I’ve had a man tape my manhood to my stomach and stick a needle into my scared, shorn scrotum and cut it open. I’ve had another two injections inside my testicular tote-bag, and then my vas deferens tubes pulled out and cut to bits. And then, after receiving stitches on my already sensitive cinch sack, I waddled around bruised and sore, terrified by the mere thought of gravity itself. But now, I must endure the most severe pain yet.

Nut stubble.

The beginning of the process involved me shaving my nethers. This was my first time to ever attempt such a sheering, and I miraculously came out unscathed. But nobody warned me about this part.

4659080239_de147e65de_zPicture these in your pants.

I am constantly being poked and pricked on the inside of my legs and the under-side of my tender tallywacker. It doesn’t matter the underwear. It doesn’t matter the position. I think it’s just their angry little way of exacting revenge on me for relieving them of their fertilizing purposes.

Other than that, here’s the two-week checklist.

– The dull pain moved around a bit. It kinda travelled from way down deep in the scrotal south, up through the spermidial ship channel to belly-button harbor, and then back down to just under the belt buckle – slowly dissipating along the way. Now it’s gone.

– The bruising went for a walkabout as well. It changed colors as it moved around the globes and even managed to invade the base of my business. It’s not completely back to normal, but it no longer looks like Wes Craven shot a movie in my shorts.

– The stitch is looking better. At about the end of the first week, I was able to take the Dora-The-Explorer band-aid off my balls. Now, the scab has been falling away, and the stitch is starting to dissolve. That’s good and all, but it itches. Itches big time. I got itches in my britches.

902797_1324042691509_fullSometimes I make the sound, too.

Now that the pain has subsided, I can move on to the next phase of my medical instructions. I have a follow-up appointment in 8 weeks. And I have lots to do before then. Lots and lots to do. You see, I’m supposed to bring a sample to that appointment.

Yes. That kind of sample.

You know what time it is. It’s time to do some stretching exercises and take the SafeSearch off my internet browser. It’s go time. Because the doctor isn’t interested in the very first sample I produce.

He wants to see the eighty-first.

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Talking to your kids about your balls.

As I recover from my vasectomy, an interesting dilemma has unzipped and presented itself. The kids want to know why Daddy can’t wrastle. The kids want to know why they can’t sit on Daddy’s lap. The kids want to know why Daddy is walking so funny.

Ministry_of_Silly_Walks_by_chaplin007Anti-Baby Steps

My daughter is six and my son is nine. The younger one has been easy. As soon as I said the word, ‘testicles’ she started giggling and quickly moved on. Although, now she feels she has license to say, ‘testicles’ whenever she wants. So, she does. And then giggles.

“You want a hug, Daddy? Don’t worry, I won’t hurt your testicles.”
“Be nice to Daddy. He’s got sore testicles.”
“Good morning, Daddy. How are the testicles?”
“Hey, Daddy. Testicles. I just said, ‘testicles.'”

The nine year old boy is a little different. You see, he has testicles. And questions.

“Was there something wrong with your testicles?”
– No.
“Then what was the testicle surgery for?”
– Don’t end your sentence with a preposition, son.

So, how do I tell the kids that I love them more than anything in the world, but there’s no way in hell I would ever want another one of those loud, obnoxious, expensive, dirty, stupid little angels?

“Daddy, why don’t you and Mommy want another baby?”

A. You kids are relentless. You wear me out. You’re lucky I haven’t gotten rid of you already.
B. I love you so, so very much that I don’t want to share that love with anyone else. Except the dogs.
C. Do you really want to share the t.v. with another person? Gimme the remote.
D. Well, if we did have another one, then either you or your sister would have to go.

“But Daddy, only mommies have babies. What do your testicles have to do with it?

A. It’s called sex, boy. Duh.
B. You see, it takes two to Tango. And when you Tango naked, you make babies.
C. Well there’s this thing called puberty – that’s when you get hairy armpits. And when you get hairy armpits, you make babies.
D. Really, son? I don’t think you’ve been using the internet correctly.

“So you would rather have somebody cut into your testicles than have another one of me?”

A. Y’see. It’s not so hard to understand.
B. Well you don’t have to put it that way. They really only cut the scrotum and the vas deferens. Not the actual testicles.
C. It’s not like that. The third one wouldn’t be another you. That would be even worse.
D. No, no – of course not. There’s just no way the next one could be as amazing as you are. You’ve got a booger in your hair.

So, the conversation wasn’t that bad. And I think my kids will be better off for it. And now, I can focus my energy on helping them be the best they can be. And that makes me feel good.

funny-science-fair-131My kids are gonna be geniuses.

