Everybody out of the gene pool

Mrs. Potter was at least 165 years old when she told my wife Karen – after the birth of our 2nd child ( a girl ),

“Good. Now you have one of each. Get your tubes tied”.

I’m not comfortable with people talking to my wife about her tubes, first off.

Second, the same woman counselled Karen earlier to stop the flow of McLovin’ if I ever got out of line. Strike two for the cute old lady. Don’t mess with the McLovin’. I’m a simple man. Lasagna. Electronics. McLovin’. That’s how I roll.

Back of my hot wife, Yoda lady.

I remember every one of my children being born. Each dip and peak of Karen’s contraction monitor. Every shot of Demerol.  I remember when the doctor dropped the placenta on the floor as it slid from her hands. Good times.

I’m thinking about those moments, as I prepare to go to sleep tonight. I’m thinking that Karen will be coming home in a few short minutes with my Valium prescription.  Just 1 tablet. Just a few hours to feel what it’s like to live in Los Angeles.

I’m supposed to take it 1/2 hour before the procedure tomorrow. A procedure that involves the words “tubes”, “scalpels”, “razor”, “lasers” and “nuts” (my doctor’s word…not mine).  Words that should never be organized together in any phrase or sentence of any kind and spoken to a man. Sign language especially.

I’m supposed to become intimately acquainted with my vegetable arch-nemesis – Peas. Frozen peas, in particular.

I’m supposed to arrive with tight bicycle shorts – the kind I used to visit Karen wearing, in the first place some 20 plus years ago – the shorts that sort of started this whole chain of events in motion…

But I digress.

In about six weeks, I will be 40 years old. And sterile as a microwave repairman.

My genes, will cease to have the potential to circulate and mingle in Darwin’s primordial ooze.

All chromosomal bets will be off the table, as we send the three Amigos (Caleb, Abbey, and Evan) into the DNA world for better or for worse.

I am hoping my broad shoulders will be passed down…but not my receding hairline.

I’d like to see my laugh circulated through the ages. And maybe my penchants for Will Farrell movies and Little House on the Prairie re-runs.

I’m thinking that this is a weird time for me. The way I see it, I’m somewhere between “dad” and “grandpa”. And I’m okay with it all. No regrets. No insecurities. (Word to the wise though – don’t joke with your wife about wanting to have kids with your hot 2nd wife in the event your first wife passes away. That’s not good pre-vasectomy banter….fyi.)

I love my family…each of my kids are treasures to me. Unique precious stones that shine and glimmer differently in the same sunbeam. They are wonderful and puzzling mysteries that unravel and unfold before me daily. I am truly blessed.

So I guess I’m ready. I’m a little stoked actually about being 40. I kind of like being older than some of you. Sporting some grey hairs when I grow the beard out. I’m starting to feel like that guy in the Cialis ads in the Camaro that overheats in the desert. I got this. No worries. Slow and steady wins the race. (My plumbing works just fine by the way…until about 2:00 tomorrow afternoon anyways. Once Dr. Evil get’s his laser out who the blank knows…)

So when 185 pound 40 year old Michael meets 185 pound 18 year old Michael, there will be at least one distinct difference between the two, after tomorrow. I thought it would be a tougher decision, but it’s not in actuality. It’s almost a rite of passage, in a really weird way.  Not the kind you run out and get a tatoo over (what would you get inked to commemorate that?) but the kind that lets you know a brand new act of your life is about to start.

I thought 30 was awesome. I wish I knew at 30 what i know at 40. I have a feeling that trend just intensifies and goes exponentially logarithmic at 50 and beyond.

So my contribution to the Lydick gene pool ends here. As I think about the three children sleeping underneath this office below me – I couldn’t be prouder or more excited. Momma made some beautiful kids. They have her lips, and my eye lashes. (Lock your sons and daughters up boys and girls.) They’re as good as it could possibly get.

It’s not On Golden Pond in my head yet. And I have no desire to buy a red fast car or flirt with 20 year old girls. I like how I feel in my skin. I’m comfortable with the choices we’ve made to get to where we are. I’m excited about the plans God hasn’t revealed for us yet – and the clues he’s dropping for us in each of your lives as you live our your faith.

So pray for warm steady hands and non-generic Valium. It’s about to get real weird here shortly. Just Lasagna and electronics for a while, too. 😦

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