Until today, I’ve never felt compelled to write a disclaimer on a Zenestex post. It’s not that any of the language in this post is uncharted territory for my site. It’s not. But my fear is that poor, innocent, unsuspecting, expectant mothers will find this article on a search engine while seeking pregnancy advice. It’s here. And it’s good. But if you do not share our sense of humor, you’re gonna be an unhappy reader. And neither of us want that. If foul language, frank discussion about pregancy, and roughly 30 synonyms for women’s no-no parts will offend you, then STOP. DO NOT CONTINUE READING. Click that button on the upper left that points BACK. I’m only warning you once.
Good. Now, if you’re still reading and you get offended, then you’re just a dick who wants to be offended. Don’t be a dick.
See that? Two layers of Unsuspecting Googler Wards.
I met Layla this past fall when Li brought her into town for a visit. I’m absolutely not a baby person. In fact, I have an unnatural fear of babies. After two years, we’re totally cool. Until then, I’m always afraid I’ll drop them and break them like some invaluable piece of heirloom china. Even more than that, I’m terrified by their every move. They’re like little ostriches that ooze liquids from every orifice and just look for creepy ways to crawl into your personal space and yank on your facial features.
On Li’s visit, I developed an instant connection with Layla, which I definitely never anticipated. I had this bizarre urge. I wanted to hold her. Me? Holding a baby?! Cats and dogs living together! Mass hysteria! Don’t get me wrong, I’m still hopelessly awkward with Layla, but the difference is that I really don’t care. More than love her, I actually like her. Which is why I insisted on being Layla’s Little Uncle Bobby (my dad is Thee Uncle Bobby).
Here’s Li’s journey from when she found out she was preggerz through her climactic final battle between the forces of birthing and pooing.