...afterbirth

From the beginning, most couples set out with an advance plan for the size of their family. It is a novel idea, but in our house I show up pregnant and the husband feigns shock and swears he had nothing to do with it. The birds and the bees fly in the face of bio-logic to him, which is good or we would be childless and wouldn’t that be tragic? How could we bear to miss out on all this?

Journal,
Yes, we’re expecting again. As I hand him the pregnancy test, I ask him to say something nice that I could put in a baby book. He doesn’t. Love, Baby and me

But, that all changes when the child arrives. The babies shoot out and the husband catches them in an underhand sweep and attaches them by carabineer to his backpack. From birth onward, he is the do-it-all-dad. The quicker the baby hikes, bikes and runs, the happier campers the two of them make.[1]

Journal,
It doesn’t matter that the first is a girl. She’s outside mowing the lawn in the baby backpack by three months. So much for the delicate little princess, she spent yesterday helping dig the front water main break. She’s a six-month-old mole in the hole with him, grinning and chewing through the dirt pile, as usual. Sigh, T.

Reality Bite: Dirt and motor oil are teenage boy bait. I could use that threat with the Father to get the daughter back.

[1]The grammar guru gave this get-up a go.