…in the waiting room for swimming lessons…

…talk turns to being “done.” As in not having any more kids. As in getting rid of baby stuff as your youngest outgrows it. I said I couldn’t imagine feeling that way. They looked at me as if I were crazy.

It’s not that I desire a dozen kids. It’s not that I think changing diapers and wiping bottoms or even teaching a child to read is particularly fun. It’s not that I want to be the center of the universe. It’s not that I crave the power or the responsibility of raising a human being from childhood to maturity. It’s not.

It’s that to me being “done” means declaring that I have no more room in my heart for another person. I’m out of love. The club is closed; the membership roster is full.

And it might also be that 8 pounds of the softest skin on earth curled and resting on my chest is the sweetest addiction.

So, naturally, talk turned to…vasectomies.

Apparently, there’s a waiting list here and men are scrambling to get on it. Sitting in a classroom is pretty low-impact, so the procedure (and the recovery) won’t cause them to miss much. After this school, most of these guys will be heading for Iraq or Afghanistan, and they won’t be able to do it there (and want to avoid any welcome home celebration surprises, I suppose).

“That’s not an option for you, is it?” one woman asked me.

I shook my head no, and said that even if it were, my husband would never do it. “Really?” someone else asked.

“My husband has a pretty low opinion of men who would have that done. He says if a woman doesn’t want to have kids, she should get herself fixed.”

“But the recovery is so much easier on a man,” she argued (obviously defending her own husband’s decision to do it).

I gave my best deer-in-the-headlights look. How could I explain that my husband would sooner have his testicles removed than kow-tow to the selfish demands of his wife? And it’s not that my husband thinks women should be popping out as many kids as possible. Trust me, he is much more willing than I to say: enough is enough, we’ve proved to God we’re open to life, let’s get on with our lives and do all those things that are difficult with little ones around…and while we’re getting rid of baby stuff, let’s get rid of maternity clothes and all those bigger sizes that my wife wears in between, and honey, if you’ve been holding off on cosmetic surgery until you’ve finished birthing babies, let’s go see the doctor…for you, honey, to make you feel better about yourself (but, do I get a say in the size and shape of any breast augmentation?)…and if you don’t think you need that, it’s fine by me, I love you no matter what.

My husband will be the first person to read this blog, and he’s going to kill me for that.

He does love me no matter what, but he initially fell in love with an eighteen year old who didn’t have stretch marks, spider veins or a droopy cleavage. He still sees that girl – thank goodness that love is blind – but he knows that I don’t.

So, Bill won’t be putting his name on the vasectomy list, even if it would put him closer to having a smokin’ hot wife, please, sweet baby Jesus in the manger (a joke for anyone who suffered through Talladega Nights). And even though he passes judgement (not moral judgement, rather cojones judgement) on men who have the procedure done, I don’t. It’s tough to argue in favor of retaining your fertility in an age that thinks having children is burdensome.

I’m grateful to have the Catholic Church to use as an excuse for indulging in the pleasure of a large family.

If you could spare a Hail Mary or two, please offer them up for my Dad who is in the hospital. Despite my Mom’s reassurances, I’m naturally anxious.

Apparently, my neighbor has gotten tired of her husband being home all the time and sent him off to play golf earlier this week. I haven’t seen him outside much during the day the last few days, so perhaps she’s had him doing other things as well.

We haven’t gotten to that point here, and I really doubt I ever would.

I kind of like this independently-wealthy lifestyle. We putter around…well, Bill putters around; I’m still slaving from sun-up to sun-down doing laundry, meals, prepping for school, working on setting up the school room, etc…so there’s puttering going on with perhaps one main job on the to-do list. On Wednesday, Bill mowed our small backyard. Having accomplished his one hour chore for the day, he was free to indulge in one of the very few types of foreign beer sold at the nearby Class VI confident that his paycheck would be directly deposited into his account twice each month as normal.

And even though I’m slaving, slaving I tell you, all day long, he’s there to fetch juice refills and supervise proper dietary rules regarding lunch time meals and give Petey high-fives for a successful trip to the potty…all so I can sit at the computer and blog work on school plans in peace and quiet.

Being an imperfect wife, there are still things about him that irritate me. But I think I have a daily time limit on how much this happens…maybe an hour a day after which my “annoyance meter” is maxed out and he just doesn’t bother me any more. So, six months ago that hour of irritation was concentrated in only two or three hours of contact, it is now diluted by sixteen or more hours of time, most of which are quite pleasant.

I especially appreciate his presence this week as we began swimming lessons for the kids. Three are in the first time slot and one is in the second time slot which would normally mean a half hour or so of waiting time for everybody and over an hour for Pete. As long as I bring snacks and some books, that really isn’t a big deal, but it’s been nice not having to deal with impatient children. I drive over with the three, Bill walks over a bit later with Pete and Fritz, I leave with four, and Bill walks Fritz home when he’s done. Very nice.

I can go to the grocery store at any old time. I can spend an hour in the basement doing laundry or sorting toys and school supplies while his attentive ear is on the main level of the house and he can check on the kids playing outside. I can take a shower with no interruptions. And if it weren’t oppressively hot, I could take a walk in the middle of the day when I opt to sleep in.

Yes, I could get used to this. In fact, I think I have. Thank goodness he starts next week off slowly – only three days of activities and two of them are half days. This will give me a chance to ease back into the real world: the one where money doesn’t just appear as if by magic in the bank account. The one where I haul five kids and a big belly shopping for groceries, or to the orthodontist, to to the pool for lessons.

I’m okay with this. I’d really like to win the lottery, but barring that improbability, I’ll happily embrace my former life as the Center of the Universe for five little children, even if that title comes with a host of other titles like Sole Juice Pourer, The Only One Capable of Cutting Pancakes, and Ultimate Solace for Injuries.