My friend, Loralee, made the trek from Logan to Salt Lake so I could see her new baby. As I held her baby I sniffed his head and felt my ovaries do cartwheels.
She let me feed him a bottle and give him as many snuggles as I wanted. I haven’t been dating much these days, so I tried to get as much cuddling with a man as possible.
Mid snuggle I noticed a familiar snorting sound.
“Dude, you made a pug!”
In hindsight it may have not been the nicest comparison I could have offered. A simple, “Oh what cute little sounds your baby makes” would have been much nicer. Lor didn’t mind. She’s used to the fact I don’t have a internal filter to shut myself up.
Later I compared him to a potato bug, and then, even later, a horse.
I’m an excellent friend. And well versed in animal sounds.
After spending that much time with a newborn I suddenly pictured myself as a mother. I’d rock the shit out of the playground. I’d be the cool mom that was crazy enough to be fun, but not crazy enough to be committed.
I spent the rest of the day planning my future as a parent.
I read this.
Yeah. That bitch went and ruined my parental dreams by talking about icky birth details. I’m soooo printing out her post and the next time my family asks when I’m going to settle down and make some freaking babies I’ll hand them her post and scream NEVER! at the top of my lungs.
That’ll shut them up.