Showing posts with label daddy day care. Show all posts
Showing posts with label daddy day care. Show all posts

25.6.11

28 Seconds Later...

Been at the Hershey's again, Final Girl?
Like the quasi-zombies (they aren't technically zombies) in the movie, 28 Days Later, where a mad-monkey-kung-fu-RAGE disease spreads to postmodern Brits like a crack-froth Montezuma's Revenge through a cruiseship full o' Rotarians, there's another very real and very dangerous demographic that can quickly mimic this type of ravenously psychotic fast-moving zombie-crazed biteyness WAY faster than 28 days -- indeed, it can happen in a mere 28 seconds. Who and how? Kids and sugar, hello?

Feed delightful munchkins maple syrup, cake, cookies, cotton candy bongs, etc. and they fairly explode into raging, gibbering, pinballing zombies (the fast kind), sometimes quicker than 28 seconds. Typically, they erupt after about 12 minutes, especially if they're boys and there's more than one of them. Da-da thinks of these short ontological windows as short-fuze events, offering about 10-12 minutes to reach minimum safe distance. Alas, if they're your kids, you're in the blast event-horizon for the duration.

What can be done during one of these attacks? Nothing, of course. You have to wait it out. Like the ancients always said, "That which you cannot cure, you must endure," and parenting is nothing if not a marathon of painful zombie endurance. Experienced zombie parents deploy sugar tactically -- on special occasons -- prepared for the coming onslaught with various sugar-burning activities like towing the car to the top of Mt. Everest or building a giant Egyptian pyramid grill for Da-da from 2.2 ton stones in the backyard. You think the pyramids were built on grain and garlic? Nope. Those suckers were constructed via some kinda Pharoanic sugary whack-juice extracted from who-knows-what and fed to... you got it: CRAZED, SUGARED-UP CHILDREN:

"Get that finished or no SpongeBob tonight. I'm not telling you again!"

"HEY, YOU KIDS! After you finish your slushies and candy BONGS, go outside and BUILD ME A PYRAMID. Bigger than the last two. Align them with the three stars in Orion's Belt, and NO WHINING. Be sure to clean up and brush your teeth, afterwards. AND DON'T TRACK SAND IN THE HOUSE AGAIN."

20.6.11

Da-da ID'd by French Nationals (UPDATED)

The culprit.

This is fun. Da-da's reporting live from the field, currently at some obscure, old hotel where movie stars used to hang out (hey, the rooms were cheap), a waypoint on a longer roadtrip. Forced out of the room at 6:30 am by the earlybird piranha brothers, Da-da was recently sitting in the lobby of the hotel, hiding from his fate of loading the car and wrangling spent nuclear monkey material into the Jeep, when two 20-something French nationals, wearing matching Abercrombie and Fitch gear, suddenly stopped before Da-da where he sat, and stared at him.

"Excuse me, please. Are you a... hippie?"

Ok, Da-da was indeed wearing his loud green Grateful Dead Celtic tie-dye (sorry Dead fans, Da-da's never heard anything the Dead has done, he just liked the shirt), but his hair is short and his beard... well, moderately trimmed, and he's wearing a highly distressed San Francisco Giants cap. He looks absolutely nothing like a hippie. But, while Da-da would normally have come up with a sharp zinger comment, he got no sleep last night, and was frankly puzzled by the fact that there were TWO such matching French Abercrombie couples in Da-da's hotel, so... in this confusion vortex, all Da-da could answer was (if you'll pardon the first-person):

"Yes. I am a hippy."

The French couple was thrilled and immediately asked if they could have their pictures taken with Da-da. He conceded and the front desk clerk immortalized the moment, the French couple giggling after Da-da answered their query about his name, deadpan: "They call me, Da-da."

Da-da is now inextricably intertwined in the memories of at least two French people and their immediate families as Da-da, the Hippy. Da-da can't make this stuff up, folks.


UPDATE: Later in the trip, another hotel, another tie-dye shirt... while riding up in an elevator, Da-da overheard a German tween whisper to his father and younger sister, in German, entre eux, nodding toward Da-da: "Du siehst? Ein Hippie." Da-da sighed and just looked at the kid, who looked a little pale at that point (maybe hippies are the equivalent of some Nietzschean Superzombie in Europe). Da-da can understand a handful of languages very well, German being one of his best. The elevator doors opened and Da-da stepped out, saying, "Das ist krass geil." The tween's jaw dropped and that was that, hippienessity notwithstanding.

