CHOP CHOP

When the Post it Note appeared on the fridge with the words ‘Book Vasectomy Clinic’ scrawled across it, I knew my baby making days were all but over.




It appeared my husband knew me better than I knew myself and even though at that point in time, i.e. three months pregnant with baby number 3, I had no intention of having a number four, he knew all it would take was a mere sighting of a cute baby and I’d be back on the newborn express.




See, babies are my crack.  One whiff, one sighting, one hold and I am hooked and need a more personal fix.  My husband was onto me, hence the post it note.




He had also done some logical thinking, damn him.  Going from a family of 5 to a family of 6 would mean more than adding a new name to the Medicare Card.  It would require a 7 seater car.  It would mean a four bedroom home (at the very least).  It would also mean that we would probably not retire until we were dead, (although to be honest, we are fairly prepared for that scenario anyway).




Are these reasons, which essentially are material based, valid enough to veto child number 4, 5 or even 6?  If you had caught me off guard in the post baby haze, three years down the track when the memories of vaginal tearing and sleep deprivation were conveniently forgotten, I’d have said, no, not a good enough reason. In the cold light of day however, knee deep in shitty nappies and having cleaned up my body weight in vomit, I’d probably quite happily snip the offending  sperm carrying tube myself.   So yes, I guess I’m saying three is the magic number for us.




It almost feels like three is the new two.  Most all of my friends have three children and, like us, they went back for more punishment bliss at that comfortable, fuss free time of their lives when their other children were basically self-sufficient.  And I can’t even say we had our third child because we wanted a child of a particular sex.  We already had a pigeon pair and they were/are good kids.  And then, perhaps just to teach us a lesson to mess with fate, we had the now Mr 4, the hurricane on two legs.  




This boy came out born ready.  He took no more than 2 hours to make his way out, 9 pounds and I didn’t even require a single stitch. This either means I was totally ‘one’ with my breathing during labour or, probably closer to the truth, I was just a total loose goose.  I digress, the fact is, this kid was jumping out of trees and breaking his wrists before he could tell me No.  And he tells me No A LOT. 




Do I still hanker for another addition?  Honestly no.  I love that my friends are having babies and I am getting to enjoy them in an ‘Aunty Bern’ capacity, i.e. I’m getting to give all the hugs, kisses and long holds and then sleep for 8 hours.  Sometimes 9.




In hindsight, that 20 minute trip to the clinic where the doctor pulled out his glorified soldering iron and burnt the pathways to fatherhood to render my husband infertile was both sad, yet necessary. 




Where did you draw the line?  Have you?


*Note - I had to google vasectomy to find a picture for this post.  What I have seen cannot be unseen.