He Got a Vasectomy, I Got a Dog
(Or what my husband affectionately titled, “Snip-Snip, Yip-Yip”)
*From the Unpublished Archives, 2019
My husband and I were walking one of our dogs, the little one, the one we call Mine. Even though both dogs are ours, the border collie mix, Benny, is more his than mine, and Addie, is more mine than his. She’s a black Maltese Poodle mix. Over the years Addie and I have grown to have a lot in common: we’re slow eaters, we love naps, we have weak bladders and chronic low back pain—she responds well to acupuncture, me, less so.
We ran into a neighbor who asked Addie’s age. My husband looked at me uncertain and then guessed, “Nine?” He’s better with dates than I am so I simply nodded in agreement.
We continued our walk and I had a strange thought, I could have a nine-year-old child right now. The thought didn’t come with a preference—not immediately. I wasn’t wishing I had a child instead of a dog, or relieved I had a dog instead of a child, I was just noting the impact a decision I’d made almost a decade earlier had had on my life. I could be the mother of a 4th grader right now, and I’m not.
I met Mark on match.com. He was a handsome single dad who loved “good grammar and sweaty sex.” In other words, a perfect match for me. I brought two boys into the relationship from my first marriage, ages six and ten, and he brought one, twelve. Unlike me, Mark was resolved on the issue of children; he didn’t want to have any more.
In my dating life I’d been flexible about the “child issue” believing I was happy to have another if my future allowed for it, but also happy not to push my luck. Yet in the face of Mark’s declaration, something inside me torqued. It was far easier to say I didn’t need another child than it was to make peace with omitting the possibility altogether. The latter required a level of letting go I hadn’t done yet. I’d long ago donated the boys’ old baby clothes to GoodWill, but I held onto a cute snow suit neither of them wore—just in case.
When we met, Mark was approaching forty. He wanted to reserve our fifties for us. For traveling, for riding motorcycles, for SCUBA and fly fishing, and maybe having unplanned sex in the middle of the afternoon on a Tuesday. All things that appealed to me. After all, I had my first child at twenty three years old. While others my age played and pursued careers, I pursued the one thing I wanted most—to be a mother.
Mark wasn’t the only one who wanted more than parenthood in our fifties, I did too. I was a mother and school teacher caring for children day and night, often at the expense of my own well-being. I wanted to take better care of myself. I wanted to write more. It was true that motherhood had inspired much of my writing, but it was also true that both endeavors drew from the same well, and no amount of love for my family would change the fact that my resources were finite. I knew this firsthand; I still bore residual guilt for my limitations during the years I spent as a single mother.
So despite Mark’s decisiveness about not having any more babies, his presence in my life amplified my desire to have another one.
I don’t think I was aware of it at the time, but my inner judge had opinions about my future, too. She categorized having another child as indulgent and illogical. For some reason, probably linked to the criticism I received when I was first pregnant—I was broke and unmarried—my inner judge believed the responsible thing to do was to put an end to baby making. Focus on the children you already have, she’d say. Indeed, Mark and I had our hands full. Our blended family dynamic was as blended as a handful of marbles in a glass of water. It was wise to devote my energy to our family as it currently existed.
And yet I never quite made peace with letting go of the option to have another child. I spent many nights with my muddled feelings until an irony came to light. It wasn’t just another child part of me still wanted, it was that I loved Mark so much I wanted his child, our child. I imagined our infant in his arms and the way he’d nuzzle his nose into the tuft of hair on the top of her warm scalp. I could picture the happy tears in his eyes when his gaze landed on her in my arms nursing, and the way her little fist squeezed one of my stray curls while she suckled. I wanted to know how our genes would mix. Mark was one of those people who could pick up any instrument and play it well. He could even sing. Would our child have his talents, his brown eyes, his penchant for ridiculous puns? So despite Mark’s decisiveness about not having any more babies, his presence in my life amplified my desire to have another one.
