On the way to the hospital, my husband said “You have to wait on me hand and foot when I get home.”
“Oh really?” I replied.
“Yes. And you have to bake me cookies and serve them to me on a platter! Look! It shows you right here in the vasectomy handbook.”
Oh, how I laughed, because that? Was hilarious.
Whenever we’d talk about The Vasectomy, he would tell me about his fears. I would listen, then ever so gently remind him about the pain that I endured, three times over, to give him the children he loves so much. (Without an epidural and HELLO? I tore down there and had stitches.)
When he went in on Thursday, I knew he was scared, but when I’d ask him, he’d say “I’m ok, what you went through was SO MUCH WORSE.”
He was being sincere, I know he was, but I couldn’t help but feel like a jerk. Yeah, what I went through was worse but it was unfair of me to diminish what he would be going through just because “MINE HURT WORSE, MAN.”
My husband is admittedly a baby when he’s sick or in any amount of pain and yeah, it’s annoying, but there’s something about seeing him laying there with a bag of frozen peas on his lap that makes me want to take care of him and feel sorry for him and get him whatever his little heart desires. I LOVE that he did this for us, I love that he’s “taking it like a man” (whatever the hell that means) and I love that every time he hurts, he chants “My wife gave birth, my wife gave birth, THIS IS NOTHING, my wife gave birth.”
It kinda makes me want to jump his bones. Except, I am pretty sure that if I did that right now, I may kill him.
So, instead, I do nice things, like go to Barnes and Noble to buy him the latest copy of Shotgun News, let him control the remote, wake up every 2 hours to make sure he’s comfortable. But most importantly?
I bake him some cookies.