I saw a picture today on the blog of another Dad I follow that made me laugh; wince; smile ruefully and then cross my legs, all in the space of seconds. It is a rare thing that can encapsulate all of these emotions at one time, but this did.
It is a real life merit badge for those of us that have ‘taken one for the team’, and ensured that we can no longer over-populate this ever shrinking planet of ours. Don’t get me wrong, population density of the planet was not the reason for this drastic decision. Over-population of our house, however, was a major factor. Our house is a 3 bed semi-detached Victorian cottage, quaint, previously tranquil, and a bit kooky. I loved this place from the first time we saw it 7, 8 or 9 years ago.
Incidentally have you noticed that the older you get, the less sure about dates you are. I must have foreseen this coming, as I had our wedding date engraved on the inside of my wedding ring. Anytime I am unsure, I just slip it off, take a sneaky peek, and another night on the couch is avoided. Anyway I digress (another thing that seems to be happening more and more), the house always seemed the right size until No3, Mate, turned up.
At the moment Dawn has her own room at the end of the hall. Initially this was to spare her all the tears and tantrums from No2 baby Katy, but since she turned 15 and has discovered boys, it is to spare us from all her tears and tantrums. Katy and Mate share the bedroom next to ours, which has resulted in a fair set of adventures in itself, and a subject worthy of its own blog. Our room is just one thin wall away, so no more TV in bed, well actually no more anything in bed. Any declaration of our love happens downstairs, lest we wake the little buggers up.
Don’t be too impressed by our al dente approach to matrimonials, the loudest thing is normally me falling over trying to get my trousers off before removing my trainers. Foreplay is taking my socks off first, or whispering sweet nothings like “they must be asleep by now”, or “Ok, whose turn is it?” Another plus point of being downstairs is that you are only 4 steps from the fridge for the post-match beer (and a glass of wine for the laydee), but on the downside we have laminate floors, so it can be a bit tough on the old knees.
So the decision was made, we didn’t want to move, so I was packed off to be neutered. Scant regard was given to my feelings on this matter, once her mind is made up there is never any turning back (unless she has forgotten her mobile, then we always have to turn back). So callous and cavalier was her treatment of me that I was actually grateful that she had not made an appointment with a Vet for the procedure. I could just imagine me in a room of tight lipped, steadfast women holding onto leashes, with their husbands on the other end, lolling on the floor with hound-dog expressions.
So off I went to the pre-procedure appointment, where they sit you down and try to talk you out of it and explain how serious it is. I mean honestly, you are going to grab hold of my Crown Jewels, and then attack them with either a sharp knife or some laser-burny-thingy, and you feel the need to tell me it’s serious – no shit Sherlock. I had come prepared with a video clip on my phone of the kids hitting each other with plastic golf clubs from a BBQ brawl to convince him. When he still looked dubious, I explained that my Wife was from Irish-Catholic stock, and that sealed the deal.
I had to return in 2 weeks, with someone to drive me home, and 2 pairs of clean and tight fitted boxer shorts. That was the one thing that stood out, 2 pairs of pants, why? Was there going to be so much blood that the second pair would be needed to soak it all up, lest the next victim (I mean patient) would be scared off? I just could not figure it out.
photo by Kris Fulgham
V-day arrived, 6th January to be precise, and by God it was cold that winter. Now I started to panic. As all men know the cold is never kind to us, and here I was about to get my tackle out for an audience, and it was bloody freezing. Do I walk into the room all cold and diminished, or do I involve myself in a bit of self-manipulation just before hand (boom boom) just to give a good showing? What if I went too far though, would it be sending the wrong signals to the Doctor? I must have been insane to be worrying about such an inconsequential thing, but it must have been self-denial’s way of keeping me off the real issue of becoming a semi-eunuch. I solved the dilemma by making sure the heating in the car was on full blast all the way there. That just meant that I looked really red cheeked and embarrassed by the time I got there, but that seemed to be the lesser of two evils.
I’m not sure I can bring myself to describe the operation (which you are awake for) in any detail. I just don’t think it would be fair to all those who are going to follow in my pantsteps, but needless to say it is not something I would ever like to repeat. There was a lot of fumbling and tugging, but without the usual outcome, in fact the exact opposite.
The Wife drove me home, and to her credit she did well to hide the “No balls now, we’ll just see who’s boss” look. I was told I had to stay in bed for two days, wearing the two pairs of pants, and not drive or lift anything. I managed to substitute upstairs for downstairs (no X-Box or DVD upstairs), and turn two days into four. The only plus point was being able to shout for anything I needed. Every time I asked for a beer, my wife would be all “are you sure that is wise?” to which I would reply “I became a gelding so you could stay in this house, the least I deserve is a beer!”
It was a tender couple of weeks to say the least, with me walking like John Wayne behind a smirking Wife every time we went to Tesco’s. Another thing they had warned me about was that there might be some blood left in the tubes. A piece of information I had stored in the furthest reaches of my mind, until when following the Doctor’s orders, and emptying said tubes, everything had turned a day-glo pink! A memory, I am sure, that will haunt me till my grave.
I recovered eventually, and I don’t care what any Doctor tells you, it does feel a bit different now, not as full up I guess. So I guess the moral of this story is, buy a big house from the off, as you never know what life is going to throw at you, or snip off you!
I must thank Russ, who posted the badge on the blog site he runs with his mate Jasper, “Dads who mock the world”.
You can find it at http://dadswhomocktheworld.blogspot.com well worth a read. Credit where credits due as my Dad always says.
::Goonerjamie also writes at The Life and Times of a Househusband::