In the end, I gave him a quick run-down of some puberty basics. It’s the part of life when you get smelly and covered in zits. And then you want girls to like you. We talked about how there’s a difference between being a kid and being a grownup. And that it’s more than just a driver’s license and a beard. But, when it came to the actual procreating and consummating and gettin’ it on with a little bump ‘n grind-ating, I told him that nine years old was simply too young and innocent for that sorta conversation. He sighed, nodded and said that he understood.

Then we played the new Grand Theft Auto.

 

[If you’re interested, the entire snipping story starts here.]

Ow, My Balls

The vasectomy appears to have gone well. My ovarian fertilization launching mechanism has been successfully disarmed. The first few hours have been a wonderful world of luxurious medicated laziness. But, all good things must come to an end. Let’s talk about some of the sweet post-op side effects of having fun-bag surgery.

pumpkin-carve-24That’s gonna leave a mark.

Please note: I was given some vicodin to use if the pain gets too bad. I will attempt to power through without taking any. Why? Because I’m a man. I’m 40. And my wife managed to pull off natural child birth. Twice.  — Also, the pain will help me remember to be careful. Every time I go to the dentist and get a shot of novocaine, I end up chewing a giant hole in the side of my cheek. And I don’t need another hole in my scrotum.

Soreness.

The most noticeable side effect is the hitch in my giddy-up. My boys are tender. It’s a dull ache deep in my innards. Sure, ice can keep the swelling down, but it doesn’t really help the core problem of dense discomfort. Plus, ice is freezing. It’s frozen water, you see. And it’s touching the balls, so – not cool.

Important: Gravity is not your friend.

Sitting down is absolutely the best medicine. But not too fast. Use your arms to hover for a second and then slowly ease into position. They actually recommend that you wear a jock strap for the first day. I don’t own one. And I’m not going to buy one for a single day. Instead, I just found the smallest pair of nut-hugger undies I own and went with that. Maybe I’ll try my son’s Spiderman skivvies if I get desperate.

Bruising.

Common decency prohibits me from posting a photo of my technicolor rainbow of testicular contusions. But trust me, it’s impressive. And it changes like the sunset – a constant ebbing and swirling of purples and blues and greens and pinks and yellows and reds and wrinkles. Kinda like an old man who just got the crap beat out of him.

injured-man-1-942x530You should see the other ball.

Urinating.

Just go ahead and have a seat, buddy. This is no time to let pride get in the way and make a mess of yourself. Especially for that initial tinkle. This will be the first time you get the chance to see your little victim after the mugging. The image of your twig and berries all mangled and beat to hell can be quite a jolt to the system. Personally, I got a little woozy. And secondly, your parts are pulled up tighter than a bull at the rodeo. Not only does this make things awkward, but it also sorta points your pee-shooter in a less-than-natural direction. Just hunker down and pretend you’re on vacation.

toilet signBaseball cap not necessary.

Beyond that, most other things seem pretty normal. I still have an appetite. I still like beer. I haven’t been noticeably angry or irritable. And I still can’t play the harpsichord. Which is rather remarkable considering the circumstances.

Oh. One more thing.

Don’t get a boner.

Back from the nuthouse.

So, the vasectomy procedure is complete. I’ve returned home from the chop shop and am now sitting comfortably numb in my rocking chair. As far as I can tell, everything has gone according to plan. I mean, I can’t really feel anything, but I can see that I have all the important stuff still intact.

I have been prescribed about 5 days worth of antibiotics and a little Vicodin for good measure.

And for the next 48 hours, the doctor has very specific instructions.

Slob on CouchTake six football games and call me in the morning.

Well now, this ain’t so bad. I have license to be a complete lazy slob. The wife is being extra nice. The kids are bringing me beers and drawing me pictures. I even have a few friends coming over later to help me watch t.v. Plus, they’re bringing food – including some testicularly themed Deviled Juevos.

I don’t have to cook anything.
I don’t have to fix anything.
I don’t have to put anything away.
I don’t have to wash or clean anything. Not even myself.
I don’t have to let the stupid dogs out.
I don’t have to let the stupid dogs back in 30 seconds later.
I don’t have to watch Dragonball Z.
I don’t have to watch The Suite Life of Zack & Cody.
I don’t have to watch Jessie or Barbie or any other singing and dancing bullcrap.

I just have to sit here, kick my feet up and concentrate on creating a dank, aromatic cloud of sedentary bliss.

Well, at least until the anaesthesia wears off.

Or the wife’s patience.