19.6.11

Father's Day Rapprochement

Damn. Da-da forgot the sippy cups.
It's Father's Day, so please allow Da-da to climb out of the comic maelstrom a moment (which means most will stop reading, but Da-da doesn't care). His boys have finally calmed down enough after more than a handful of years, so Da-da can pause and look back a bit before pushing past the illusory summit; after all, he writes this blog for his boys to read one day, so a little perspective every once in a while keeps the ice axes buried in the chicken.

Da-da's lived a hundred lifetimes. A thousand. And in there he's had some really terrible jobs (and terrible bosses, O the inhumanity), jobs that nearly did Da-da in, and while Da-da bitches a lot about his radioactive monkey progeny, well... being Mr. Mom is the best job he's ever had. Indeed, Da-da feels sorry for those who don't get/take the chance to raise their own children because of whatever reason. They don't know what they're missing. (Whatever you do, don't sign up for Au Pair Despair.) Sure, it's a hard job. MAN, is it hard. One of the toughest ever -- at least for Da-da and his rough brood. Summitting an Everest of broken glass every day while dragging around a bus-load of angry Rotarians would be luxury in comparison.

Regardless, being Mr. Mom is the best learning experience Da-da's ever had. You couldn't know this, o'course, but Da-da's got one of those installed memory banks that are annoying as hell: he can't forget anything, not the diaper episodes, the projectile vomits, the shushing-to-sleep episodes, the tantrums, none of it. But the hardest part of being a parent (for Da-da, anyway) is overcoming the fear that comes with being a parent. Da-da doesn't mean the fear of having children. He means the anxiety (that grips fathers more than mothers, perhaps), the TERROR that something's gonna happen to your little ones, fear that's multiplied when you have another... then it goes down the more you have, which must be some primitive passing-the-genes-on male thing. Or maybe it's because you're so punch-drunk by the time the other kids arrive that it doesn't matter, but you do get over it. The molten lava runs out of the caldera, burns its course, and leaves you stronger for it, not to mention getting rid of all those pesky leaves you needed to rake and trees you needed to prune. Needless to say, positive thinking and a good sense of humor is vital to the job, that and trust -- which is probably the toughest to maintain, learning to trust that everything will eventually go according to plan if you'd just get your ass out of the way.

Believe it or not, part of Da-da's rapprochement was the research he did into secret societies and arcane subjects and spiritual matters for over 20 years, research that lead to a deep, underlying understanding of, well... Life, the Universe and Everything, an understanding that stripped away obsolete bits of Da-da that never mattered to the climb, or the climber. He won't need that sofa or that samurai sword on the top of a mountain, so why was he carrying them? Same went for his music career, his art career, his silly tenure in the upholstered, treadmilled halls of Discorporate America. His idea of himself has been immolated on the push toward the summit, the crucible poured out, the bad metaphors either dashed on the rocks, or boiled, mixed with mayo and served on a crunchy roll. The hairless ape in the silvery firesuit was handed a walking stick and a new pair of eyes he wouldn't trade for all the music deals and book deals and art openings and other silly ego ephemera of a lifetime.

What's it like being a parent, so far? It's like watching a good, old fashioned thriller: Da-da laughed, Da-da cried, Da-da was on the edge of his seat. On to the next ascent... which looks steep, krikey. Where in hell is that UP escalator? (Sure are a lot of DOWN ones around.) Watch your step. And Happy Father's Day, gents.

So long, Brad, wherever you are. Be sure to take the UP escalator, dude.

18.6.11

Scenes From Da-da's Mind-Roasting Summer


In case anyone was wondering, there is one simple ingredient that turns the above image into the below image. Can you guess what that is?


That's right: CHILDREN.

Da-da just spent an hour prying indescribably gooey thingies from nooks and crannies of his vehicle, most of which were sentient and knew Da-da's social security number by heart -- and the family hasn't even left, yet. This hardly surprises Da-da as nothing surprises Da-da after six years of constant Da-da surprises. Ok, that's a lie. There was one little surprise: how did the boys get ice cream sandwiches INSIDE the exhaust manifold? Does not bode well. Then again, not much had been well-boding since the little miscreants showed up. Sure, they're all cute and adorable and full of light and hugs just before you're ready to kill them, but it's just a cheap trick. A TRICK. [sigh]

Summer Roadtrip Prelaunch Countdown commencing... confidence is NOT high... repeat, CONFIDENCE IS NOT HIGH.

