As the world surely knows by now, Miss Crankypants’ only daughter is expecting. Like next week! As we all await the arrival of Sir Amon Patrick, Miss CP thought it would be the perfect time to make fun of something other than the poor mom-to-be’s waddle, enormous basketball stomach or her curb-walking techniques.
Instead, let’s pick on the DAD-to-be! He LOVES all things with an engine, rides a Harley and probably buys camo toilet paper. Hates PINK. That’s how manly he is!
In Miss CP’s day, no man would be caught dead holding the diaper bag. Amon’s daddy though, is one proud papa. He poses for pictures with a manly-looking diaper bag slung casually over his shoulder, hand on the high r.p.m. jogger stroller. Does he not cut a fine figure? And this is before he’s been thrown-up on even once!
Amon’s dad is so involved in his wife’s pregnancy (yes you can say this now in polite company) that he regularly monitors her progress.
Just yesterday, he was talking to his buddies, aka The Cul-de-sac Crew. “Yeah, my wife’s getting close,” Daddio crowed. “She’s been having Briggs and Stratton contractions for weeks!”
Cul-de-sac crew member Number 1 lifted his beer bottle. “Let’s toast the new dad!” Number 2 looked at papa. “Don’t you mean Braxton-Hicks contractions?”
Dad shrugged. “At least three of her pistons have dropped.”
Number 1 asked, “How will you know when it’s time to go to the hospital?”
Crew member 2 scratched his head. “My wife popped out a kid last year. I seem to remember some rule about 5-1-1.”
Dad makes a face. “The doc said something about her being 1 cm dilapidated and 85% effeminate. I’ll be darned if my son is going to wear pink!”
“Dilated! Effaced! It means she going to go into labor any minute you imbecile!” Number 2 glanced nervously at the house, where Preggo was trying to get up off the couch. Again. A wail issued as she failed to launch off the sofa.
Number 1 added, “Dude. Better get in there and see if it’s her time!”
Dad waved his buddies off. “Aw, she gets stuck on the sofa all the time. She always moans like that. I just hope she doesn’t end up ordering a Caesar.”
“You mean Cesarean?”
“Whatev. By the way, what’s this five one one stuff? Sounds like the gas formula for one of my dirt bikes.”
Number 1 chuckled. “Oh you’ll get your fill of formula soon enough, buster.”
Number 2 smirked. “You’re having a baby and you don’t even know the 5-1-1?”
Dad grinned. “I sure hope it means five beers before you’re sucked into the land of diapers forever.
“Some dad you’ll make.”
Dad hoisted his cool man-diaper bag onto his shoulder. “I gotta go–if her Briggs & Strattons don’t calm down, my wife may be even more dilapidated than I thought. Don’t worry though–I’ve packed lots of camo onesies so the boy never has to wear pink.”