I have four wonderful children whom I love more than I could ever try to communicate or put in words on paper. But #4 was a pretty big surprise. He is a condom baby. The following “diary” was never actually sent to the Trojan Condom Company, but it helped me through a tough time prior to Abe’s arrival.
Here it is:
“Edwina’s insides were a rocky place where my seed could find no purchase.” —Raising Arizona
There’s no easy way to say this out loud, so I thought I’d write it down and then accept your commiseration throughout the days/weeks/months ahead.
I will need your support, prayers, understanding… and beer now more than ever before. Here goes:
My wife is pregnant. She is due some time around Valentine’s Day. And don’t say “Awwwww,” because we do not consider that cute, romantic, “fun” or “how appropriate.”
Yes, this will be child number four. No, we were not trying to get pregnant. And, yes, we know what causes this sort of thing.
In fact, if anyone asks me the question, “Don’t you guys know what causes that sort of thing?” I might stab you with a pencil. We’ve been asked that question as a reaction to our previous three “announcements” innumerable times, and it is – quite frankly – getting a little old.
Anna Beth, Benjamin and Merrie Cannon are all wonderful kids. They are beautiful, smart, individual and perfect in their own little ways. So, it’s difficult to not be a little bit excited about bringing a new Ivey into the world… we just weren’t counting on it any time soon (at all, really).
Let’s just say that TROJAN is gonna get a nasty little note from Yours Truly throughout the next 18 1/2 years.
Thanks for nothing, a-holes.
“99.9%” my hairy, white butt.
My wife threw up in the kitchen sink last night.
Our disposal is broken, you bastards.
Thanks a lot.
She went to bed at 9:00 PM and I got to fold clothes, clean the kitchen and vacuum the living room.
I’m just sayin’…
I just thought you’d like to know that she threw up on the couch. She didn’t just throw up, while on the couch. She literally threw up… on the couch.
I hope you die.
Well, the saga continues…. I passed gas last night, and she kicked me out of the house. That’s right… she told me I could come back inside when I could “learn to not be so gross.”
You’ve even taken that from me, you sonsabitches.
Thanks to you, I evidently do not do anything to “help out around the house” these days. In fact, just this morning, I was yelled at through tears because the dishes I washed last night hadn’t been put away.
Yes, that’s right. The dishes THAT I WASHED were left on the counter all night long.
They were DRYING, you miserable sacks of ineffective crap!
I know you are probably sick of hearing from me, but you should get used to it. Tonight, as I was washing dishes, my bride and I were taking about… cake.
I like cake. A lot.
Anyway, for some reason, the word “cake” sounded “gross” to her. Not cake itself. Just the word. I thought I was being cute and started laughing and saying the word “cake” over and over. She told me to stop, but, c’mon, I was just saying “cake.”
She threw up, Trojan. She ran out of the kitchen and hurled.
Say it with me: “cake.” Say it five times, fast.
And yet another thing you’ve taken from me… just by being the evil bastards you inherently are.
I think she’s coming out of the proverbial woods. It seems the worst part of pregnancy is over.
I’m sure there’ll be many, many pitfalls between now and the due date (and I’m sure I just jinxed the rest of my day), but she’s been in a good mood now for 27 hours, 16 minutes and 41 seconds… that’s a record, I think.
She did “vurp” yesterday whilst changing a wet diaper, but I’ve done that before, too.
I still hate you.
UPDATE: THE MOOD LASTED 11 MORE MINUTES. THEN I ASKED “HEY, HOW WAS YOUR DAY?” BAD MOVE.
THE PAST 19 HOURS AND 14 MINUTES HAVE BEEN NIGHTMARISH. HATE, HATE, HATE… YOU, YOU, YOU.
We have a picture of the new one.
Look! It’s only been 10 weeks and the little bastard already has hands. That’s cool! But that’s not the point. If you lived here you’d understand. We made a very intentional, mature and confident decision based on our trust in YOU… and you failed.
And because of your failure, I get to live with Beelzebub for the next five months and 13 days. That’s all I’m sayin’.
She knows it. Just ask her.
But be careful in your approach. She’s kind of pissed off, too. Have I mentioned that she threw up in the refrigerator?
Yeah. Walk softly and carry a big friggin’ stick, there, Skippy.
She’s feeling better during the daytime. She even claims “energy” between the hours of 8 am and about 5:30 pm.
I get home from work at six.
And that’s precisely the time of day she remembers that you suck, and everything becomes my fault… again.
When she broke the dish last night, I got slapped because I put it on the wrong side of the correct cabinet the night before. She used to give me sex because I put them up at all. But that’s where you pricks came in (i.e., Benjamin and Merrie Cannon).
Thanks for nothing.
I get to change all diapers. All of ’em.
I got called on my cell phone last night so I could rush home to change a Pamper… “Hurry! Ben just wet his diaper!”
A wet diaper. Pee, not poop. Baby-boy urine. That’s all.
But, if I’m within 2 miles of a diaper in need of discard, I’m the go-to guy.
And, thanks to you no-good crapbags, there’ll soon be more diapers to change! But for now let’s focus on the problem at hand… and on hands and clothes and beds and floors and…
She gags, Trojan.
And I mean gaaaaags. These aren’t the “brushing your teeth and accidentally go too far back on your tongue” kind of gags. These are doubled-over, lurching, back-breaking, turn so red you get purple and almost fall down, body heave kind of gags. It’s like Amityville Horror every time somebody takes a leak!
You should see these gags.
