Today, after a glorious career that includes two beautiful children, Mark’s ability to procreate was officially retired. That’s right, folks, my husband loves me so much he went under the knife just so I’d stop having nightmares about unplanned pregnancy. The other night I didn’t get any sleep because I kept dreaming that I woke up 12 weeks pregnant. With twins. Boys. GAH! The dreams got so “real” that I finally vaulted out of bed at six am to take a pregnancy test. The single pink stripe sent me back to bed where I actually slept peacefully for a while.
Not that I don’t think babies (even of the boy variety) are lovely, I just don’t want any more children. And since we are in total agreement on this point, we decided to make it official. He claims that it really wasn’t that bad, with just some discomfort. There was a moment when the doctor picked up the knife to begin and he thought, “do I really want to do this?” and then he thought of me in labor and the stupid cyst ER incident and thought, “After all she’s been through, I can handle this.” And so it is done. He’s hanging out on the couch with a big bowl of ice cream as I type.
Last night while helping Lily brush her teeth, I was explaining to her that Daddy would be having a little surgery. This meant that when she came home from Grandma’s house, she’d need to be very gentle with him as he’d have an owie. “It’ll take a couple of days to heal and you’ll need to be very nice to Daddy so it doesn’t hurt too much.” I explained.
“Daddy will have an owie?”
“A big owie?”
“It’ll be a small cut, but it might make him hurt for a couple of days.”
She thought about this for a moment and then nodded her head in a final kind of way, “I’m gonna kiss it.”
So glad I hadn’t just taken a sip of water; it would have been a perfect moment for a spit-take.
When I told my mom this story she made an excellent suggestion. “I think Mark’s gong to need a band-aid on his knee.”
Yes indeed, Grandma. Yes indeed.