Great Balls of Fire!

I think my eggs are about to expire. I'm not talking about the EggLand's Best in my fridge—no I'm talking about the three or four left in my ovaries that are screaming at me to be fertilized. Most women call it their biological clock ticking. I have to disagree. I don't hear ticking I hear those little suckers begging, pleading, and yes, sometimes screaming to couple with a sperm and create life. I have been ignoring their insane request for quite some time now. I drown out their little voices by rationally explaining to them that I already have two perfectly good children who, by the way, have been out of diapers for a very long time. What kind of dumb ass gets pregnant after age forty anyway, I ask myself? Hell, I'll be going through the change in about ten more years. All the more reason for you to copulate, my eggs yell at me. 

I brought this up with my husband a few days ago. Usually he breaks into his song and dance routine about: being pregnant, morning sickness, weight gain, swollen ankles, mood swings, hemorrhoids, labor, newborn, crib, changing table, bottles, breast pumps, sleep deprivation, diapers—well, you get the gist. All of that is true, but I think the real reason may lie in the fact that he had a vasectomy nine years ago. It was the mother of all vasectomies, too. They snipped, clipped, trimmed, roped, tied and cauterized his poor vas deferens into oblivion. His balls were actually smoking at one point. I know because I was there. Call me crazy, but if your husband's balls are ever on fire there is no chance he will go anywhere near a dick doctor ever again! 

So—I went a different route with my questioning. Isn't there a way to retrieve your sperm without reversing the vasectomy, I asked coyly? I'm thinking, really, it's the 21st century, surely they have the technology. There must be a way of sucking those little guys and gals out of there without setting anything ablaze. His reaction surprised me—no song and dance, just a thoughtful moment and a smile. A smile! There may be a glimmer of hope for my eggs after all! Of course this is all just a pipe dream. We should have thought more carefully about our decision to have one of us fixed. Every year after the first five, my husband's sperm began to die, which means that for the last four years his sperm count has decreased from billions and billions to just billions. The sperm also loses quality. Loses quality—that's all I need. My shriveled up egg and his low quality sperm and we'd wind up with Spongebob Squarepants for an offspring. There is the chance, however, that we could wind up with a perfect child. We've done it twice already. That's what my eggs say when they're not yelling at me anyway. 

So—my biological clock sounds more like an ambulance siren or an air horn than a quiet ticking, which is pretty hard to ignore sometimes. I'm starting to have a better understanding of women who have kids graduating from high school and a babe in arms. I used to think they were crazy. It's not craziness that drove them to start all over, it was the damned ambulance siren blaring away in their head at ungodly hours of the night that they just wanted to silence! A moment of insomnia silences the siren, and nine months later the wailing really starts. Lucky for me it's going to take forethought, planning, and surgical procedure if I want to get pregnant again, but try telling that to my eggs that are about to expire!