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!
Are we human? Or are we parents? According to Brandon Flowers of the Killers fame, we might even be dancer. But before I can even begin to entertain the notion that we may in fact be dancer, there’s the human question. See, Wife and I are out on the town for my birthday, and, for the first time in over 13 months, we have absolutely no responsibilities. That’s because my parents, NailsMom & NailsDad, generously agreed to come for an overnight to watch Kid while we are reintroduced into the wild by a professional endangered parent handler named Joseph. Joseph is a card-carrying member of two noble organizations, PITA (People for the Independence of Tired Adults), and UBER (Uber). Since liberating us from our enclosure, Joseph has gently coaxed us into his endangered parent transport, or, as he calls it, “The Shev-RO-lay Kroos.” He has assured us that there are others just like us at the endangered parent reservation, or, as he says, “Beer-GARD-en.” And he has patiently explained to us that we don’t need to pay him with cash once we have reached our destination, or, as he carefully annunciates, “Your CRED-it CARD will BE CHARG-ed.” Of course, now we are sitting on the outdoor patio of the endangered parent reservation, sans-Joseph and utterly defenseless, struggling to interpret a menu that was clearly designed for a more highly evolved species. They don’t even offer microwaved chicken fingers – everything is freshly prepared! Can we go back to the enclosure now?
Quiet on the set! Is everyone in their places? You, by the beans, you’re ruining my shot. Do we have someone capable on pyrotechnics? I don’t want a repeat of what happened to that curly-haired cousin a few years back. You, by the chicken, give me some chicken. Where’s the talent? Wuddya mean she’s in wardrobe? Didn’t we change her five minutes ago? These young stars are the worst. Remind me to never direct another one of these things. Oh, wait. That will never happen because no one with half-a-brain would pay money to see this. What’s that? They’re already planning a sequel? A sequel every year for the rest of my life?!?!?! Now I know how the creator of Air Bud feels. Can we at least agree to keep the sequels true to the original vision? You know: shoe-string budget, heartfelt plotline, characters with real depth. Ah. I see. Each sequel is going to be more expensive than the last, the plot will be exclusively driven by the latest in-demand consumer products (not revealed until the last possible moment), and the quirky yet talented cast will be replaced with friends of the leading lady (who also happens to be the daughter of the Executive Producer). Sigh. Maybe I should just move to Europe and shoot that art-house project I’ve been talking about all these years. You know, the one with the socialist balloon animals. There’s nothing left to do here that hasn’t already been done a thousand – Ooooo look at all those candles! Ha-ppy Birth-day to you…
Are you sitting down? Because what I am about to tell you will blow your mind. In the likely event that you haven’t been following this little endeavor of mine from the beginning, here’s a refresher course. I am married to Wife, who is lovely. We have a cat, named Cat. We used to live in Los Angeles, but then we moved to Boston, and this is where it gets interesting. Our plan, from the start, was to move back to our hometown to be closer to family, and instead of forking over large sums of money into the bottomless pit that comprises the renter’s market, we took drastic measures: we’re moving in with the parents. Now, we’ve been here in Boston for nearly two weeks, but the newly finished basement (many thanks and gratitude to Wife’s parents for that) is still not ready. Thus, in the interim of all this, we have been staying up the street, at my parents’ house. That’s right. We are a young, married couple…living at my parents’ house…so that we can move in to my in-laws’ house…which is down the street from my parents’ house. I guess it’s kind of like “Inception,” only instead of cool, sexy Leonardo DiCaprio infiltrating our dreams, it’s our parents. Oh, and one more thing: my parents are remodeling their house as well, which means my room is under a pile of rubble, so Wife and I have been sleeping in my sister’s room. Also, we can’t let Cat out of this room, you know, because of the constant digging and jack-hammering. Without painting you too much of a picture, Cat’s litter box is located approximately ten feet from our bed. [pauses, takes hit off inhaler] To answer your question, “Yes, I will be writing a book about all of this.” For now, keep visiting the site for updates on our slow descent into madness.
The end is near. To our trip, I mean. The end of the world is still a ways off. I give it another 500 years or so until the dinosaurs wake up. Then we’re screwed. Wife and I have been driving cross-country for the past nine days, and we’re only a day’s drive away from our final destination: Boston. It’s been an amazing trip, and I’ve seen more of America than most people will see in a Lifetime Original Movie about a girl who travels across America on a pink scooter in search of the man who murdered her sorority sister. I think it’s called “Road Trap: Diary of Revenge.” In summation, here’s what I’ve learned on our grand driving tour of the U.S.A.: (1) Don’t mess with the Mojave. (2) There is such a thing as too much pizza. (3) Local cops hate it when you tell them they have funny accents. (4) Not all rest areas were created equal. (5) The city of Niagara Falls, NY, is the scariest haunted house in the world. And that’s pretty much it. Everything else I already knew from watching “Road Trap: Diary of Revenge.” Which brings me to my next point: the road ahead. Believe it or not, Wife and I will be living with her folks for a while, until we save up enough wampum to buy ourselves a brand new teepee. That’s not a metaphor. We’ve heard open-concept teepees are all the rage with young married couples these days. The key is having multiple sight-lines on the little ones, which is definitely possible if you’re in a teepee. The only thing I’m dreading is trying to mount our flat-screen on a wall made of deer pelts.