We are not having any more children. In the big card game of life we are choosing not to twist. We’re sticking. There are two ways to achieve this. Well three really but the third involves me walking round like Buster Gonad and divorce. So two sensible options. The first is that Mrs S remembers to take a pill every day until she no longer has a menstrual cycle. The second is that (to quote Blackadder) I let a maniac with a pair of scissors near my John Thomas. Guess which one we went for?
I have read a couple of posts recently where the author wondered if they should be blogging on the subject that they were and I had the same thought. But somewhere I also read the awesome mammasaurus give a tip – it’s your blog, so blog what you want. God knows who’s going to read this. I have personal friends on my Twitter timeline. Football mates. But this is my life. Our decision. If I can’t explain it here I might as well roll up the blogroll, retire the URL and go back to having this nonsense rolling around in my head. And I get to do a whole load of nob gags.
So I am blogging it. It will eventually be common knowledge anyway. When the time comes I’ll need time off work. People will wonder what’s happened to me WON’T YOU? *points at you*. Also I know 2 blokes who’ve had ‘the process’ and both happily admitted to having it. The whole of our irregular poker club knows about one and our irregular poker club is far from discreet.
Another recent blog theme from both motherventing and sahdandproud was a question about if their children would ever read their blog. Well what if mine read this? Will they think it was down to them that we want no more’? Nothing could be further from the truth. I may – ok do – caricature them here but they are my world. Sunshine in a storm. Medium rare ribeye steak for my hungry soul. Part of me forever. Boy is clever and arty and much nicer to his friends than I am to mine and the poor sod’s got my sense of humour. I am so immensely proud of him. And Baby is a cute, talking, walking, water-worshipping barrel of fun and terror with more attitude than a rock band on a Jack binge. I am immensely proud of her too.
No if it were down to me we’d have had more, lots more, but this is with the benefit of hindsight. I admire beyond belief people with large families. I love babies. Toddlers. Kids. But…..
The truth is I spent my early 20s at raves and football. Then I met my Mrs and while I calmed down we still enjoyed eating out whenever we wanted and having friends round at 10pm and generally being child-free. Then we moved abroad for a bit. So we started this child rearing lark rather late. Now we’re in our 40s and I have dodgy knees and Mrs S has a dodgy back and neither of us have slept for years and we just couldn’t cope with another child if we tried. It’s a health and safety issue really.
So while Baby was a Foetus we decided she completed our family and we somehow decided this would be best achieved by me having my tadger fiddled with. When she was about 3 months I went to the Doctor to start the process and she advised me to wait a year ‘just in case’ and I could have leapt up and kissed her and made her sole beneficiary of my will right then and there (instead I just coughed – you guessed it – slightly). But I can put it off no longer. The year is more than passed so the other day I made an appointment to go back to my GP.
So what are my male, Dad, thoughts on this? Naturally I’m fucking terrified. I mean really. Here’s a small vignette of what’s going on in my brain.
– The surgeon could be someone from school who still harbours a grudge against me after all those years.
– The surgeon could be a Palace fan.
– The surgeon could be coming off a 20 hour shift having just performed harrowing but life saving surgery on a well loved public figure and now faces the choice between sleep, doing his accounts for Andrew Lansley or my cock.
– It might not work and we’d end up with a 3rd kid anyway the second the pill prescription ran out.
– I might not be able to get it up meaning a life time of popping blue pills like a teenager in Cream during the 90s.
– My water works might get infected meaning a second date with a vengeful, tired, Palace supporting willy specialist.
This of course is all wild speculation. So little have I thought about it, so far have I buried it in the dark recesses of my mind that I have no idea of what will actually occur. That’s what the GP visit is for. It could be laser right? Painless and over in a second? No need to even whip it out? Or they could stick a fucking huge camera up the eye and operate with a machete. *winces*. I’ve no idea. I’ve been putting it off a bit.
I am whether you like it or not going to update you. It’s my blog. My subjects. My rules. God help you. And God help Percy.