Wednesday, January 17, 2007

Vas Deferens. Not only the name of a British punk band (curious? Apparently they have a page at MySpace - I'll leave that research up to y'all), but also the term for a portion of the uh, male reproductive system. Those of you paying attention in sex ed. class in 9th grade, you already knew that. But have you ever seen one up close and personal?
Ha.
Guess what I did today?
That's right. Up close and Verrrrry Personal - this particular specimen of Vas belonged to none other than my Significant Other.

After debating the pros and cons of various birth control options (ha - WHAT options, exactly? ) we agreed that a vasectomy would be the way to go. And Hubby claims I wanted to make him suffer just the teeny-est bit. Which is unfair. I didn't really want him to suffer, I was just WAAAY over being the one on the hospital table, drapped in green cloth and told that I'd feel a "little tugging" (as two linebackers/doctors sawed at my body like I was an entire old growth forest).

So. Vasectomy as birth control. Right. "Everybody" says it is only mildly painful, a quick procedure. In fact, you can go here and read ALL about it. With excrutiating detail. And photos. In colour. And Significant One wishes to add that the painless part - yeah, not so much. Looks painful because it IS painful. What else did I learn? The Size of a Vas varies greatly from individual to individual, and might I also add that, while I had always visualized the Vas as a sort of spaghetti thingy (not that I spend my days visulaizing the Vas, umm, that would be, well, weird) it was closer to, say, elbow macaroni. Which probably makes you not want to eat pasta anytime soon.

But really, it was fascinating to watch the whole procedure take place and Hubby was exceptionally brave, especially in light of the fact that the ENTIRE team in the operating room was comprised of Women. Who were brandishing sharp things at his Wedding Tackle. Well, more than just brandishing, really, they were actually cutting out bits of his Wedding Tackle. While discussing eyebrow waxing. Seriously. I could not make this up if I tried. And then they take the little umm, bits, that they have removed and they place them in vials. Seperate vials, marked "left" and "right". Which all seemed very mysterious to me. I immediatley visualized The Vas Deferens Museum. Row upon row of gleaming glass vials with little, uh, bits, floating in crystal clear preservative, with, perhaps little name tags. (Oh god, maybe I DO visual the Vas...more than I realized).

Oh, and speaking of Wedding Tackle? Today is also our third wedding anniversary. That's right. To celebrate three years of marriage, I held my honey's hand while watching a team of women slice and dice his bits like a human Veg-o-matic. And then brought him home, propped him in bed and placed ice packs in strategic locations. Where he's to stay - for two more days.

Happy Anniversary, Sweetheart.

Friday, January 12, 2007



Only moments before the unfortunate demise of a pretty white flower.
The dreaded "E" word. Yes, I'm talking "exercise". You know, it just stresses me out. I'm already stressed out about the health of the kids (let's see, we've had vomiting, diarrhea, and now we appear to have green-snot-noses with a promise of sore throats on the horizon, all within the past three weeks). I'm stressed out about the fact that my toddler hates his preschool. I'm stressed that I can't keep up correspondence with all the friends and family I adore. I'm stressed about money and time and WILL MY BRAIN EVER RETURN??? I'm stressed that I'm stressing too much.

So, to have emails from various listservs pop up (undoubtedly in the wake of New Year resolutions) extolling the virtues of Exercise and suggesting Helpful Hints to Ease Into Exercise, well, it makes me stressy. And snappish.

Bloody hell, do I have to worry about THAT, too?

Sigh. I know. I know I need to get out there, get the bod moving, get back into action and all that rot. Got it. But when the ParentCenter email reads "Tip: Put your child into the stroller just before naptime and get going. By the time you come home, your child will probably be asleep, and you'll have had your fresh-air exercise for the day." I want to reach through the computer to that silly little author and rip her manicured fingertips off. (Come on, you KNOW she's freshly manicured).

Apparently other mothers have had the same reaction, because the author's tagline reads only "Babycenter Editorial Staff" . So, let's review, shall we? You want me to take my tired cranky twins and toss them in the stroller, then exhaust myself by going for a walk (I can't even imagine running, so I won't bother putting it down as an option), and when I return home I am to do , what, exactly, with the now sleeping-beauties? Leave them to nap in the garage? Perhaps cover them with a tarp out in the driveway until they rouse themselves? Park them beside a space heater on the front porch? Because I guarantee you, if you try to pull one of those limp, deeply sleeping bodies out of that stroller, a beastie will rise up, a screaming, squalling beastie, kicking and purple with rage that you have disturbed her sleep. And tho' you may rock her, and cuddle her and coddle her, offer her bottles and juice and a favorite stuffed kitty - THERE WILL BE NO MORE SLEEP FOR HER. SHE HAS HAD A NAP. SHE IS DONE.
And that means, no nap for Mama.
And just where do you think she inherited the screaming beastie from, hmmm?

I rest my case (and my ass). There will be no stroller exercise for me. Too stressful, don't you know.

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

Friends came calling!!!!!
Before you cringe, yes, the announcement that Real Live Adult Humans came to visit me IS worthy of at least four exclamation points. So, nyah.
The one thing I look forward to when Other Adults come for a visit is, well, Adult Conversation. No, no, not "Adult" conversation, you gutter-minds, I simply mean the linguistically and contextually mature and gratifying exchange of ideas, concepts and knowledge with friendly faces.

Also, the opportunity to indulge in scurrilous gossip.

So one wonders, then, how I managed, in a roomful of adults, to bring up the subject of poo. Am I sooooo saturated in Mommyhood - that world of spit-up, laundry, dishwashing, lullabies and yes, dammit, yes, POO - that it seeps out, unbidden at any and all opportunities? I'm trying to remember how it happened. I know we were discussing writing - dissertation writing, to be exact - and I suppose I provided the brilliantly insightful metaphor that SOMETIMES, when you're writing it all feels like you're producing, um, poo. Now, to mangle the metaphor further, I went on to point out that SOMETIMES you feel like the poo ought to be flushed immediately, because it is stinky and nasty and unredemable, while OTHER poo is lovely and useful and necessary, in order to make roses bloom and corn fields florish. Et Cetera, painful et cetera.

You see why I need more Adult Conversation in my life?
I'm just sayin'.
Thanks Heather, Dwayne, Shannon and Sam - and, uh, apologies for the Poo.

Monday, January 08, 2007

Caden says "this is Caden, working. On Crown Moulding".
Change. Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes. Somehow, I don't do well with change. Me, the girl who used to be able to load all of her personal belongings into her pickup truck and drive off into the sunset on a moment's notice. More or less. Now, it would take more than your standard Mayflower van-line to carry all my crap and the thought of driving - or sailing? - off into the sunset, while tempting on some fronts, will never happen because it would be profoundly irritating to have to create a whole new Schedule all over again. Yes, Schedule deserves to be capitalized. With three kids under the age of three, a Schedule is as close to Nirvana as we'll ever be - it's the equivalent of the Holy grail, and once found, it is not to be idly departed with, simply because, say, the cleaning persons have decided to arrive an hour later than agreed upon.

Which is ultimately at the root of my problem today. The Grail of our Schedule receives an irritating ding every week, when our cleaning persons and the babies' morning nap schedule collide, creating cranky babies, cranky me, and crank-rolls-downhill-so-the-toddler-is-pissy-now-too, thank-you very much. Added to our diarrhea and vomit-filled weekend, and you have a Monday morning that no expensive caffeine-filled tea can possibly make better. I know, because I am on cup number three, and everything still sucks.

I'm eyeing the pick-up truck as I write.