None of this seems real yet. According to my handy dandy pregnancy app, our child is the size of a raspberry and is starting to transform from a reptile to an actual little human with lips and a nose and legs and stuff. All pretty terrifying, to be honest. Fortunately, we’re too busy with school, work and playing around with Periscope (every time I think I’m out, they pull me right back in) to really notice at the moment.
I think that I wanna kill a baby (not ours, silly!) for the first time. Rachel was at lunch with her coworker and three (Lord bless her) children, and one of them, at the tender age of 3, thought it was a bright idea to hit on my wife and mother of my child. He told her, and I quote, “Your boobies stand really tall like April from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.” TUH! The nerve! I better not see him in the streets (or carseat or whatever) when I come back to the states.
Our child isn’t even 20% created yet, and I’ve already given up on keeping him/her insulated from bad language and images. Like, how the hell is it even possible? Even if we don’t watch the least bit of TV (which I don’t, outside of sports and occasional documentaries), I listen to rap. And I think I’m gonna continue to listen to rap. We’re just going to accidentally damage our children mentally and/or emotionally and hope that we do the bulk of the damage before they form long term memories. I think that’s just how it goes.
Even with the little runt that hit on Rachel, his dad made a random comment about how April’s boobs, pictured above, were bigger than usual while watching the show. And they were. Look at those damn things. Innocent enough, until you realize that the small comment sent that child on a rampage, accosting and sexually harassing large breasted women. And unless a child is the spawn of Jesus and Mother Teresa, embarrassing moments like that are basically unavoidable. I’m going to be playing my music one day thinking my child is asleep, and one day he’ll blurt out that he “serves cocaine in some Reeboks” in the most public area possible and the strangers around us will naturally assume that we’re the worst parents on earth. What can you do?
Speaking of people saying gross things to my wife, every scummy male “friend” of Rachel’s who has been invisible since we got married magically came out of the woodwork when I leave to offer condolences and, more importantly, company. What a coincidence. Fortunately, she sees through this scheme as clearly as I do, so I’m not worried about anything, but I wish that they were at least better at being scumbags and potential homewreckers. They aren’t even good at their craft. She noticed that 97% of her homies stopped liking her Instragram pics after I started popping up in them. You know what they say: it’s real love when a woman sacrifices their Instagram likes for you. Rachel finally reached 100 likes on a picture, started dating me seriously, and saw her Instagram stock plummet like Enron. I hope I make that sacrifice worth it for her.