Oh, and I pray that you will, Trojan. “May your wives be impregnated and your houses full of kicking, screaming, peeing, pooping bundles of ‘joy’.”
She’s being very, very nice. I do not know what to say. I’m scared. I’m puzzled. I’m… still pissed off at you, but at least she’s acting human.
I’ve been in Chicago for 3 days… with her. You were off the hook in the Windy City. She was wonderful. We ate, (I) drank, ate, (I) drank, saw cool things, went to a Cubs game, ate… (I) even got to drink scotch whiskey with a 70-year old Presbyterian minister (from Scotland) in a kilt at the top of the University Club for three hours on Saturday night…
He wore the kilt. Not me.
Point is, we had one of the best weekends my memory will allow me to locate.
But now we’re home, and she hates me. And I still hate you. And I want to move to Chicago.
So, where should I send the remaining condoms from the ill-fated pack that I purchased to help make sure my wife wouldn’t turn into a bloated Mommy Deaest?
I’d just throw them away, but I’m afraid an unsuspecting homeless person might find them and further ruin his life by trusting you sonsabitches with what’s left of his manhood.
A prompt reply would be appreciated. I want these things out of my house.
She tosses and turns and tosses and turns and bounces and wiggles and exhales (loudly) and squeaks and screams in her pillow and bangs the bed with her fists and throws the covers and cries and then laughs maniacally and then falls asleep for a few minutes and then comes back for more. Sounds pretty awesome, doesn’t it?
She can’t effing sleep! And guess what that means, Trojan?
That’s right… Daddy can’t sleep either. Unless, of course, he’s at a stoplight on the way in to work this morning.
The police officer understood my predicament and did not issue me a ticket… But I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.
You know what makes you not the worst company (and product) to have ever been let through the patent office?
You read correctly. “Nesting.” That’s the only redeemable thing about what your crap product allowed to happen to me about 3 months ago.
She’s starting to clean, and I freaking love it! Drawers, closets, the kitchen cabinets and pantry. She even sorted my sock drawer.
Nesting is wonderful, and I guess – at the end of a long weekend – I owe you guys a debt of thanks.
…sorry I haven’t written in a few weeks. I’ve been busy.
Don’t think for a second that I’ve forgotten about you. The odds of that happening rank down there with me waking up from this very real and lengthy nightmare.
It aint happenin’.
But this particular love note has nothing to do with an update of any kind. I need to clarify a few things. My hate and disgust and rage toward you and your cheap-ass product have no reflection on how I feel for or about my wife. Any anger that you “perceive” regarding our correspondence should be absorbed and taken to heart by you and you alone.
And George Bush.
I love my wife more than I love beer (and I tell her so on a regular basis)! I just hate what you have allowed to happen to her hormones. Those little demon-bastards are what make me pray for death.
For me, not her.
It’s not her fault, and I know that. And I also know that I’ll one day learn to love the little miracle that’s dancing around in her belly. This has nothing to do with my family – current or impending. It’s about YOU.
So, thank you and screw you. You’ll be hearing from me soon.
Tell me something… since you guys are the supposed “experts” in the area(s) of whatever the hell you do: Is it normal for me to actually be able to SEE hormones? I’m not kidding. En Masse, they form something that looks almost exactly like my wife. Except for the eyes are fire and they yell a lot. I’d just like to know… I might need to consult a doctor. Or a minister. Or an exorcist.
Anyway, we’re making progress with all of this. We’ve decided on a name. If it’s a manchild, we’ll call him “Abe” (after someone named Abraham). If it’s a girl, my wife can call her whatever she wants, because Ben and I are leaving.
I hate you.
A hormone ate my dinner roll.
We were having dinner the other night — me, my three children, my wife and the fetus — when I asked: Hey, is there any more bread? I didn’t get a roll.
You’d have thought my words had been: I have been thinking about having an affair with the african american check-out guy at the Shell gas station…
The look I received was without description. And it cannot be explained. Not with words, anyway.
The fact is, I never received a dinner roll. My oldest daughter ate one. My son dug a hole in his with his pointer-finger and stuck green beans in the middle of it. The one-year old gnawed on hers for a few minutes and I found it an hour later stuck to the side of the fridge.
My wife ate two. I watched her. In fact, witnessing the butter melt over top of the second one is what triggered my initial inquiry…
“What do you mean, ‘Is there any more bread’? You ate your bread…”
No I didn’t.
“You most certainly did.”
Nope. I had two helpings of beans, but I never got a roll.
“Yes you did! I made 5 rolls… you must’ve already eaten yours.”
You made 5 rolls?
“Of course I made 5 rolls. There are 5 of us in this family!”
But you had two…
“What’s that supposed to mean!?”
You had two rolls.
“I did not!”
I promise. I just saw you eat two ro…
(crash, bang, car noises and then silence)
The kids and I cleaned the kitchen together, I gave them baths and then put them to bed. All in all, it was a pretty quiet evening.
I ended up eating the roll that was stuck to the refrigerator, so everything turned out OK in the end.
My wife came back home a couple of hours later. She said she just needed to get away for a while. She and the fetus stopped for ice cream on the way home.
I aksed if she brought any back for me, but I don’t guess she heard me…
Her “milk ducts” are forming.
I still do not like you, and I hope bad things happen to you and your company.
Happy Holidays, morons. It’s a good thing Baby Jesus came into the world to save your ashy, black souls.
Thanks for sucking so bad. Richard Abraham Ivey was born this morning. My wife then had her tubes tied by a surgeon. You’ll not be hearing from me again…