Part 1: Big V?

It was a little past noon one hot day this summer. John just got back from helping a family in our small group move.

He waltzed through the door and boldly announced "I'm thinking of having a vasectomy". Just like that. Completely out of the blue.

I was shocked and extremely dismayed.

Nevermind, I had always thought I would be done at 3 kids. Three was just my magic number. I came from a family of 3 kids. People would sometimes question this number saying "But that is an odd number. Someone is always going to be left out at Disneyland." And you know, we always go to Disneyland. I would just say, "Ah, they can just invite a friend".

After Ollie was born, it was too sad to think of him being my last. So, I just thought, maybe one day I might have another. But I really did think we were done. And then when Ollie was a few months old, John started talking about having another baby. I kind of laughed and went along with it. I didn't really think he was serious. But he kept bringing it up. And after a while, he kind of planted a little seed in my head that maybe one day, that could happen. He kind of got my hopes up.

Hence the disappointment on my part when he told me we were done. Apparently the men in our small group were nudging him in that direction. I was a bit disgruntled and decided that these Christian men were having a bad influence on my husband;)

John's reasoning? We were in over our heads with our 3 boys and could not possibly add another to the mix.

It was hard to argue with that, since for the past couple of weeks I had been calling him every day from work, begging him to get home as soon as possible. Ollie was in the middle of another teething episode and was shrieking all day until my nerves were fried. So I told John, "Maybe in a year or two things will settle down..." A vasectomy sounded so sinister. So final.

I did not beg or whine, like I normally would. Well, maybe I did for a few minutes. Then I stopped. I bit my tongue and prayed about it. And stopped calling him at work, begging him to get home. I knew that if I raised a fuss, John would just dig in his heels and get even more stubborn. Don't be deceived by my husband's easy-going demeanor. He can be one very stubborn guy when pushed.

For the next month or so, I really did my part. I warned him of any possibility of getting pregnant. Oddly enough, he did not seem overly concerned. Go figure.

In September, I had some suspicious symptoms, so I took a cheapo dollar store test. It came back negative. I was not too concerned. I had just finished nursing Ollie 2 weeks earlier, and so I was getting accustomed to being late. So, I did not question the stick.

That is, until a week and a half later, I was gagging on my scrambled eggs. I have eggs almost every morning, and I never gag on them unless pregnant.

I snuck off to my room and took another test. Within moments the second line turned purple.

And I was shocked. And a bit shaken.

How was John going to react?