Air Balls

After the second round of testicular testing, the results of my vasectomy are in!

Well, sorta.

First, I had somebody cut open my cuddlies and clip my cockles. Then over the next few months, I was ordered to break the intergalactic masturbation record. I succeeded. You should see the trophy.

s4ID5Everybody wins.

After the awards ceremony, the good doctor wanted to make sure all the nut nicks weren’t for naught. So I supplied a semen sample, and it was sent to the sperm-counting experts down at the lab. Two weeks later, I did it again – for a different lab. With different experts.

Then, it was out of my hands. Literally.

Of course, the waiting process made me a little anxious – testy, if you will. There doesn’t seem to be a set schedule or protocol for this final, and extremely important, part of the fertility foiling process. I made a phone call.

ME: So, when can I expect to see the results of the first test?
RECEPTION: I dunno. That kinda varies.

ME: Well, what about the second test?
RECEPTION: I dunno. That kinda depends on the first test.

ME: Okay, in your many years of experience, how long would you say it has typically taken in the past. If you had to guess. You don’t have to be exact – just a ballpark figure. Any round number will do.
RECEPTION: I dunno. They all kinda run together.

ME: Right. Will I at least get a phone call when they do come in?
RECEPTION: I dunno. That kinda depends on who’s working that day.

It’s like a bad one-night stand. We did all these wonderful (and somewhat questionable) things together, and now they’re shutting down. They’ve rolled over and fallen asleep. No snuggle time. No pillow talk. They won’t even call me back.

The whole point of letting a stranger grab my boys and cut them to bits relies on this last piece of information. My wife and I wanted to cut off the kid canal. We wanted to snip off the worry of churning out another selfish, noisy, expensive little angel. We wanted to finally enjoy spontaneous sexy-time and donate our remaining condoms to the nearest junior high.

But we can’t – not until we get confirmation that I’m officially ballistically barren.

So we wait.

And wait.

And we use a condom.

And then we wait some more.

Finally, I make another call. After quickly reminding them of who I am and the amazing time we spent together, I get down to business. Play time’s over.

ME: Look lady, either give me my results or send back my samples.
SFX: [papers rustling]
RECEPTION: Here we go. The test came in a coupla weeks ago. It’s negative.

ME: Negative, like no sperm? Or negative, like it didn’t work?
RECEPTION: Negative, like no sperm.

ME: Good. Okay – are those the results of the first test or the second test?
RECEPTION: That’s the second test.

ME: Alright, what about the first test?
RECEPTION: What do you mean?

ME: I mean, what are the results of the first test?
RECEPTION: I dunno. Didn’t anybody call you?

 picard facepalm
Captain’s Log: Mentally murdered someone today.

As the negotiations continued, it became quite apparent that she didn’t know the results of the first test. In the end, she agreed to have all the results mailed to me. I hung up the phone. And I drove to the store for booze and prophylactics.

And two weeks later, here it is! A letter! Drumroll, please.

vas test results None of my sperm brought their I.D.

Is it good news? Yes!

Is it some carefully-worded, we-can’t-be-blamed-if-you-still-get-pregnant, bull crap? Naturally.

But hey, it’s good enough for me! Now let’s put these results to a third round of rigorous testing. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to run to the store.

For some booze.

[The entire snipping story starts here.]

Childhood Sterility Advocates

As I wallow in the lag between vasectomy surgery and the big test to see if everything went according to plan, my mind has been want to wander. And of course, those meandering thoughts have drifted into doubt – second guessing whether or not this whole kick in the manhood is all worthwhile.

sad_keanuDude, like – did I take the bogus pill?

Lucky for me, I have the unwavering support of not only my smokin’ hot wife, but my two precious kiddos are looking out for me as well. It’s as if they can sense their daddy is conflicted and deeply troubled, so they swoop in to offer their adorably poignant, yet delicately subtle, nudges of reinforcement.

Like yesterday. The wife and I were in the kitchen. I was supposed to be helping her stir up some dinner, but I was lost in a spiral of sad virile uncertainty – gazing off into space. Suddenly, the 9-year-old boy pipes up.

“I don’t know what you’re cooking, but I hate it. It stinks, and it’s making me gag. I’m not eating it.”
– Turd Jones

Ah thanks, buddy. You know how to put daddy at ease. Here’s a butter knife – be a champ and go tighten up the electrical outlets.

And then there was this delightful little conversation about an hour later:

The Wife:                 Where did you put your dress?
The 6-Year-Old:     I don’t know.
The Wife:                 Then I don’t know if it’ll get washed.
The 6-Year-Old:     What if I don’t want my clothes where you want my clothes?
The Wife:                 Y’know, I’m just trying to do your laundry.
The 6-Year-Old:     I don’t care.

Masterfully done, sweet-pea. Daddy won’t forget this. Could you take this flashlight and go check the dog for worms?

They really have it down to a science. Their timing is in perfect step. Their delivery, Shakespearean. And their creative little minds produce truly surprising and remarkably varied methods of treatment. Notice how the two examples above managed to deftly co-mingle insulting obstinance with a household chore that neither the wife nor I wanted to do in the first place. It’s like telling the janitor he’s an idiot for not scrubbing the toilet with the right brush.

syringe-needle-jabbed-into-a-mandarin-sami-sarkisSo I chose this. And I feel good about it.

And then, just before bedtime, I’m assaulted with one last little perfect act of diabolical cruelty. The six-year-old crawls up onto my lap and curls herself into a warm, gushy ball of fragile affection.

“I love you, Daddy.”
– I love you too, sweetie.
“I made up a song for you, Daddy.”
– Really? That’s wonderful.
“It’s called, ‘I Love Daddy.'”

That’s when I bury my nose into the top of her head and breathe in as deeply as I can. And honest to God, there is nothing else in the world that smells anything like this. My olfactory nerves somehow delve beyond the stench of sweat and dirt and selfishness and insensitivity, and it locks-on to a faint, distant essence of unconditional love and undeniable comfort. It’s like a tractor beam of tenderness that pulls me in and washes away any sour memories lingering from the day. Eventually, we start to breathe in unison.

Her soft, raspy voice lets out a small hum as she begins to sing.

Turns out it’s a song about daddy’s farts.