Giddy-up

So we finally get to the point where we are now ready to insert the Olympic swimmers, or at least the psychologically advanced swimmers.

Now for some or other reason, women in general insist on doing a serious spring clean down there whenever they have a gynae appointment or something similar. So out comes the Dove, three sponges, the pine gel, the windowlene, Mr Muscle....pretty much whatever can degrease the garage floor and the bikini trimmer for a final landscaping. I'm surprised she didn't glitter it!
Two hours later I load wifey into the car where she promptly grabs the stressball and starts manipulating the hell out of it.
At the bank Santa herds us into a little room and Kris is told to disrobe and get up onto the examination table. At this point I'm trying to find the stirrups which are pointedly absent. Having never been to a gynae (yeah, yeah, save your boos for someone who gives a.....), I'm pretty intrigued by the whole stirrups process, but apparently they're not needed for this little endeavour. So there we are, Kris on the table with her netheryeya covered by a quarter sheet - I think they had budget cuts - me paging through a two-year old copy of Hustler - I think they use the same room for deposits and withdrawals - and both of us nervous enough to generate enough kinetic energy to solve Eskom's current crisis.
Eventually Santa reappears with a bag full of goodies, including two straws of recently defrosted (do you think they use a microwave?) #3057 and one very shiny pair of duck lips. So while Santa gloves up, Kris grabs my hand and starts squeezing. It was at this moment that I decided not to be anywhere within grasping distance during the birthing procedure. The woman has steel clamps instead of hands! If I have three broken bones and severe bruising from the implanting procedure, I don't even want to know what she's going to do to me when she's in real pain!

The first step is the insertion of said duck lips (a medieval torture device if there ever was one) so that the sperm can be injected via a catheter (not to be confused with the one from the bladder!) directly into the cervix. This means the not-so-olympic, slightly cold dudes and dudettes have a lot less swimming to do, thus increasing the chances of one actually making it to the finish line. The next minute, Santa peers around the wife's raised knees and throws a "Do you wanna see?" my way. Being the inquisitive journalist type that I am, I can't give up the chance of having a birds eye view of the area I normally just feel my way around in (sorry Mom!). I finally manage to extricate myself from Kris' death grip to go and have a squizz.  I don't know if you've ever seen a cervix, but it basically looks like a short stumpy penis that's removed it's false teeth, sorta like the sandworms in the movie Dune. Apparently my exact words where something to the effect of "So that's what it looks like with the lights on!". Cue scornful glare.....

A few minutes later the procedure is done and Kris and I are alone in the deposit/withdrawal room, both slightly less nervous and slightly more hopeful that we are now finally on our way to becoming that statistic that most couples take for granted. You know, the one-car-2.4-kids kind of statistic......

PS. On the way home, the poor stressball finally gave in to all her manipulation, spewing white chalk all over my car.

Wonder what the Metro Cops would've said about this lot!!!