Mommy, Where Do Babies Come From?

The other day the fam and I were driving along when the boy dropped the bomb of all bombs.

No, not the bomb he dropped yesterday when he said: “Macy, do you smell something?”

Macy: “No, why?”

Grayson: “Cause I just farted and it’s horrible.”

No, not that bomb, although, that little interaction does illustrate the truth that girls are soooo much smarter than little dudes.

Here’s what I mean.

So, we’re driving along and it’s quiet, which means either there’s some pontification going on, or all holy hell is about to break loose.

This is when pontification reared its ugly head.

Grayson: “Mommy, are you going to have another baby?”

The Wife: “No honey, it’s not possible. I mean, your daddy and I feel that our family is complete with just Macy and you.”

Grayson: “No, I mean, just say you wanted another baby, you would have to re-marry someone, right?”

At that point the wife looks at me and I immediately go into “Look As Though Traffic Is Horrible And You’re Trying To Plow Your Way Through So You Don’t Have To Engage In Conversations With Your Children About Where Babies Come From” look.

Macy: “Grayson!!! Baby’s come from a seed in the mommy’s belly, silly!!”

Grayson: “Macy!! Shhhh. Seriously mommy, if you wanted another baby you’d re-marry someone, right?”

The Wife: “No honey, I would have another baby with your father, but we have decided that we don’t want to expand the family any further. We love Macy and you and our family is perfect!”

Macy: “Grayson, you’re so silly!!! Babies come from seeds in the mommy’s belly. They grow from there.”

Grayson: “Well how do the seeds get there?”

Macy: “I don’t know.”

Grayson: “Mommy?”

The Wife: “Have you been working on your spelling words today Grayson? Cause you have a review test on Friday!”

Grayson: “How does the seed for babies get into the mommy’s belly?”

At this point I’m pulling close to the guy driving in the next lane, motioning for him to roll down his window in the hopes I can sell him on letting me climb into his car for safety.

The Wife: “We’re not going to have anymore brothers or sisters for you kids to let’s rock-out to some Barenaked Ladies!!! Turn it up Dad!!”

Me: “Sounds good!!”

As I turn up the radio…..

Grayson: “I know what you’re doing. At some point I still want to know how the seed gets in the mommy’s belly! I won’t forget that question!”

We have no idea how the girl knew babies come from a “seed.” I’m just glad she doesn’t know how the seed gets there, otherwise I’d have to put on my biker outfit and go stomp some ass somewhere.

But regardless, I’m ready for the boy to bring it back-up so I can tell him where babies come from.

“Son, babies happen when the mommy slips and falls on the ground and the daddy goes to help her up, then slips and falls on top of her. When they get back up the mommy has a seed in her belly and 9 months later a baby is born.

“Now who wants ice cream?!!!”

The Evolution of Shit

When my wife was prego she went through a variety of different poop cycles. Some days too much…some days too little. Then around the eighth month of pregnancy came the “what?! You poop while you push the kid out?!!” realization that ruled her mind until it came time. I was there…yes it’s true…you poop while you push. And yes…I had the easiest freakin’ job in the entire hospital wing…I stood, I sweated, I thanked whoever rules us above that it wasn’t me, I cried, I cut the cord.

Back to the poop.

Then there’s the baby poop – the black tar poop. Baby’s should be born with a damn ice scraper to get this crap off their skin. It’s a miracle it only lasts for a few days. But just when you think you’re out of the woods, comes the breast-fed poop. The light brown, seedy poop. It looks like the baby ran away from home, found some shady friends, hid under a freeway and freebased seeds and split pea soup for a week. Oh that stuff is fucking foul.

But then the poop’s taken up yet one more notch and that’s the cruelest part of the entire scenario. You’re sleep-deprived, dropping C-Notes on massive packages of diapers, taking stock out in wipes, and spending baby’s nap time praying that this is the worst of it. Then come the blow-outs. And it’s never convenient. It’s always when you’re driving to the grocery store, handing the baby to Aunt May, or a split second from the most precious picture the idiots at Picture People could have ever taken. That’s when you hear the sound of your sweet, innocent child’s colon unleashing a stream of seedy shit right through the diaper, up their back, out their arm sleeves, and filling every fat crevice they proudly own. The only positive – you just bought a shit-ton of stock in wipes.

Then comes the stage where it’s no longer poopy..it’s just plain shit. Turds to be exact. You pull the diaper off and they roll out. Sometimes they’re half smashed…most of the time they have you quickly grabbing to pull your shirt over your nose. But if they could talk..they’d say, “that’s right bitches…it’s time for potty training.”

So their shitting in the pot now…and it’s cool! Right?! No…no you’re not done yet sucker. Now comes the time where you still wipe their ass. Dropping mad cash on diapers is gone, but you’re still putting your hand right smack dab in the crack of their ass…..and it sucks. You teach them to wipe themselves..sometimes it works, sometimes you’re tossing a ton of Shout on their stank skidmarks. But you’re getting closer….

Then it happens. They shit in the toilet! They wipe themselves! They're even OK with shitting in public restrooms!!! And then…you move into a one bathroom house. Why?! Because other people’s shit is destined to be a significant part of your life FOREVER!!

So now, just when everyone elses shit is their own problem and I can't even enjoy my own - I get interrupted. Jumping around outside the door, knocking every two seconds “I gotta go daddy!!” And the newest…every time I start the shower for the boy, he’s about to step in, then he says, “I gotta poop daddy.” So I turn everything off and wait…and wait….and wait….

I guess in a few more years I’ll update this recap of the evolution of shit in my life. It'll ramble about the boy claiming to shit when I know he's really stroking one out. Or how my daughter obsessively text-messages when she claims to be dropping the kids off at the pool. But none the less…I have no doubt…shit will continue to rule my life.