I’ve spent this week at home, knitting my bones and brain. I am starting to feel relatively like myself, at least a very tired version of said jackass. To those who responded to the earlier post, my father thanks you. He also suggested we hire him full time. Fortunately, as an editor as well as a writer, I have become adept at telling people no. Keep your day job, dad. (I’m such a stinker.)
Which leaves me only with my current news: in the race to be the dominant father here at DadWagon, it looks like I can expect to win. I’m having another one, ladies and germs, a baby, that is, a girl to specific, to be delivered by my lovely and (clearly) fertile wife.
What does this mean, other than the fact that I have consigned myself to a life of grinding poverty? It means three kids, which is, to put it mildly, a butt load more than I ever planned on having. It means a lot more than that, I expect, but panicked pleasure and depression is all I have on offer presently.
More to follow, assuming no more motorized vehicles attempt to strike me dead.