So Much For Telling My Kids the Truth

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Me: “How many teachers are pregnant at your school?”

Xavier: “Four.”

Me: “Geez…sounds like there’s something in the water.”

Xavier: “Sounds like a lot of teachers are having unprotected sex.”

Me: …..

In Case You Thought Enemas Were The Most Embarrassing Purchase

Me: Ryan. Ryan. Ryan. Ryan. Ryan.

Ryan: Yes?

Me: (Sending picture.)

Ryan: What…the…fuck…

Me: Right!? This is a thing now?

Ryan: What aisle are you in, and why?  Do you have something to tell me?

Me: I’m buying tampons, and these were right there.  You know…for people who are blaming faulty sperm for why they still have to buy tampons.  Can we discuss the name “Pre-Seed”!?

Ryan: Can we discuss that for just $44.99 and a handjob I can get 2,000 CVS points!?

Me: Halvsies?

Ryan: Done!

George Lucas…Trying To Undo All The Boners He Created With Leia’s Gold Bikini

(Yet another late night text conversation with Ryan that goes awry.)

Ryan: Morgan just informed me that she’s never having children, because Star Wars 3 freaked her out.

Me: She should be more freaked out about how awful that movie was, but maybe, as a father, that’s an enviable position for you to be in.  “That’s right, Morgan…SEX KILLS.”

Ryan: It’ll be like when C. Everett Koop said it, and ruined the sex lives of all American teenagers throughout the 80’s.  Never trust a man with a beard, but no mustache.  It’s unnatural.

Me: Yes, the 80’s…where we all kept it in our pants for fear of death and I owned two pairs of jelly shoes.

Ryan: Nice. Parachute cargo pants. I owned three pairs in different colors.

Me: OMG.  I’m dating you.

Ryan: Oh, but I looked goooooooooooood.

Me: I think we just found the real reason you couldn’t lose your virginity in the 80’s.

 

 

Maybe Don’t Piss Off A Hormonal Woman Carrying A Scalpel.

Despite generally hating most of his interns and residents, Drew is exceedingly fond of one of his fellows, because she kicks ass and takes absolutely none of his shit.  She and her husband have been having trouble getting pregnant, so Drew was giving her, her prescribed hormone injections at work, so she didn’t have to stab herself.

Me: “Hey, how’s your fellow?”

Drew: “Finally pregnant, actually.”

Me: “Ahhh, that’s awesome!”

Drew: “Since I got her pregnant, I told her I should have naming rights.”

Me: “I think it’s best that you refrain from saying ‘I got her pregnant’, and you’d probably just name that poor baby after yourself.”

Drew: “I would not.  I told her she should name it something culturally appropriate.”

Me: “What do you name a baby that’s half Chinese and half Indian?”

Drew: “Nepal.”

Me: “Well…enjoy sensitivity training.”

Same Egg, Dude…Same Egg.

Just over a decade ago, in the midst of a routine ultrasound with my second pregnancy, I had a perfectly lovely woman inform me that I was, in fact, five months pregnant with twins. I would love to tell you that I cried grateful tears and said something poetic and earth shatteringly poignant, perhaps about the unexpected blessings that the universe had bestowed upon me and my, evidently, fruitful womb…but, no. Instead, I looked her dead in the eye and called her a “fucking liar”. Classy under pressure…that’s me.

Fast forward a bit, and I have the least identical, identical twins on Earth.  Seriously, they suck at it.  In utero, one was content to stretch, roll, and chill, and the other one spent all day and night kicking the shit out of me AND his brother, doing what I can only assume, was a fabulous impression of Elaine Benes dancing.  Even at birth, they couldn’t agree on an exit strategy, and they threw open separate hatches to escape the mother ship.

They don’t like the same food, clothing, music, games, or…anything.  The only thing they consistently agree on, is ways to piss off their older sister.  There…they’ve got their shit together.

Because of this, I have raised them as individuals from the onset.  They were never dressed alike or treated “equally”.  First, because it would disrespect them as unique human beings, capable of great individuality…but, mostly just because I find the notion of clones fucking creepy.  Perhaps that is why one of them just doesn’t seem to always get it, and I’ll let you guess which one.

Exhibit A:

Liam: “Xavier told me I look like a donkey’s butt.”

Me: “I’ll bet that hurt your feelings.  What did you say to him, when he said that to you?”

Liam: “I reminded him that we’re identical twins.”

Exhibit B:

Xavier: “It’s not fair. Girls get to be beautiful, and boys are just…ugh.”

Liam: “Xavier…we’re identical twins, and I’m ADORRRRABLE.”

Exhibit C:

Xavier: “Why does she (camp counselor) always call me Liam!?”

Liam: *facepalm*

Exhibit D: (During a RARE moment when they were wearing the same dress shirt, for their First Communion.)

Xavier: “How does this look on me, do I look okay?”

Liam: (Throwing up his hands, gesturing to himself, with an expression of absolute “DUH!”)

Megly McMcerson, Freelance Obstetrician

Jenny: I swear to you that this baby is totally falling out of me.

Me: It always feels like that the last couple of weeks. It’s normal.

Jenny: (sideways glance) How much money would I have to pay you to look and make sure there isn’t a hand or something hanging out?

Me: Oh, dude, I’d totally do that for free…but I want a favor.

Jenny: You just want permission to put this on your blog, don’t you?

Me: (Smiling)

Jenny: (Lifting dress) I liked you so much more before you started fucking writing again.

You get what you paid for…pregnant.

So there I am at the local 99-Cent Superstore, buying gift bags (because, judging from the $5 that Target sells them for, those paper fuckers are actually made of gold), when I glance up at the checkout, expecting to see some gum and mints, when I see these little gems.

Now, excusing the fact that, apparently, if you’re a cheap skate, all your impulse purchases will fall under the “gettin’ some” variety, I’d like to say that, should you purchase your condoms at the dollar store, even THEY know that you should just go ahead and spend the extra buck and grab a pregnancy test while you’re at it.

I think naming your cut-rate prophylactics “Fantasy” is probably appropriate, because you’re living in one if you think these suckers have any chance of working.  Maybe that’s why they’ve conveniently placed a box of Rinso, in case you want to make a last ditch effort to prevent the birth of a discount baby.

Now, I’ve carried and birthed three children, and I have always been HIGHLY skeptical about these shows (always on some TLC-like channel) that reportedly tell the stories of women who didn’t know they were pregnant until a fully grown human baby head emerged from their vagina, but somehow, if this ever DOES really happen, I’m guessing that those forty weeks of denial started with a failed dollar store pregnancy test.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to call my local health department. The mystery of increased STD rates in Arizona?  I’ve just solved it.