The Story Of My Childrens Birth (As Shall Be Told To Them When They Are Old Enough To Be Embarassed To Hear It)

Dear Kids,
I consider myself a patient person....patient in the sense that I can roll with most obstacles that impede a normal persons state of normalcy. I have to tell you how the pursuit to bring you into this world almost drove me to an early vasectomy. I call this a pursuit because I feel as though I was racing the clock. You mom wanted kids, don't get me wrong I wanted them as well, but I was looking past the cuteness and first steps and zeroed in on crappy diapers, and vomit in the car.
I met your mother through her sister, who was a co-worker of mine. After a whirlwind romance (Her version of our courtship differs from mine) we were married and after a bit she got what Foreigner called "A Fever Of 103" She always said she wanted 5 kids (As you know we have 3 now and I sometimes catch her talking to herself and babbling incoherently about homework and inside voices) and I told her 5 was fine, as long as she could accept that I was moving to Kenya. Soon enough we were trying, and trying, and trying. Well I was just fine with the trying part, but your mother was getting increasingly frustrated. Not with the trying part (I hope) but with the non-baby results. Then....oh crap, her unmarried sister gets pregnant. I say oh crap, not because the trying was increasingly frequent, because it was, but because now, there was pressure to "get the job done". Now there was a deadline....oh man, and her opinion may differ, but I felt it got increasingly violent as well, but I'm not complaining. Finally out of desperation, she decided to make an appointment at a lab "to see what was wrong with me". So like all red blooded American men, I put it off.....and put it off.....and put it off. It was only after the threat of being cut-off that 2 months later I called the lab and rescheduled for the last time. Now without being gross and immature, I had a vision of what this experience should be like. I thought....Reading Material, maybe Adult Movies to...uhhhhh (As Steppenwolfe would say "Get Your Motor Runnin") (Side note, I am quite aware that I have exceeded my music references for one blog) provide what was needed to the doctor. So needless to say I was less that enthusiastic but at the same time curious. I go downtown to the Lab and there are 547 people in the waiting room (standing room only), so I grabbed the corner and a Highlights For Children and stuck my nose in it eager to rid myself of this uncomfortable and humiliating task that I had been given. I realize that I haven't signed in, and slowly shuffle through the mosh pit now forming around the receptionists desk and tell her that i believe I have an appointment and gave my name. The receptionist is cute younger woman and as I am starting to admire her features, she blatantly and at a decibel that I can only describe as trying to destroy my self worth, screams (in my mind) "Oh yes, your here to get your sperm counted" to be honest I really don't know what she shouted but in my mind It was "Hey look at this guy who wears tighty whiteys and cant make a baby." It seemed to me that everyone who was in conversation of some sort or reading stopped to look at this poor sap who, with his head lowered shuffles back to his corner and his Highlights from 1984. After reading the magazine 3 times My name was called, again from Aretha Franklin and I walk up and am handed a cup and told to follow her. Finally, I am out of the waiting room, and on to getting this over with this nightmare. I see a new office area, and am thinking wow from the outside, this lab looked old and run down, but honestly, it looks like it had been remodeled. I take a quick right and am told "Here we are" It looks like a broom closet out of a bad horror movie. She informs me that I need to "Fill the Cup" and to seal it when I'm done. I walk into a 10x10 "Bathroom", and the light turns on automatically, at least something is updated........then they start to flicker. I half expected "Candid Camera" to pop out, but no, this was actually going to have to happen. I then started to weigh out bailing and coming back another time......nope, your mother would have my head. No Magazines, No Videos, and a cracked mirror to boot. It smelled musty, and dank, and I wasn't in the mood, but the thought of your mother happy outweighed that, and after 6 hours I emerged, sweaty and spent and the cup somewhat filled. After walking the cup to a waiting tech who bagged it as though it was Ebola, I walked out front only to be told that I would receive the results in 72 hours. I left feeling tired and frustrated but excited to find out what was wrong with my swimmers. It took me 20 minute to get home and when I got there I sat in the car and stared at the front door. This would start the process in finding a way to successfully have children, it was a little overwhelming and I was nervous. I got out of the car and slowly walked up the steps. I put the key into the lock, and the door bursts open, and your mother is standing there crying....sobbing uncontrollably actually. Were pregnant!!! Were pregnant!!! I mumbled something and hugged her......really tightly.....really tightly.

