315 Days - Kid Number Three

Ohhhhh, maybe I shouldn’t have said that. I mean, Todd is in his late(r) forties. An opening line like that could very well send him into cardiac arrest (knocks wood/makes sign of the cross) especially since he knows he’s already been, well, how do I say this exactly... um... de-spermified? Yeah, that would go down like a led balloon right about now. A led balloon on my head. Right beside the bullet hole.

Since I was younger I’ve always wanted three kids, and as I creep up to that ripe ol’ F word, my mommy blues have kicked in to high(er) gear, which is why this article gave me hope that maybe I could, with enough wine, lingerie and roofies, entice Todd into getting, well, re-spermified? Or would it be un-snipped? You’re the guys – you tell me which term sounds less gruesome and I’ll use it, cool? Cool. But you and I both know (yes, I’m talking to you, my one fan) that shit ain’t gonna happen and that this is all a pipe dream that exists for nothing more that midnight cries in my sleep and blog fodder, so, since this is the blog part of that sentence, I’m going to run with it. Right here. Right now. Cue Jesus Jones and let’s get it on. Introducing:

Scenes From My Imaginary Third Child Life

“Roman! Beatrice! Alec! Let the cat out of the dryer right now and get your hands washed! Dinner’s ready. And Beatrice, spit out that blood.”

Or maybe…

“Aurora, honey, please stop crying. Sweetheart, look at it this way: your sister can’t hurt your parakeet any more now that it’s dead. See? That’s the up side! Beatrice can’t possibly kill it twice!”

Or...

“Roman, please take Oliver over to daddy and tell him that mommy said that it’s his turn to wash the poop off of his teeth. I did the last six times. Oh, and tell your sister to put the machete back in my hunting box. Thanks, baby. You're my favorite, but don't tell Bea. She'll try to suffocate me again.” 

See how much fun that would be? Three is great! It’s AWESOME. And if you’re me, the odds are greater that at least one of them won’t hate you when they grow up. I didn’t say “great”… I said “greatER.” Not to mention my body is in prime baby-making shape right now. I’ve got an eight pack, which if history repeats itself, means I can try to beat my own record and push that little fucker out in less than twelve minutes. Strong abs = less pushing, gals, so crunch! CRUNCH! CRUNCH FOR FUCK’S SAKE!

As the third child in my family (and the only one from a different marriage) I know the importance of having sibling choices. What’s “sibling choices” you say, or you didn’t and I’m hearing the voices in my head again? Sibling choices means that if you’re fighting with one, you always have the other, and if you’re fighting with both, then it’s you who’s the asshole, asshole, but with two kids, there are no choices, so if you’re fighting with one, you’re fighting with them all, and then you’ll never know who’s right, and that just plain sucks ass. Three prevents that, and while you're bound to go gray rapidly from whoever is your middle child (in this case... Beatrice. God help us all if I have to add "middle child" to her current resume) the fact remains that your bookends will likely keep you, well, sane. At least, when they're older, anyway. Though you'll always have a special place in your heart for that middle one, no matter how batshit they may be. And they will be. Trust me. They will be. And they are.

So what do you think, y'all? Think I can convince the big man to give it a go for nùmero tres? Or should I consider myself blessed with the two fantastic children I have and not get greedy? How much wine would I need? How little clothing? And what in the fuck have I been smoking?