The Mommy Mjorn

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

“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!

Carry Me If You Can

My eyes are up here.

“My eyes are up here.”

I’ve had it. I mean I am mad. M-A-D-D-Y-S-Q-7. See? I’m so mad I can’t even spell. And before you ask, the answer is, “Yes, normally, I can correctly spell the word ‘maud.'” So why am I so mold? Because no matter where I go, people stare at my chest. That’s right: no eye contact whatsoever. Doesn’t matter if I’m walking around Target, or walking around my neighborhood, or walking around Target, again, later that day, because I got the wrong kind of nylons (the comptroller kind, I think) – every single passerby ogles my upper-torso like a Creepy Perv ogling a fully restored ’57 Corvette, because in addition to being a Creepy Perv he’s really into classic cars. Oh, and it’s not even subtle. Some of these gawkers are so shameless that they smile, or worse, laugh, at the mere sight of my higher thorax. Ever been “cooed” at by an old lady? No? Well, I have. And let me tell you, it’s uncomfortable. No, it’s worse than uncomfortable – it’s degrading! I am not a piece of eye candy to be unwrapped and sucked on and spit out and shared with the one billion other shoppers currently in this Target. I am a human being. H-U-M-B-U-R-G-E-R. Great. Now I’ve gone and inadvertently spelled the word “humburger.” That’s it. I’m never shopping at this Target again. From now on, I’m shopping at that other Target on the other side of the highway. No, not that one, the one next to it. Yea. That one. What’s that? You’re all just admiring the cute baby strapped to my body? Oh. Well, now I feel silly. I also feel hungry. I wonder if the snack bar here sells humburgers.