Heh. Right, so the whole family has been running on empty for about a week. I'm exhausted, and I don't know why. I think it's me fighting off the flu (and succeeding, dammit!), but today Lawnboy asked me if I thought I might be, you know, maybe, pregnant?
WHAT THE EFF?! Oh hell no. Lawnboy, have you blocked that trip we took to Dr. Snip? Because even though they weren't my vas deferens, I remember it. Don't get teste with me. (Oh god, I can't believe I just wrote that. It's staying, though. I love puns. Especially dorky ones like "teste.")
Well, this whole post is way more than you needed to know, so I think I'll just keep on going. Here's the deal, the secret behind that question: Dr. Snip told Lawnboy that he doesn't have a green light yet. Something went wrong with that surgery. And he might have to repeat the whole procedure.
If there's one thing that trying to get pregnant for two-and-a-half years taught me, that thing is timing. It's everything. And, since there are only a few live swimmers in any given "deposit" (I'm so sorry, there's no delicate way to put it, and please rest assured I'm blushing right now, prude that I am), we've been mostly careful since his surgery, so the odds are slim to none, so don't get your hopes up.
Although, there's a sick, sick part of me who would really enjoy having another baby in the house. Tiny Viking is not a little baby any more, and holding our friends' baby Sadie last weekend reminded me that I might have agreed to the vasectomy a little too soon. Not that we could afford another child. That's another post in itself, although I'm sure most of you can relate. However, two in daycare almost completely mitigate my salary, so perhaps it's not such a terrible accident after all. Perhaps I'm not hoping I'm fighting the flu. PERHAPS I REALLY AM PREGNANT!
Whoa, is that hormones? Was I just yelling at my audience?!? Time to get an EPT.