The time has come. We are at the point in our marriage where you need to take the plunge. No, I am not talking about buying a minivan, making that big move, or abandoning the kids for a full-week vacation celebrating our married bliss. No, I’m talking about you—you walking your ass into that doctor’s office to get snipped.
We made the decision well over a year ago to stop having children. So, it’s your turn to do your part in this whole family planning thing.
I mean, haven’t I done enough? Two PREGNANCIES at 5 feet tall was not easy. How about that unplanned c-section? Oh, and what about that 50-hour labor for our VBAC? I did all that for US. So, the gig is up for me. It’s now your turn, buddy. Suck it up, make the appointment, and get the snip. You will not be the only man on the planet to have survived a vasectomy. I promise.
I mean, everyone is doing it. Your friends have endured the snip while sitting on the couch during March Madness. Your cousin endured it while putting frozen pees on his two little friends under his pants. And your brother-in-law, he finally made his appointment, too. If they can do it, you certainly can. Stop being such a pansy.
And you know that my keeps asking me when you’re getting the snip?
“When is Brad getting snipped?”
“Brad better get snipped soon.”
“Has Brad called to make schedule his “procedure” yet?”
These are all questions my mother has asked in regards to you getting a vasectomy. Some may say that you have a pushy mother-in-law on your hands, while I like to say that she’s concerned.
Concerned for our sanity of adding ANOTHER CHILD into our already symmetrical family. One girl. One boy. That is God saying, “Dude, don’t mess with that good karma. Especially when twins run in your family—three straight generations of twins.”
If an accident occurs and I end up knocked up with twins, so help me.
No, so help YOU. Because it will be YOU who will suffer. It will be nine months of pure hell for you. I will not try to bottle up any whining. I will not only vomit actual throw-up in the toilet but complains onto you—hourly. You may as well become my personal servant. . . getting me water, preparing the dinners, and taking care of the two children we already have.
Oh, and once the baby, or babies, are born—you can get up with them in the middle of the night. I will be sleeping blissfully, dreaming sweet dreams about running through the aisles of Target without a child attached to my hip.
Yes, I know that the thought of a doctor taking any kind of sharp object to your precious little nuts can seem a bit scary.
But it’s not. I’ve had my ABDOMEN CUT OPEN and then a tiny human came from it. Your glorious balls will be just fine—I promise. You will never even know that your downstairs business was interrupted at all. Oh, and you know those rubber things I make you stretch over your manhood? You’ll finally be able to throw those into the trash because there will no longer be any need for them.
Make the appointment, already. Make it for you. Make it for us. And make it for your concerned mother-in-law. Then, you’ll get her off your back and me back under the sheets.
Your Loving Wife Who is Ready for the Snip