I could just go ahead and talk to each of you individually, but that’s too much effort. So instead, I’m going to write it all here, and I’ll just direct you to this post. You know who you are. You’re the ones having babies.
As of this writing I have three- no wait, four- no SIX friends and co-workers who are either expecting or have popped a kid in the last six months. What. The. Hell?
Never mind the fact that now all you’re going to talk about is how the kid can sit up straight. (A trick I’ve been doing for years, I might add.) Never mind the fact that you’re about to be effectively cut off from normal society for somewhere from the next 6 months to the next 16 years. (Who am I supposed to go drink with?) No, what really bothers me is that you clearly, never once, not for one second, considered how OLD you are making me feel.
Do you realize what you’re doing to me? Have you even thought about the ramifications of this at all? Sure, sure, it’s your kid. But I wind up in the baby aisles of department stores debating with The Wife over what 3-inch jumper is more adorable for your spawn. I’m talking her down from some biological ledge, explaining that just because you had one does not mean we have to have one now. I’m nodding sagely with you while we discuss the financial hardships of being responsible for a living being who effectively charges your bank account $3.86 per poop, discovered by adding the cost of diapers and formula and dividing by eliminatory frequency.
This is adult old-person behavior, and it’s your fault it’s happening. You and that physical embodiment of your biological coupling. Couldn’t you keep it in your pants for a few more years?
Although that part where you figured out the Cost per Crap was pretty low-brow. And hilarious. Cost per Crap…heh…
Price per Poop.
Benjamins per Bombs.
Expenditure per Excretion.
Ok, I’m feeling suitably immature now. I might make it through this with my inner-child intact, provided that from here on out you all space your offspring out a little. At this rate pregnancy seems more contagious than swine flu.
(Congratulations to all my procreating friends and co-workers. And if any of you will still let me within a 500 meter radius of your family after this post, I’ll be more than happy to come hang out with you and your kids. It gives me a great excuse to play with baby toys.)