What's For Breakfast?


What's for breakfast? Da-da doesn't know. Why are you asking him? Ask the giant with the fuzzy feet. What Da-da wants to know is: WHO'S GOT WET PAWS?

14.6.11

Triumph of a Man Called Da-da


"...Da-da suddenly found himself with no marketable skills. No contacts. No brains. No looks. No guile. No drive. Nothing the modern world used as currency. Caring for children had taken him out of the money stream, away from what other people thought was real, valuable, worthy of respect. (Respect is only for mothers.) It had only taken five years, half a decade to make it all vanish like his old musical career, now a phantom limb. Skills like listening, making intelligent conversation were considered archaic, mock-worthy, a curiosity. His society had been supplanted by a fey, scantily clad alien monster that stared at its fearful reflection all day and all night, with nothing for anyone who didn't feed it. In that same short span, his art had become tired, his writing obsolete, both filled with words and concepts modern humans had ostensibly forgotten and couldn't be bothered to look up; that was too much like work. Now, he marked his days with how much shampoo he used: one bottle equaled about two months; five bottles and it was the holidays! Time to tell his visiting mother-in-law that he still didn't have any promising leads. Truth was, he'd become what used to be termed an Institutional Man, and he didn't mind as much as you might think. Sure, mornings saw his eyes filled with sand as he went downstairs to make meals that were at best half-eaten, but perhaps appreciated in some future time. Despite this threat of pancake mortality, he'd smile as he stirred his instant coffee and looked at the morning trees outside, for he knew that not everyone understands the currency of hugs, the fringe benefits of life construction and maintenance. It's not like he was missing much out in the world, anyway. And yes, he'd be lying if he didn't admit that part of that morning smile was gentle schadenfreude, because Da-da knew that the same thing will happen to you one day... or you'll spend your life secretly wishing it would."
                        [-Excerpted from Le Prisonnier Heureux by M. Proust. Trans. by Pere Pullum-Fictus.]

9.6.11

Bronko and Nagurski's Helpful Tips for Grandpa (or, "BIG PANTS REQUIRED")

The boys are really quite close... and sure, maybe a little hard on Downtown Tokyo.

In the midst of one of their recent no-holds-barred meeting-of-the-minds, Bronko and Nagurski -- Da-da's four- and six-year-old, two-fisted love-muffin gargantuas -- thrashed out hirsute, sage advice, not only for the grampas in their lives, but for quantum grampas everywhere (in Westernized countries, anyway). Da-da has thus been tasked with clarifying the role of those carrying the title, "GRAMPA," for today's post-post-modern, quantum children, aged two to ten. The gargantuas' hairy knuckled attorney duly informed Da-da that he must comply within the specified time frame (um, like NOW) as outlined on page 97 of the prospectus, or suffer an, "attornity" of legalage tantrums. Sure. Fine. Whatever. Please pay attention.

To Whom It May Concern... Dear Whom:

As grampa, you are duly required to carry in your pockets at all times (24/7/365) something:
A. interesting, and/or useful (no, not that); B. amusing (no, not that), or; C. incomprehensible (no, not that). Here's a handy G-rated list of things that should be found in grampa's pockets:
  1. Toys (any)
  2. Popsicles (unmelted)
  3. More toys and popsicles
  4. Cookies (sans lint)
  5. More cookies (with or without lint)
  6. Anything remote controlled (and G-rated)
  7. Anything with a "D" rocket motor (and G-rated)
  8. Extra "D" rocket motors
  9. Explosives of any kind
  10. A puppy
  11. A giant robot
  12. An extradimensional space.
Failing to fulfill this obligation will result in your grampanessity being rendered either non compos mentis or e sinus pluribus unum, and "the cat" will heretofore NOT LIKE YOU ("the cat" defined as the 1200 lb. Bengal tiger living in the backyard). You have been warned grampa-citizen.
         Needless to say, grampas by definition must be big pants people.

        Is that the 5000 piece LEGO Millenium Falcon in there?

        8.6.11

        What Parenthood Actually Looks Like

        Sure, Da-da used to be rich and HOT, but now... now all he's got is his incredible humility.
        Winter must be cold for those with no warm memories...

        What Parenthood Actually Looks Like


        That should read, "And then... after making all their meals (and not having one myself), delivering the monkeys at school, fixing various things on the playground as a favor, vacuuming the house, helping a neighbor with her medications, cleaning the house, taking out the trash and recycling, watering the plants and dead-heading all the roses before 10:00 am... I blacked out. AND I LIKED IT."

