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Rick Astley's "Never Gonna Give You Up" interrupted the Latin conversation I was having with my surgeon as he cut into my scrotum.

"What radio station is this?" I asked in English.

"I like to work to 80s rock. This song comes on the channel from time to time."

He had, as it turned out, two degrees in Latin before his medical degree. The nurse had warned me beforehand that there would be 80s music. She was oppressively chipper, going so far as to ask me whether I was excited before the procedure started. 

"No, I'm pretty nervous, actually. I'm having my balls cut open."

"You'll be fine. It's a great day to have your vas deferens tied!" (Beaming smile)

I debated whether or not I was going to post about this publicly. I am alone on the couch with tylenol, a stack of books, and all day to kill. I decided my vasectomy was worth recording for posterity. (Note--I can't make any more posterities now than the three I've already fathered.)

I wasn't even planning to be off work today. When I called to schedule the procedure back in July there was only one remaining date for the calendar year (which, given how much we'd already spent down on our deductible encouraged us to have this taken care of in 2020), and it was smack in the middle of a busy week with the symphony. I asked ahead of time whether I was going to be able to go to work the next day, and was assured that I was fine as long as it didn't involve any heavy lifting.

Then, once I was already on the table, the surgeon found out that I was a trumpet player.

"Nope. Absolutely not. You'll give yourself a scrotal hematoma, and you'll have to deal with that for three months. You aren't playing the trumpet for at least three days."

So I am at home on the couch instead of at work. I'm very glad I'm not at work. Playing the trumpet would have been very uncomfortable even without the hematoma risk. Instead I'll spend the day with my three boys. Three, and that's final.

James is busy today looking for his missing Professor Flitwick LEGO figure, and also preparing for his 8th Title Bowl. The Title Bowl is his imaginary version of the Super Bowl. He plays elaborate fake football games on his bedsheets with his set of 32 plastic football helmets and a LEGO football (and LEGO uprights.) He has a tournament, a championship trophy (The Ann Davis trophy, after his deceased great-grandmother), and a bank of obscure statistics that pertain only to his own imaginary league. He has no sense of how little everyone else in the family is interested in the fictional league compared to his own emotional investment. His greatest regret at this point is that he can't video tape the games that he plays during nap so that we can all watch the "highlights" together.

Owen has completed his best ever week of school. He got the equivalent of a GameBoy for his birthday, and he isn't allowed to play it until all of his school is done, and done well. We really debated whether we should do this or not, but it's a guaranteed hour of quiet every day--and it's a guarantee that he is hard at work at school as soon as he is up in the morning. 

Felix is now literate enough to write his own letters, and he arguably has the best handwriting (and maybe spelling) out of all three boys. He is, granted, pretty slow, but he makes all his letters from top to bottom and takes the time to make sure that everything is legible. He also wants Owen to be done with school as quickly as possible, because then he has the unspeakable pleasure of WATCHING Owen play video games. (So far this delicate balance is stable.) He wrote a letter to Ivy Hamway today (who is turning two) suggesting that she is old enough to be potty-trained. (He's kind of a hypocrite)

They have largely respected my space as I've camped out on the couch. (Felix was doing some jumping up and down next to me for a bit until J ushered him away) It is definitely good to be done making these boys. But we made three good ones.