Operation Squirrelly

Well, I promised you some news, so here you go. Operation Squirrelly — previously alluded to here — is a success.

We’ve known for a while. In fact, we knew almost immediately. But it wasn’t until The Queen came home from her first Nurse / Midwife appointment with sonogram in hand that the truth really sunk in: I was now the proud father of what appeared to be a packing peanut. Wow,” I said upon looking at the image. “You get 50 more in there and that uterus is ready to ship!” (Note: do not say this to your wife.)

I don’t know what I expected to happen next — maybe we’d get a few more of these ultrasound pictures, like postcards from the womb, and then nine months later The Squirrelly would just show up in a taxi or something. Little did I imagine that the next step would be for us to start eating like hippies. The Queen purchased a book called Every Woman’s Guide to Eating During Pregnancy (A.K.A. How To Make Your Husband As Unhappy As You Are During Pregnancy) and began whipping up the sort of dishes that make vegans giddy. Seriously, the first meal she made involved red chard. Do you know what chard is? Do you know why you never eat chard? Well, I’m here to tell you that once you eat chard, the reasons why you never eat chard become abundantly clear.

(I was recently talking to someone at work about Operation Squirrelly and mentioned that The Queen had just entered the second trimester. “Ah,” said my coworker, “She’s entering the salad days.” I was immediately seized by fear, thinking she meant that, during the next three months, we’d be eating salad more often than we already do! Thankfully, the opposite has been true: now The Queen eats seven meals a day, two of which usually involve The Outback Steakhouse, so I can pick and choose which ones to join.)

Either because of or in addition to the chard, the first trimester was rough on The Queen. Apparently placentasmithing is hard work, and she was pretty much exhausted all the time. I told her she should write down her daily caloric intake, estimate how many calories she was getting out of the deal, and write the difference in a ledger. Then, when The Squirrelly gets older, we can make it pay us back in chores. “You’re not going anywhere this weekend,” we’ll say. “You’ve got 23,800 calories worth of lawn to mow.”

But The Queen’s been feeling much better now that she’s entered her fourth month. Now I feel sorry for the cats. Since the addition of Edgar to the household it’s been a monkeys-vs-kitties stalemate, with each team having equal members. Team Monkey really only holds power by virtue of the fact that we can open doors and cans. But throughout the first trimester, I think the cats thought they had a defector. After all, The Queen has begun to exhibit some distinctly feline qualities, namely (a) sleeping 19 hours a day, (b) becoming exceptionally finicky about food, and (c) occasionally throwing up without warning or provocation. I’m sure they were thinking “Once we convince her to start pushing beer coasters off the coffee table, she’ll be our!” Little do they know of the monumental act of treachery The Queen has in store for them, when, in six months, she not only rejoins Team Monkey but brings on the reinforcements.

Anyhow, that’s the news. The due date is February 21st. But I need everyone in the Internet Community to spend three minutes a day hoping for February 29th. It would be totally fun to torture The Squirrelly three out of every four years by saying “Sorry, no birthday presents again this year. I don’t make the rules, I just follow them.” That’s gonna be awesome.