        4.6.11

        Kid Poetry



        My heart trembles like a poor leaf.
        The planets whirl in my dreams.
        The stars press against my window.
        I rotate in my sleep.
        My bed is a warm planet.

        —Marvin Mercer
        P.S. 153, Fifth Grade, Harlem
        New York City, N.Y. (1981)

        2.6.11

        Oldest Most Distant Tantrum in the Universe Discovered...


        ...and yes, it turns out that Da-da, in a previous stellar incarnation, was there, sitting patiently at the back of the cosmic bus while quasar toddlers exploded in fury. Be glad you weren't there. Here's the poop if you want to get technical.
        A gamma-ray toddler burst known as GRTB 090429B for the 29 April 2009 date when it was detected by NASA's AIIEIE satellite has been found to be a candidate for the most distant toddler tantrum explosion in the Universe at an estimated distance of 13.14 billion light years -- which is still not far enough away. The toddler burst lies far beyond any known quasar lawn gorillas and could be more distant than any previously known kid burst. The gigantic tantrum burst of gamma toddler rays erupted from an exploding toddler when the Universe was less than 4% of its present age, just 520 million years old, and less than 10% of its present size, when attorneys were not yet evident and eveything was much cheaper and more wholesome, yet still incredibly loud and annoying, what are you gonna do?
        Gamma-ray toddler bursts, the loudest explosions known, unfortunately occur within the observable Universe at a rate of about twenty octillion per day. Because of their extreme loudness, gamma-ray toddler bursts can be detected by really anyone in the known universe (with ears) who isn't smart enough to wear earplugs. While the bursts themselves last for about 20 minutes, their painful, fading "hangover" remains in the parental observer's neural event horizon for a freaking long time, and is akin to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Detailed studies of the toddler explosion hangover during this time, when feasible, allow masochistic scientists to measure the distance to the burst. Why they would care is beyond Da-da.

        [linky]

        Some scientists' wooden heads make handy paperweights. Others do not.

        1.6.11

        31.5.11

        Unsuccessful Parenting Strategies Meet With Success and Other Inspirational Nonsense

        Shotgun!

        Recently Da-da read about a 23-year-old mother who left her 2YO and 9MO kids on her mother's doorstep (presumably to ride grandma's ostrich) late at night. Reprehensible, o'course (and it shows you that once you're a parent, you're one FOREVER), but this did give Da-da an idea. Da-da's since left his own children (for the day, officer) on the doorstep of the Buck Institute for Aging so they can determine why Da-da's children have not only made him into such an old man in such a short time, but also to determine what skin conditioner he needs to keep from looking like solid rock. Good luck, guys.

        Da-da undergoing special anti-aging therapy at the Redundancy Institute of Redundancy.

        13.5.11

        Da-da's Open Pre-Commencement Day Letter to the President

        Let's get this baby off the ground.
        To: President Barack Obama
        From: A Man Called Da-da


        Greetings, Mr. President. First off, please forgive the third-person tenor of this open letter. After being Mr. Mom for six years, the nerves in Da-da's head have ostensibly lost the art of self-centered self-awareness. Anyway, Da-da writes you this letter as Commencement Day for schools everywhere is almost upon us, and Da-da had an idea that might not only help kids, it might also help those writing Commencement Day speeches. Now, rather than backtrack and talk about the past and the present and the sputnik and the thing, Da-da's gonna do one quick run-on PAST, then plunge headlong into the FUTURE. Here we go.

        Da-da will begin with a big, "duh": Education is important. It's also broken, and no one seems to be able to do anything to fix it. And with Every Child Left Behind working no wonders -- but definitely getting kids used to taking lots of tests and not learning much and being stressed out all the time because of all the tests and preparing for tests and not learning much and the fact that teachers pass on this stress due to having to deal with all the soulless busywork homework and tests and preparing for the tests and not... you know, TEACHING -- well, no one's very happy. Indeed, 98% of folks agree that the program should be abolished, esp. as suicide rates among kids are increasing in step with Every Child Left Behind, but that's another issue. The purpose of this letter is the offering of a quiet, reasonably inexpensive and not-so-radical idea for the future of education. Ready?