Public Bathrooms

OK, so I am a self professed germaphobe.....In the great scheme of things I don't believe this is a moral choice but a sentence placed upon me at birth. Little bugs that attack my well being are cause to many a near panic attack over the course of my day. For instance when I use a public bathroom, I try to go about picking a stall systematically....Nope The Jackson Pollock painting the seat and corresponding wall are not a comfortable environment to defecate in. Not the next stall either as the previous occupant has decided that It was my birthday and left me a present...not wrapped.
Ah yes, third ones the charm (side note, what is it about having to poo that your fine until you have to cover the seat with a layer of 367 2x2 squares of 1 ply paper one at a time and you feel as though you are stopping the invasion of Normandy. I believe that if you can weather the oncoming army, then you can stop a bullet....just my opinion of course) although it smells like a urine factory, and old feet, I proceed with caution. I'm sorry but I have to admit I love to use the handicapped stall. The other few are so cramped I just cant feel comfortable in them and when I'm done the door opens in and I have to not rub the bowl with my exposed leg as I try to squeeze between it and the cold metal door. In the handicapped stall though, between waves you can stretch out, read the paper, play hopscotch, take a walk...hell some of these large stalls are bigger than my first apartment. The only way its not so comfortable is if a real handicapped person enters and needs the stall. Look, I don't condone my former solution to this uncomfortable exchange but for archiving purposes I'll tell you what I have done in the past. The nice gentleman in the wheelchair yells through the in opening door "Hey, this stall is for handicapped use only!" Panicking, I yell back "I am handicapped" So the gentleman rolls away to wait for me to exit....now what??? I just have to exit and face the music....Nah I just hobble out with my best limp and hunchback towards the door (I am so going to Hell!)...As you sit and read last weeks classified ads, (which someone has graciously left page 2 only) you worry that the 36 year old stall door will hold if someone wanders in and tries to open it. As good as you may think you look sitting on the pot, I'm sure you wont win any beauty pageants a spilling over the sides of a toilet paper littered, urine soaked toilet with a genuinely horrified look on your face. When you are done with the devils business, you have a problem. In order to get the bathroom to smell musty and urine-like, the kind folks at "The Taco Factory" have turned on the heater in the men's restroom, so after sitting for a good while your rear starts to sweat. When you are finished clearing the debris, you stand up only to realize that 216 of the 367 sheets are still attached to your ass... (the other 151 sheets fell into the toilet as you sat down so you were unknowingly bare-assed on the seat anyways.) so now what? Do you pluck them like feathers off a chicken...do you do the wiggle and dance the squares off your butt?? Do you do squat thrusts and hope they clump off??? I don't have the answer to this, let me know if you have this issue solved. OK, so now you flush...like a freakin' 747 talking off your toilet now is a roaring swirl of paper waste and doody. If you are like me you try to escape the ocean like spray of the bowl as it flies toward the heavens. So now your out...time to wash your hands. Id just as soon boil my hands but the leaky faucet with the push button should work. OK, so you push and 1-2 seconds of water come out....I really don't want to push the damn button again as I fear the gentleman before me may have ripped the toilet paper while wiping and gotten some sin on it. I'd grab some paper towels but they have the stupid blow nozzles on the wall....shit! Id grab some paper from the stall I just left but the 5 year old is in there with his Dad screaming about how his poo poo is bright green and why did the man who hobbled out of the stall before him leave a few scraps of paper in the bowl...Sorry Bobby, Next time Ill courtesy flush.