I love my children, I really do. All of them. But, seriously, four is enough and has been for quite a while. So tomorrow I take a stab, so to speak, at being sterile.
This little procedure (less than 30 minutes!) goes against everything I've ever held dear. From the very first I can remember, every waking moment has been spent keeping sharp, pointy objects away from the area above my knees and below my navel. It's been my raison d'etre. It's become a way of life, a creed, almost like a sixth sense.
And, yet, tomorrow I am actually paying someone - someone I have never met, mind you - to snip some wiring underneath there as though I were a faulty dashboard on an 18-year-old Volvo wagon.
Ouch! That's my blinker!
And then I will recuperate. Ohhhh will I recuperate. I plan to lie in one spot for as long as I can possibly get away with. I'll read books and watch movies and play on my laptop ... well, maybe not that. At some point I know I'll have to get up and become productive (though not reproductive!) again. There's only so long a woman who has been through labor four times is going to walk into the bedroom to see me lying prone with a bag of frozen peas on my pods.
I'm still not sure how to explain my prolonged convalescence to The Quartet, other than "It's Saturday, I'll get out of bed by dinner." Because it will be Friday ... and then, eventually, Sunday. I've had The Talk with C, but I haven't had The V Talk with him. There's no need to scare the boy just yet. I suppose I'll tell the kids that I just don't feel well.
Because I won't.
In fact, I'm not feeling so good now just thinking about it. A little nauseous, in fact. I think my vas deferens are twitching. I'd better go lie down ... just to get used to it.