Excerpt: Yes, You're Pregnant, But What About Me?

As is the case for most first-time fathers, my journey to child rearing began in Atlantic City during a chance visit to a gypsy palm reader. This was several winters ago, and at the time I

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was newly single and reeling from my divorce with my former wife. Like most stories that involve gypsies, this one took place on a blisteringly cold night as I strolled numbly along the desolate Atlantic City boardwalk. In a few short months, this very spot would be crawling with obese, sunburned, drunk tourists eating crisp, greasy summer food. Screaming kids would be whipping around on the Tilt-A-Whirl in the nearby amusement park, while teenagers would stand idly by intimidating adults with their sarcasm, chain-smoking packs of American Spirit, and trying to convince members of the opposite sex to pay attention to them.

Maybe if I were to walk this same stretch in a few months the Miss America pageant would be taking place. Maybe as I walked by the venue, Miss Idaho or Miss New Jersey would be outside on a break smoking a butt or sticking a finger down their throat. Maybe they would ask me if I had a light or a mint and then maybe we would have struck up a conversation about world peace. Maybe I would have impressed them with my worldliness by flashing the ten Euro Dollars I had in my wallet from a trip to Euro Disney two years earlier. Maybe we would have talked about teeth whiteners and the merits of flossing.

But it wasn’t July. It was February. And in Atlantic City in February there’s none of that. Instead of summer sand blowing across the sun baked, wooden planks of the boardwalk it was now dry snow and sleet whipped into a frenzy by an off shore gale. Most of the small, crappy tourist shops that sold the summer crap food and crappy t-shirts were boarded up for the season and the wooden walk way was now covered with a thin sheet of dark ice. In hindsight, I guess I should have told someone I was venturing off on this bleak and ominous excursion, so that they could have stopped me, but I didn’t and so here I was.

This may have been why I ducked into a hole in the wall with a rickety old sign outside that said “Miss Edana’s Palm Reading,” but to tell you the truth, I really have no idea what made me go in there. Perhaps it was just to have someone to talk to. Someone to tell me some good news, someone to give me hope and encouragement, that I would meet someone else and be happy again. And if none of that, maybe just someone to assure me (that my swayback could be corrected with yoga) my hands weren’t frostbitten.

In retrospect, I’m not entirely sure why I thought a gypsy would bring me good news. Movies, which form the bulk of my preconceived notions about things and the basis for all of my cultural stereotypes, always seem to portray gypsies as the bearers of bad news. They are the soothsayers and prophets whose visions are always the grimmest and least pleasant. Not to mention the fact that they steal babies and con unsuspecting tourists (or so I’ve heard).
From Miss Edana’s demeanor I assumed she might be an Irish gypsy. She was wearing a lot of ‘wrapped’ garments—stuff you would normally find draped over the back of a couch at your grandmothers: an afghan, a shawl, a half-knitted sweater, two cats, and various other laundry that was not put away. Her looped earrings were so big I expected a Cirque Du Soleil performer to land on one at anytime, and makeup covered every inch of her face. With an eyebrow pencil she had colored on a fake beauty mark just off the left side of her nose and above the corner or her mouth. It’s really the only good place for a beauty mark. One would not look good placed directly under the eye or on the chin.

As I was sizing her up she was doing the same to me. I shut the door behind me, and she peered out into the blackness, almost as if she was checking to see if anyone had followed me. When she spoke there was a husk to her voice that sounded as though she had been smoking cigarettes for quite some time, a practice which no doubt created quite the unfit environment for her latest crop of stolen babies.



To make a long story short, but still longer than it was, the gypsy looked at my palm, and without hesitation, she informed me that I had three kids I didn’t know about. So much for my good news. She cut right to the chase. There wasn’t even any verbal foreplay with my palm where she might have suggested that I would be coming into some money soon or possibly even be losing some fingers due to frostbite. She could have broken it to me more gently by fixating on my palm and suggesting the possibility that someone I had been with may have missed her period and then gradually broken the news. But no, she just spouted out that I had three kids that I didn’t know about and then surreptitiously glanced at me for a reaction. I don’t remember too much else about her reading because in my head I had started going through my list. An image of a slightly used Rolodex emerged and the small number of cards flipped by one at a time: some had only first names, like Stacey, while others contained just a description, “The girl from San Diego at that Irish bar.” A minute or so later, Miss Edana handed me back my palm and charged me eighty-five dollars, which I later wrote off as child support.

Miss Edana might have been a certified gypsy palm reader, but I was fairly certain that she made up the tale about the three kids. In truth, the likelihood of my having children I didn’t know about was, well, highly unlikely. “Don’t get anyone pregnant” was my mantra throughout my high school and college years. I’m surprised that I never got it tattooed. When I was younger, I was never a wild partier, but more significant was the fact that I was raised a Catholic. I’m paraphrasing many of the Popes here when I say that central tenant of Catholicism for post-pubescent males is don’t get anyone knocked up out of wedlock. As such, my teenage years were consumed by the fear that I would accidentally impregnate someone and most likely it would be a woman.