        You, Mr. President, could create a new university system called, "The University" (or somesuch), based on small, liberal arts college models, installing an inexpensive university and fully wired library in every state -- and in every country the U.S. is friends with -- granting untold access to a whole world of students via collaborative, global-reach learning. This would inject money into building projects in every state, and employ all those teachers and PhDs who are currently bagging groceries and piloting taxicabs, or simply feeling hopelessly unemployed. It would build libraries with real books that work even if the power goes out. It would install high speed networks linking all these universities and libraries and students and faculty and brain trusts together into a massive living global encyclopedia of shared humanity, fostering distance learning and international unity. (Might want to read that last one again.) It would open doors to students who are interested in both learning and serving their fellow beings who see other people in other countries as PEOPLE, people without the pressure of politics or sports or parties or consumerism or expensive corporate research... you know, education without an agenda. Create a university system whose charter is to create enlightened, omnidimensional thinkers who love learning and teaching and exploring, and can think abstractly for themselves.

        Most importantly, the group of (say a few thousand) students would receive the best education money can buy -- for free -- so a clear higher-ed alternative exists for kids to shoot for, kids from all over, worldwide.

        Those who think this is all about spending *their* money will invariably be howling at this point (if not much sooner), calling Da-da all variety of names. But Da-da has news for you: it's not your money. It's OUR money. It always was. And OUR money is being wasted on things with no value. What things? Da-da will tell you.

        If we table untenable missions to Mars that benefit no one, and cease wars that no one wants (except military contractors and oil companies, boo hoo), and cancel blackworld projects that no one can account for (and are thus illegal), and stop participation in unwinnable wars on drugs, we could use a tiny fraction of those saved trillions of dollars (yes, trillions) for something constructive. We could not only rebuild education, we could boost it a whole order of magnitude -- you know, like a "leader" country would, back when we were one.

        Do this, Mr. President, and you're suddenly, "The Education President." Why the hell not? The American Dream doesn't have to be dead. Why not install the hope of education everywhere? It would act as a global stabilizing influence. I think you'll also find that educated people are kinder people, less willing to foment violence and lust for power and call for the, "death of enemies," and who are more willing to... well, COMPROMISE.

        Correct Da-da if he's wrong here, but COMPROMISE is what used to make America work. The lion's share of self-absorbed, self-centered ME-ME-ME special interest Americans have forgotten the word -- COMPROMISE, it bears repeating -- as evidenced by all the suffering it currently causes. We can not only remember it, but reify it here, getting together to educate future generations in an educational experiment like none other, raising a child's mind higher than any mind has ever gone before. Isn't this what all parents want? Shouldn't this be the goal of humanity? Educating people not just so they can get high paying jobs, but educating such that the system yields decent, open-minded people who can, "think sideways," and naturally work together. Every employer would fight over these kinds of graduates -- in every country. This may sound preposterous to some, but it's nothing if not entirely rational. And entirely do-able. And entirely human. Mr. President, Da-da eagerly awaits your feedback.

        Best regards,

        A Man Called Da-da
        U.S. Citizen Taxpayer

        Kids don't have to look like this.

        12.5.11

        The House of NO


        Da-da has built and lives in the unapologetic House of NO. NO, you can't watch any more TV today, one hour is enough. NO, you can't play video games, they rot your attention span and serve no purpose. NO, you can't run around naked outside (not till college). NO, you can't bite your brother's neck, Da-da doesn't want to clean up the blood... NO! And YES, Da-da has reasons for all these negations. He will explain them in detail, if you'd like, with chalkboard illustrations, sources and character witnesses, if necessary. And YES, your feelings are noted, as always.


        However, as Da-da says many times every month, he is not here to be liked. He's not your friend, he's your FATHER and zoo keeper. He's here to do his duty, to wear the Arbiter's Sweatpants of Safety, Common Sense (which is certainly not common anymore), Goodness, Fair Play, and a lot of other Capitalized Words that are increasingly archaic no matter how terrible the cost is to Da-da himself. Otherwise, he would be a poor candidate for Da-da, and hence, no use to small beings everywhere, so there. 

        Ok, which one of you detonated the atomic bomb in the living room again?

        11.5.11

        Da-da's Post-Postmodern Pledge of Allegiance

        Now that my oldest is in kindergarten, they're starting to try to make them mindlessly chant the Pledge of Allegiance. Pledge of allegiance? Da-da thought that Cold War dinosaur was long buried and yielding dirty crude at some lower, blackworld strata, but BOOM, there it is, like Dick Cheney back from the dead. Da-da's pretty sure some won't like this, but to what, exactly, are these kids pledging themselves? With this in mind, Da-da got cranky and wrote his own post-postmodern pledge of allegiance for today's schools.
        Da-da's Post-Postmodern Pledge of Allegiance

        I'll try to look at that flappy stripey thing above this place I live in
              (which isn't all that united, lemme tell ya).
        And to the police state which will tax me till I die (and for what, exactly?),
        Many corporations, wa-aay divisible,
        with Liberty and Justice for all the executives.
        "Guy Fawkes, clean up on aisle nine. Guy Fawkes...."

