I’m almost 40 years old. I’m divorced (twice). I have two little boys, who may or may not be werewolves. One of my possibly werewolf children pissed on my living room rug this weekend because he was too busy playing to run to the bathroom. I was making the boys breakfast when I heard my oldest complaining that his brother’s pee is getting all over the rug during their epic space battle. It was one of those surreal moments every parent has; I’m pouring cereal in bowls and through the crunching sound I hear “pee” + “rug.” I poke my head around the corner and see my youngest in a deranged Statue of Liberty pose; a Stars Wars spaceship held over his head as he balanced on one foot and shook liquid out of the other foot of his pajamas. Before I could get a “What the f . . .” out – you can’t throw the ‘F’ word out at a four-year old. My brain has to run through a catalog of words and phrases which capture my emotion but is appropriate to little ears. Before I can get any words out, the child dashes off downstairs, leaving me to contemplate the pros and cons of climbing back into bed. The little monster dashes back through the living room, still holding the spaceship but now completely naked, leaving a tangy wake behind him.
I’m at the point in my life where I don’t want any more half-werewolf children.
I posted on Facebook that I had my vasectomy consultation the next morning. I was surprised by the reactions to the post which ranged from “I wouldn’t do that” and “Don’t do it,” all the way to “This is a procedure invented by women to keep man down.” The really strong reaction came from a Catholic guy who had a vasectomy and is mad because he’s going to hell for cutting the Catholic-making pipeline off.
I was surprised I was getting any sort of negative reaction. All of the men I’ve spoken to about it say it’s no big deal. They want to tell you about it, but it isn’t a big deal. Ladies, here’s the part you need to understand: vasectomies are our pregnancy. Every woman wants to discuss their pregnancy; every man wants to discuss their vasectomy. I know it’s not the same thing. We don’t have anything else. We don’t have duckbills poked into us every year. Our doctors don’t even get close to us. I see my physician once a year. He shakes my hand, looks at my tongue, checks my lungs, and kicks me out. The closest he’s ever gotten to me is when he checked my ears.
In the Urologist’s waiting room, as I handed in my insurance paperwork, I notice the nurse looking around behind me. She asks if I’m alone. I tell her that I am. It’s then I notice every man in the room has a female chaperone. None of the men looked happy. The women; they were happy. My mother called to tell me she forced her first husband to get a vasectomy. His name was ‘Tom’ and so is my father. The first one is dead; we call him ‘Dead Tom’. It took Dead Tom two tranquilizers and five beers to get him into the Urologist.
When the Urologist was done playing with my Huevos Rancheros, which is Russian for ‘Stones of Many Pleasures’, we discussed the procedure. One of the topics was scaring. Apparently, some men are upset by the scar left on their seed bag. Who would be worried about a scar there? Have you seen testicles? It looks like our nuts were gift wrapped in leftover elbow skin. I’m not sure if I could find a scar there if I tried. I think I might like the scar. I may need to prove I had the snip one day.
The good news is I passed the consult. My vas deferens (the swim lane between the huevos and the prostate) is “taunt like a guitar string.” I also have big balls, which I’ve been telling people for years, but I don’t think they believed me.
Noah Baird is the author of Donations to Clarity.