After two years together and innumerable discussions on the subject of children, Mark and I agreed he would get a vasectomy. He went for a consult. The urologist was a stunning woman of Persian descent. I know this because he described her striking face, long black locks, and olive skin over dinner. He didn’t tell me about her because she was beautiful—he might have kept that to himself—but rather to poke fun at himself. Thanks to the power of Darwin’s sexual selection, Mark couldn’t squelch the urge to impress her. But instead of fanning out iridescent tail feathers and shaking them about, he had to drop trou and feature what was arguably a man’s least attractive part, his scrotum. I laughed out loud.
A few weeks later Mark had his vasectomy. I don’t know the details, but I imagined his shaved scrotal sac, a statuesque Amal Clooney doppelgänger, an injection needle, and a series of surgical instruments on a metal tray, at least one of which would go “snip.” At home he described with self-deprecating specificity how he’d embarrassed himself trying to impress her with a rambling geo-political analysis of the Middle East as she went about her business with his, well, business. So Mark was sterilized and humbled, with among other things, a sore ego.
For two days he sat up in the loft on bags of frozen peas, binge-watching Breaking Bad, intermittently groaning as he adjusted himself on the couch. I kept the peas cold and was liberal with feel-better kisses. But I also had my own pain. There was an emotional sting to the surgery that frozen vegetables couldn’t numb. His vasectomy was permanent. Never again would I hold a baby in my womb and feel the flutter of eager feet. That part of my life was over.
In a family of five, I was the sole estrogen-rich member—even Benny (the border collie) was male and prone to farting.
I started fantasizing about a puppy. I’d never had a little dog, always medium-sized mutts. This time I wanted to go full-Paris Hilton, a doting female lap dog with pink collar who maybe even wore sweaters. In a family of five, I was the sole estrogen-rich member—even Benny (the border collie) was male and prone to farting.
I was already on my way to find a puppy when I called Mark and asked how he felt about me getting one. The call was less about soliciting permission and more about giving him a heads up, but ultimately I did neither. He said he was open to another dog—assuming as most people would, that we’d have future discussions about it—and I neglected to mention my whereabouts or that my mind was made up.
I fell in love with Addie the second I spotted her bouncing on her hind legs, reaching her nose out of a topless plexiglass cubicle surrounded by King Charles Cavalier pups. Unlike them, she was a black fluffball with white eyebrows and a white butt, so small she could fit in an oven mitt. Her yelp was high-pitched and irresistible. I lifted her up and brought her to my chest. She was disarming, as puppies often are. A few hours later when I set her in Mark’s arms he was unprepared, but in love. As fathers often are.
Nine years later, here’s what I can tell you about Addie:
She watches me move about the house until I settle in somewhere and then barks until I help her onto my lap. She likes when I cradle her in my arms like a baby, pink belly up. She drinks out of my water glass and would drink my coffee if I let her. She still has the occasional potty accident in the house. She whistles out of her nose when she naps. She wakes up with bedhead. She spins around in circles when she’s excited, mostly after she poops and when someone arrives home. She barks for treats and doesn’t like taking no for an answer. She hates when I brush her teeth. And when otherwise engaged, she ignores me when I call her. She’s a perpetual toddler without the convenience of Pampers pull-ups.
A few nights ago I lay in bed, Mark spooning me, me spooning Addie, Benny at our feet, and Mark mentioned that sometimes he feels sad we didn’t have a child together.
“You’ve never told me that before,” I said.
He paused, then added, “But could you imagine?!”
This last comment wasn’t new. We loved spending time with friend’s little ones, with nieces and nephews, but afterward we’d talk about how crazy it would have been and how glad we were that we didn’t have another child. “No, I can’t imagine,” I always agreed. But that night it occurred to me that the more honest answer would have been, “I won’t imagine.” I didn’t want to imagine the child we didn’t have because relief was easier to feel than sadness, and the truth was that I felt plenty of both.
That night when Mark said, “Could you imagine?!” I took a moment and then said, “Actually, I can.”
You’re such a great writer.
Your husband is a champ for having such a positive attitude about his vasectomy! More guys should consider this service.♥️
Thank you for the read! xo