        10.5.11

        A Pre-Father's Day Volley


        In Da-da's previous post, Mother's Day Post-mortem, he featured Bronko and Nagurski's school questionnaires re: their Ma-ma, with someone (probably Da-da's mother-in-law) anonymously commenting:
        "Why is Mom, according to Bronko, cleaning house so much? Isn't that your job?!" 
        Indeed, it is, though we share the house duties, so Da-da can at least keep some rights to his penis, if not the actual member itself, most of which was decommissioned at least one kid ago and shipped off to some containment facility, O the humanity. Wherewasi?  Oh. Da-da let the commenter know that much of Da-da's cleaning work is done when the kids are at school, but also promised to do his own questionnaire. About Da-da. So, here we go. Below are Bronko's responses, unedited and uncoached (the underlined portions are his answers), with Da-da's inexorable comments [in brackets]. Da-da hopes this puts this issue to rest.
        From Bronko: "My Da-da"
        What is your Da-da's name? Da-da. [Bronko actually gave Da-da's real first name.]

        What does he look like? What color are his eyes and hair? What does he like to wear? He looks tired. His hair is white and red and brown and no hair. [Thanks, kid.] His eyes are blue and red and blue. [Must be the spice.] He likes to wear tie-dye shirts. [Damn hippy.]

        What does he do for work? His computer.

        What does he do at your house? He does games and cleans the house up and goes to school with me. [Ahem. As Wellington said to Napolean at Waterloo, "HA!"]

        What do you do together? He plays with me. And builds robot box monsters. [True. Pics later.]

        What makes your Da-da happy? Huggies and kisses. [In a manly way, arrrr.]

        What does he do for fun? Do his computer and play with me. [Mmm. Da-da might need to work on his computer less.]

        If you could give your Da-da a present, what would you give him? I would give him a trumpet. [Da-da used to be a musician -- indeed, he's now a recovering musician, having sold his prized horn to a friend so her kid could get some professional mileage out of it.]

        This exercise must've worn out poor Bronko, as he promptly went into his room and crashed (getting up at 5:00 am didn't help). Anyway, there you have it. Da-da is tie-dye afflicted, cleans the house and spends too much time on this stupid computer (usu. editing lame html). That means it's time to start spend more time making kosher pickles and sauerkraut, as per this guy; his pickle recipe is awesome, btw. Speaking of pickles... gotta go. "Dr. Freud, clean up on Track Nine."

        Da-da's decommissioned manhood on its way to a containment facility [sniff].

        6.5.11

        The Ultimate Prophylactic

        Fig. 1. The female.
        Ahem. If Da-da may have your attention, please. The Ultimate Prophylactic, that is, the ultimate pregnancy prevention device, involves the following. We could start anywhere, but let's start with one possible fated outcome: cat woman. She leads to...


        Fig. 2. Opening the hood.
        ...THIS...


        Fig. 3. Sharing germ-laden saliva. Sexy!
         ...and perhaps THIS, occasionally progressing to...


        Fig. 4. The naughty bits.
        ...THIS (disgusting, but fuzzy), which every now and then (nine months later) leads to a couple months of...


        Fig. 5. Pregnancy nausea (beta carotene version).
        ...THIS, along with denial and doubt and other D-words, but not in a nice, fun way. This moves on to...


        Fig. 6. The alien.
        ...THIS, which other humans encourage for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is sharing the misery.


        Fig 7. Post-pregnancy cleavage. Enjoy.
        However, it's not all bad, as you do get these for a time, but eventually...


        Fig. 8. The child (with future pot pie).
        ...you get THIS (and not always with a chicken, but it's a nice bonus). Soon after, you invariably find yourself firmly entrenched in...


        Fig. 9. Parenthood.
        ...THIS. Parenthood: The Ultimate Prophylactic. Of course, this is only the beginning. Your cute little chreub eventually turns into...


        Fig. 10. The teenager.

        ...THIS. If by some miracle you're still in the mood, Da-da suggests reviewing the above images again.
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