The Mommy Mjorn

“The rubber chicken short sheet surprise is my signature maid prank.”

Our prayers have been answered. The product that billions of parents have been waiting for since the dawn of time is finally here. I’m talking, of course, about The Mommy Mjorn. Ever since I started wearing The Mommy Mjorn, day-to-day life has just been easier, you know? Not only can I fix myself lunch, pay bills, and run a load of laundry, but I can do all of these things WHILE watching Wife, who – let’s face it – is not at a time in her life where she should be left unsupervised. Between the nonstop childcare, housework, and sleepless nights, Wife’s energy levels and motor skills have been reduced to that of a 15-month-old baby, which, coincidentally, is the same age of our daughter, Kid. Sure, I could leave Wife in the living room with a couple of stuffed animals and her favorite show (I think it’s called Mischievous Cleaning Ladies), but what if the WiFi cuts out right as a mischievous cleaning lady is filling the cookie jar with sneezing powder and I’m not there to fix it? I would never forgive myself. Luckily, The Mommy Mjorn has a built-in iPad mount and ice cream cone holder, so Wife can relax even as I’m loading up the shopping cart! The only downside is that we get a lot of glares at restaurants—especially fast food restaurants. Apparently, McDonalds employees don’t see a lot of guys hitting the drive-thru, on foot, wearing their wife like a baby. It has also made jogging difficult, but the vibrations seem to help Wife nap, so wuddya gonna do? Speaking of naps, where is Kid? What’s that? Wife has been wearing Kid the whole time I’ve been wearing Wife? Wow. The Mommy Mjorn really is a miracle product!

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Et Tu, Koko?

“I’m getting real tired of this crap.”

You wouldn’t happen to have an extra pair of pants, would you? Mine are currently…inadequate. See, Wife and I just visited the gorilla exhibit at the zoo, and, well – how do I put this? – I soiled myself. Allow me to explain. In anticipation of having our weekends booked until the end of time, Wife and I decided to treat ourselves to a two-day vacation that included a jaunt to the Franklin Park Zoo. While not quite the crown jewel of Boston, FPZ is easily the crown polyester liner: it’s cheap, crumbling, and smells like a sweaty, overweight king who sleeps on a straw mattress and likes to roll around in the mud. To be fair, FPZ is family friendly and a pleasant place to walk around, so for expecting parents like us, it was perfect. My only beef with FPZ is that its layout is designed in such a way that you are lulled into a false sense of security by the time you get to the final exhibit: the gorilla dome. Normally, I wouldn’t admit to being scared by gorillas, especially in the context of a bullet-proof glass enclosure, but when you have just spent the last two hours lazily strolling past one solitary, obese camel, a lion that looked like he only does the Nautilus machines, and a giraffe-less giraffe field, you get a little complacent. “None of Our Animals Could Possibly Kill You!” should be FPZ’s motto. That is, until you get to the gorilla dome. There I was, directing my extremely pregnant Wife to smile so I could snap a photo of her standing mere feet from a large silverback gorilla when…THWACK! The gorilla slammed his fifty-pound fist into the reinforced partition, prompting Wife, myself, and the rest of the onlookers to scream. I’m serious – we all screamed. Afterwards, I could have sworn I saw the gorilla laughing. Now, about those pants.

 

 

The Pajama Shame

“I’m just waiting for my change.”

This isn’t what it looks like. I know, I know–a grown(ish) man, in his pajamas, eagerly awaiting the drive-thru window to flap open and a large vanilla milkshake to be conveyed into his idling sport utility vehicle does not look “good.” But what if I told you that the milkshake is not for me? What if I told you that the milkshake is for Wife, my pregnant wife? Would that make the cool kids, who just pulled up in their cool kids car looking like a cross between an American Eagle and American Spirit commerical, think I was NOT teetering on the brink of a late-twenties melt-down? Eh, who cares? Truth be told, I’m kind of enjoying this devil-may-go-on-pajama-milkshake-runs attitude. Besides, it’s not like I’m browsing the Metaphysics section at Barnes & Noble. I’m in a drive-thru: the penalty box of the food industry. Why a penalty box? Because you’re enclosed in glass and metal, feeling shame, until the guy in the box next to you gives you your change. Maybe next time I should roll up in my hockey gear for Maximum Analogy Impact. The point is, when you have a pregnant wife waiting on the other end of your errand, you can wear pretty much whatever you want without being scrutinized by strangers. Heck, I could be wearing a tuxedo and not feel embarrassed. Actually, wearing a tuxedo in a drive-thru, alone, would be much, much worse than wearing pajamas. That just screams “Prom Ended Early” or “The Spy Agency Wasn’t Hiring.”

 

Pre-School Sweethearts

“Don’t mind me. I’m just nesting.”

Let the great debate begin. With the arrival date of a very expensive, very noisy long-term houseguest looming, Wife has been on a mission to clear out the junk in our house. She explains that she is “nesting,” but I like to think she is more along the lines of a pot-bellied robot sent back in time to eliminate high priority targets Flotsam & Jetsam, who know her only as The Tidynator. But that’s not what’s up for debate. I’m referring to the photo, circa 1989, that Wife found in a box filled with finger paintings, loose glitter, and what appears to be a lattice of popsicle sticks and glue. The photo features me, aged “This Many” (holds up four fingers), and Wife, aged “This Many” (holds up four and one half fingers), sitting back-to-back at adjacent tables in our pre-kindergarten nursery school. That’s right, Wife and I are Pre-School Sweethearts. Sure, we weren’t so much dating as Avoiding Each Other At All Costs (girls are gross!), but Pre-School Contemporaries doesn’t really have the same ring to it, does it? Here’s where the debate really heats up: in the photo, I can be seen staring intently over my shoulder in the direction of Wife, who is being served a lunch-time hot dog by our teacher, or, as I knew her, The Lady Who Sometimes Gives Us Hot Dogs. The question is, was I unconsciously experiencing True Love, that great cosmic force that binds all beings across time and space? Or was I just really hungry? I would ask The Tidynator to travel back in time for the answer, but she went shopping for storage bins (she said she’d be back).

 

3 Men and a Body Pillow

“Pregnancy has some serious perks.”

We’re having a baby! Wife is six months along, but don’t worry–I didn’t just find out. Actually, I’ve known for some time, although I don’t remember what originally tipped me off. It might have been the dozens of baby doctor appointments, or Wife telling me “I’m pregnant,” or the sonograms, or the second round of sonograms, or Wife telling me “I can’t believe I’m really pregnant!” But that’s not important. What’s important is that, simply because a human is growing inside of Wife, I now know what a snoogle is. What’s a snoogle? I’M SO GLAD YOU ASKED. A snoogle is a large, “S” shaped body pillow designed to help pregnant ladies sleep and large man-boys take naps when the pregnant lady is getting a pedicure. As an added bonus the snoogle can also be worn, like a sash, to fancy parties. The only complaint I have is that “snoogle” isn’t the manliest of names. That’s why I have decided to develop my own prototype, called The Moosel. It’s filled with beef jerky, and is shaped like a flexing bicep. The great thing about The Moosel is that if you get hungry in the middle of the night, you can just unzip the washable cover and have yourself a little snack. Just make sure your cats aren’t down wind from you while you snack. They’ll rip The Moosel to shreds.