Expansionary Policies

There are a lot of rumors out there about Lola and I having another baby. Let me set the record straight: The doctor is wrong. The diagnosis itself is probably accurate – pregnancy explains Lola’s constant vomiting better than the runner-up theory, chronic alcoholism – but the projected due date is way off. This so-called “medical professional” mistakenly believes my progeny will arrive May 24. Our next baby will of course arrive exactly one week earlier. Children aren’t something you drop haphazardly into the world like cluster bombs on a third-world village. Instead, they’re precision munitions, used to surgically blow up the troublesome town elder while leaving critical infrastructure like the village whore house intact. Betsy detonated May 17^th, so that’s the mark all of our future children have to hit. That way I can throw one party a year and buy one present for all my offspring to share, preferably something fun like a lawnmower or vacuum cleaner. In a perfect world, my wife’s birthday would also be May 17^th, but she was born some other day I can’t remember, and my efforts to fake her birth certificate led nowhere. I’ll commit my next forgery in something other than purple crayon.

Yet another grainy black and white photo confirms the existence of a baby or possibly the Loch Ness Monster.

People act surprised when they hear I managed to knock up my wife yet again, but really this is old news. The timing of all this was negotiated long ago when Lola and I first discussed getting married. Her people talked to my people, and after our lawyers tossed some numbers back and forth we settled on four children spaced at two-year intervals. Child three and child four will be born May 17, 2014, and May 17, 2016, respectively. Consider this the official announcement. Seriously, I’ve already asked for the time off work. I only scheduled a few hours on the morning of each delivery since labor tends to be pretty quick and painless for me and I’d like to be back at the office before it’s time to change the first diaper. Children adjust better to neglect if you stay consistent right from the start. This is the last I plan to say about either impending pregnancy. In the future, when I show up places with surplus children and refuse to explain their origins, it’ll be up to you to remember this blog post. Or you can just assume I stole the extra babies and call the police. Your odds of being right are pretty good either way.

You might be thinking that no one can plan a child – and certainly not four children – down to the day. Some couples try for years without success to start a family, while even those who manage to have one son or daughter sometimes run into trouble in subsequent attempts at family expansion. Most of these potential parents are moral, hard-working folks whose reproductive desires are a selfless expression of love. That’s the problem. Look around you: The world is full of terrible people. In the procreation department, social deviants out-produce those good, hard-working folks at a prodigious rate. Clearly, human decency causes infertility. I had nothing to fear on that front. As an all-around awful human being, I’m roughly as virile as a rabbit on Viagra. If Lola is even in the same ZIP code as me, it takes a minor miracle for her not to get pregnant. Luckily for me, nobody’s been praying to St. Gunter, patron saint of please-don’t-let-that-guy-have-another-kid. This might be the first child caused directly by atheism.

Despite our unwavering plan for family expansion and unblemished track record of fertility, friends and relatives continue to act surprised when they find out we’re having another baby. Most thought we’d give up after we didn’t do such a great job with our current kid. At 17 months old, Betsy understands most words and can say many of them, but her favorite mode of communication is shrieking like a cockatoo that’s on fire. Given her mother’s recent behavior, I think it might be hereditary. While Betsy spends much of her time emitting hazardous levels of cuteness, her happy giggling can become enraged screaming in an instant if I pull down the wrapper on her cheese stick too far or she suddenly remembers it’s Tuesday. I hoped my parenting skills would enable Betsy to skip the temperamental toddler stage and transition directly from happy baby to well-adjusted young adult, but my fatherly influence had the opposite effect. When she screeches at me, I either ignore her or screech back depending how many times she’s erupted that day and whether or not Lola is within earshot. Getting into shouting matches with a one year old might not make me a paragon of maturity, but I’m not going to win over a toddler with constructive dialogue. I use the same guidelines for my interactions with Lola now that pregnancy hormones have destroyed her ability to function as a rational human being. I’m contractually obliged to say I love both my wife and my daughter, but that didn’t stop me from creating a second identity on the other side of the country in case conditions don’t improve. I like to keep my options open.

If I’m still around next May, our preparations for the new child should be pretty simple. All of the baby-related infrastructure we’ll ever need is already in place. Thanks to Lola’s love for the garage sale circuit, we have highchairs, strollers, and enough infant clothes to fill sixteen garbage bags, the basic units of measure for baby garments under the metric system. We’re set as long as we have another girl. In the event that I manage to produce a male heir, a highly unlikely scenario given my history for producing progeny of the weaker sex, I either have to let Lola spend more money or dress my son as a member of the opposite gender. If we do have a boy, I hope he likes wearing pink.

