The Vasectomy March

In the Court of KJ, surgical recovery isn’t about rest. It’s about performance.

Most men spend the day after a vasectomy on the sofa with a bag of frozen peas and their dignity intact. KJ, however, decided this was the perfect moment to lead the family on a mission to investigate a potential new palace up the street.

Despite the fact that he was essentially walking like a man with a live grenade between his legs, he donned the green jumper and the white shorts and set off at brisk pace.

But he wasn’t just walking; he was hobbling in a martyred fashion.

Every few yards came a loud, annoyed grunt. He was hunched over, moving with the dramatic tension of a man who had just survived a battlefield amputation.

My Nana, his own mother, who had moved in to help with new-born baby Ivan, was walking behind him watching this display of her shy son suffering with increasing confusion.

She asked him once if he was alright. He huffed. She asked him again if he needed to sit down and he bleated. On the third time of questioning, KJ reached his limit, spun around, and bellowed at his own mother:

“I HAVE HAD A VASECTOMY!”

Nana was silenced. The street was silenced. We were all silenced.

And he still thinks I’m the “terrible daughter.”

© 2026 Jennifer Clair Robson AKA The Terrible Daughter. All rights reserved.