Recently I've been thinking a lot about my testicles.

Partially because, like most men, I think about my bits quite often - several times a day wouldn't be an exaggeration. The standard medical advice to 'check your testicles monthly' is laughable. I would guess most men do it on a daily basis. Yep! - fumble fumble - still there.

Partially I've been thinking about them because of this I punted up as a reply to a post about how 'easy' men have things over at Chicago Peggy's blog, :

'On the other hand we do have external genitalia which, I have discovered, are not compatible with child care. Especially if the children are very young and don't posses external genitalia of their own. Several times up at nursery or play group, where I am usually the only male over 4 years old, I have been whacked in the goolies by small children. I stifle a curse. My eyes water. The mums look patronising and tell me that child birth was much worse. Once! One day of mindboggling agony then that's it. Men? We get wellied in the balls by the little buggers at least once a day, every day, for years! No wonder most men run back to the workplace as soon as they get the opportunity.

My testicles used to be round...'

This started me thinking about why it is 'funny', by which I mean comedically acceptable, to have characters kicked in the balls. What was it that made a (well-timed) boot in the nads something to laugh at but a (well-timed) punch in the boobs not. I didn't come to any conclusions but it just made me wonder.

But mostly I've been thinking about my wedding tackle because I am going to have to seriously think about redefining my relationship with my testes.
I threatened to have a vasectomy after both of my kids were born. I never again wanted to put Merriol through what she went through having Holly. As I have said before it was the most horrible day of my life and I wouldn't have missed it for the world. If I had had the snip after Holly was born we would never have met Daisy and it's just impossible for me to conceive of a world without her in it now, so I can't help but think that there is another wonderful little girl or boy just waiting in the wings. I get so broody sometimes. No. Wrong. I'm broody most of the time. Like a rabid smoker who gives up and turns into a anti-smoking Nazi on steroids I have gone from a total child avoidance workshop on legs to full on Earth Daddy. If there is a baby anywhere within arms reach I have to have a cuddle. I alarm total strangers with babies in supermarkets by smiling at them. I love babies. I love kids. I would, if I could, (if I had money) have a dozen of them - at least. A whole Walton Mountain of kids (only poorer).

We can't afford to have another kid (especially if it turns out to be a boy and we can't recycle all the dresses I can't bare to part with because Holly and Daisy looked so cute in them). On the other hand I don't fancy the idea of total strangers poking sharp pointy things into my gonads and tying knots in things, no matter how many letters they have after their names and how many times they have done it before. Reports I have read about chronic postoperative pain and discomfort affecting 50% or so of men who have the snip don't fill me with much confidence either. Don't know what to do. I think I'll just end up giving my balls a stern talking too and leave it at that.
It might not be the best form of contraception available but it is cheap and painless.