Rhinovirus sucks

I've got a cold.  I've had the cold for the whole bloody week.

Did I take a day off work?

No.

We Scottish blokes don't wimp out so easily (unlike some of the kiwi girls and boys who depart at the slightest sign of a sniffle.  Although I must admit that Richard [of RBB] has struggled gamely on, nose dripping bravely)

Now my beloved has got the same infection.  So we're just lying about the house, both feeling miserable, and being just a tiny bit crabbit with each other.

One of the (many) things we argued discussed was the best way to bring up children.

We've always been open with our kids.  We didn't try to hide any important family news from them, and we tended to use proper names for Biological bits and pieces.
A penis was a penis, and a vagina was a vagina.
Good common-sense stuff we thought.

The Nuns didn't

On one of my daughter's first visit to the Sunday confirmation classes (I had been blackmailed into letting her go to these brainwashing sessions as I called them.  My beloved reminded me that I seemed keen enough to agree before we got married, and I reminded her that the priest had said  "Sign this contract, you damned heathen, so the seed of your loins might escape burning in eternal damnation and punishment, unlike your own polluted soul which will undoubtedly fry for all eternity and more"  OK, I exaggerate, but the point had been made, no contract, no wedding, and burning with love (and lust) I had signed.

So when my wee daughter had innocently used the V word to one of the Nuns, telling her that the reason for her not being able to sit still was an itching of the V----a , the poor old dear, being a bit deaf and unprepared for the use of this word, misheard it as The Virgin.

The resultant conversation was so full of misunderstandings, confusion and eventually outright threats of excommunication (a bit difficult, as the wee dear hadn't even had her first communion yet) that my beloved was called in for discussions.  I was not. The blame was obviously mine, as I was the bloody agent of Satan, as so charmingly referred to by Sister Agnes.

The same year, my beloved and I had a long, long talk about contraception.  We had a boy and a girl, both healthy, and our family felt complete. My beloved had suffered 3 miscarriages and a stillbirth (On Christmas Eve. Not a good day) and she had gone back to the Pill (even though she was a "good Catholic") but the side effects were a bit worrying, and the press was full of stories of strokes and heart attacks caused by the high-dose oestrogen Pill.
The alternatives were:

1. Condoms
2. Caps and Gels
3. Fallopian Tube Tying
4. Vasectomy
5. The Rhythm Method
6. Abstinence

1. No, too restrictive
2. No too messy
3. Possible
4. Possible
5. No.  The technical medical word used to describe practitioners of this method is "MOTHER"
6. Not only No, but Hell No.

She We decided to go for the vasectomy, as it was less intrusive an operation, and my beloved had been through a lot.  So, struggling with an inner voice which was screaming "Don't let the bitch take your balls" I agreed.  We told the kids of course. Explained the basic procedures, and that there would be no more brothers or sisters . They took it calmly, I think my wee boy was quite pleased that he wouldn't have to share his toys, but my daughter secretly wanted another sibling, so she would have a "real" doll to play with.

I had the vasectomy.  I am a wimp, and I demanded a General Anaesthetic.  I wasn't the pain, I could have handled the pain, it was the embarrassment factor.  I wanted to be out cold when other people were fiddling about with bits that only my beloved and me (when I had to scratch) were allowed to touch or feel.

On the way home (I was driving myself.  Not one of the cleverest decisions I have ever made) everything was fine, until I had to use the brake or clutch, then it felt like a 20lb sledgehammer was bouncing off the "sensitive bits"

Don't brake; or it feels like this

I had 3 days of work for recuperation, and everything went really well for the first two days, but on the third, my daughter, coming home excited from school, jumped into my lap. It was a 40lb sledgehammer this time. As I writhed in pain, my daughter turned (amplifying the agony) to my beloved who had just come in to see what all the fuss was about, and said in her innocent little voice.
"Mummy, why is Daddy sore?"
She continued, "I thought you said he had his balls removed?"

No Ball

Later that weekend, when everything had reduced to it's normal size, to my delight and my wife's annoyance (don't ask) we went out for a gentle walk around our small town.  I was puzzled by the number of people who gave me a friendly wave, or who stopped to ask how I was getting on.  I didn't know half of these people, what was going on?
After the second question regarding my health, spoken in an artificially shrill voice , I twigged.

"Have you told anyone else about Daddy's operation?" I asked my wee daughter, walking beside me holding my hand.
"Oh yes Daddy, everybody"
"And I did it for Show and Tell at school"

I mused for a few seconds, remembering what she had said when she jumped into my lap.  "What did you say?"
She frowned in concentration as she remembered.
 "I said that my Daddy was very brave" she said.  I smiled. How lovely.
Another pause as she recalled her exact words.
"And I told them how you'd been put to sleep to get your balls removed so you wouldn't trouble Mummy any more"
She gave me a huge smile and a hug, and I hugged and kissed her back.  "Was that right Daddy?" she asked.

"Oh yes dear" I said as we walked past another widely grinning bloke. "That's exactly right"