What Doesn't Kill Me Kills My Car Instead

I take a perverse pride in surviving simple things that sometimes kill other people. I am all but impervious to dangers like peanut butter, bee stings, and slippery bathtubs – although I’ve had a few close calls with the latter. I’m the reason there’s a warning label about drinking vodka in the shower. A few weeks ago I added car crashes to my immunity list. I was driving down the road minding my own business when I slammed full-speed into a high school student. Unfortunately, she was in a vehicle of her own – a 1971 International truck. I’d never heard of an International before the crash, but apparently they’re built with more steel than a Panzer division. She was heading east when the car in front of her stopped to make a turn. Being a young driver and a woman, she skipped slowing to a safe stop and instead skidded sideways, veering out of control and into the path of me and my westbound 1997 Geo Prizm. The resulting crash was a bit like a horse and buggy running full speed into the side of a battleship.

For sale: 1997 Geo Prizm. Body in excellent condition. Engine may require some tuning to achieve peak performance. Not recommended for night driving. $50 OBO.

The teenager’s truck sustained only a minor dent that looked like it was caused by a run-in with an errant shopping cart. My car had a few blemishes of its own. Namely, the engine compartment exploded. The hood folded like a map and the bumper disintegrated into its key components of plastic and Styrofoam. I caught glimpses of all this beneath the swells of noxious smoke that emanated from my car’s power train. The Prizm didn’t harm the other vehicle, but it did punch a hole in the ozone layer. Take that, earth. Inside my car, the airbags deployed and worked as expected, scratching up my wrists while providing no protection for my head. My reflexes were fast enough to keep my face from hitting the pillow of air in front of me but too slow to keep my car from attempting to pass through another vehicle.

 Car manufacturers should add confetti and streamers to the airbag compartment. That way you could properly celebrate winning a new car. Properly insured car crashes are the redneck version of the Price is Right.

After the crash the other driver seemed dazed, but being a teenage girl she probably spends most of her time in that state. I felt okay, but the bottoms of my pants were covered in significantly more blood than usual. This was cause for moderate concern since Lola specifically asked me not to leak vital fluids on my work clothes. I had no idea where the blood was coming from. A cursory search of my toned, sexy body revealed a welt the size of an egg just below my left knee cap but no other noticeable damage. Then I saw the McDonald’s bag on the side of the road. I managed to step on a ketchup packet in the moments following the crash. After going twenty-six consecutive years without once bringing my shoe into contact with a tomato-based condiment package, my impressive streak came to an end. In a second odd coincidence, rain, which had avoided this part of the country for at least two months, picked this moment to make its dramatic return. Getting back in my still-smoldering car seemed like a bad idea, so I stood shivering in the downpour wondering whether Lola would be more upset that I ruined the car or a good pair of pants.

In hindsight, the pants didn’t matter. The true tragedy was the loss of the vehicle. At fourteen years old, it wasn’t even a third of the way through its functional life. The Geo Prizm is the cockroach of the car kingdom: small, ugly, and nearly impossible to kill. According to the National Insurance Institute of America, the only two reasons that make and model is ever taken off the road are car crashes and meteor strikes. My car amassed a mere 155,000 miles before its young life was cut short. It went through tires and brake pads like a burrito through a college student. Two of the three climate control knobs on the dashboard were missing, and there was a large hole in the driver’s seat. I guess the fumes from my butt are oddly corrosive. When I turned the key in the ignition, the engine belt squealed like a Muppet being stabbed to death. The sound of Elmo getting shanked faded away after thirty seconds or so, giving way to a smooth, quiet ride that only a rock from space or a sixteen-year-old motorist could stop. If not for the crash, the Prizm would have lasted long enough for me to pass down to my children and grandchildren. But realistically I wouldn’t have let them drive it. Such a precious gift would be wasted on the young.

I spent around $700 on new tires and brakes four weeks before the crash. Buying new parts for an old car is like being a movie cop one day from retirement.

The crash, like everything else in my life, wasn’t my fault. The teenager’s insurance paid to replace my car, but I use the term “replace” loosely. According to various appraisal websites, the Prizm was worth about $887, but only if the trunk was full of treasure from a Spanish galleon. That was the private party sale price. If traded in to a dealer, the car was worth only a swift kick to the nuts. Given the anticipated payout, I could expect to afford roughly half a moped. The actual claim settlement was better than expected, allowing me to afford nearly two fully intact mopeds. The Prizm, like a heavily insured homemaker, was worth more dead than alive. I’ll remember that when it’s time to trade in my next car.

Lola vetoed my plans to buy those two mopeds and lash them together, forcing me to spend real money on a traditional four-wheeled vehicle. Adulthood didn’t begin when I got a job or got married or had a kid. It began when my hideous but functional college car was violently snatched from this world. I now drive a respectable grown-up car. The automobile feels sterile without character-enhancing features like severe upholstery damage and frequent Elmo death shrieks. I have little choice but to enjoy a quiet, reliable ride for the foreseeable future, but I can ensure better for my daughter. By the time I’m ready to pass this car down to Betsy, I will have inflicted enough damage to ensure it embarrasses the next generation.