My parochial high school upbringing had ingrained in me that, not only would God disapprove of my premarital sex, but also my life would be ruined. It didn’t matter whether you accidentally got someone pregnant, perhaps it was a drunken one-night stand, a short relationship, a crush, brushing up against a stripper at a bachelor party in Tijuana -- it didn’t matter – that would be the person you would have to marry.

If letting God down wasn’t enough I was also made aware that I would not have the free, young man’s life that other free, young men would be having. Not only that, but I would be stuck with that baby’s mother for the rest of my life. When the right girl came along I would have this baggage, be unavailable and undesirable. This was a lot of fear and guilt for a teenager to bear, and the end result of all this risk was that I had always worked hard at not getting anyone pregnant. Luckily for me, this hard work seems to have paid off since no kid has shown up claiming me as its dad.

One indication of Hollywood success is when an alleged, illegitimate child, or its mother shows up on your front doorstep demanding reparations and support. Though I’m still not sure what constitutes real Hollywood success, as a precaution I had my front doorstep removed. Maybe, somewhere, some woman was following my career and waiting for me to really make it big before she comes-a-knockin. By the way, this was why I have purposely stayed away from doing the big, blockbuster, action-movies. Either way, if that day comes and someone does show up standing in the dirt where my doorstep used to be, it will be a mixed blessing. On one hand, I’ll know that I’ve truly made it, but I’ll also have to pay a lot more than Miss Edana’s eighty-five dollars.



A couple of years after my run-in with Miss Edana, I met my current wife Susan and finally found the hope and happiness that I was looking for when I went to visit the pessimistic gypsy. Susan and I got married and moved into a house several thousand miles from Atlantic City, but decided once again to remove the doorstep for safe measure. Our house was situated across the street from another that was rented by several kids. I call them kids but they were actually guys in their early to late twenties. I’m assuming they were trust-fund babies because they were, obviously, having a lot more fun than I had when I was their age. They seemed to have a lot of functions at their home, and by functions I mean alcohol-fueled, debauchery-laden parties, that I might have enjoyed when I was their age if I hadn’t been so worried about getting girls pregnant.

After Susan and I had been living in our house for a bit, we started to have some friends come over to drink wine and talk about non-gypsy related subjects that mostly pertained to getting older and the fact that we were experiencing pain where there was no pain before. On one such evening, I was preparing for our friends to arrive, when I realized that the youth-infused house across the street was also getting ready to host an event. As I returned from the store with three bottles of a nice Napa Valley Pinot Noir for our party, I noticed the guys across the street wheeling a keg of Miller into their house. Two other guys in USC t-shirts were inflating a small, children’s pool on the front lawn. From the recent cast of characters I had seen over there, I had a feeling that the pool would not be for children.

Once inside my house, I set the bottles down on the kitchen table, careful to move aside the latest AARP newsletter first. God forbid that should get wet. We had all we needed now for our little blow out. Actually, “blow out” is slightly exaggerating. It’s more like our little “gathering.” We call our parties “gatherings” to avoid using the words and phrases that paint a more accurate picture of what it really is: a group of mostly forty and over adults standing around, huddled like penguins, discussing the relative merits of California vs. Australian Shiraz. One thing that I’ve found to be a big hit at our gatherings is a little something called a “digital blood pressure machine.” Several years ago I bought one of these gadgets to keep an eye on my blood pressure. (Incidentally, I love gadgets – I even like the word, gadget. The word, gadget, is almost like a gadget itself. I guess it’s the official name for a ‘thingamajig.’) When Susan and I started having people over, I quickly found that not only was this gadget a good way to assuage my neurosis about the possibility of having high blood pressure but it also made for an entertaining party game as well.

Here’s how it worked: During the middle of the gathering I would proudly place the blood pressure machine on the ottoman and offer to take my guests’ blood pressure. By their reaction, you’d think I just broke out the Hope Diamond. The process was very simple – I’d wrap the Velcro cuff around the guest’s arm then push the start button. The machine would then automatically take the reading. I knew that a normal blood pressure reading was 120 over 80, and I could then verify for people where their blood pressure was on the spectrum of things.

The guests that night were quite interested in their results and couldn’t wait to be next in line.

“What did you get?” someone asked.

“126 over 78,” replied my friend Rachael, whose arm was no thicker than a crouton.

“What did you get?” someone else would ask.

“160 over 95,” they’d shout back, prompting a response of:

“Awww, you are screwed!” from the others.



It was a big hit. As I was taking another guest’s blood pressure (for the second time), I glanced out the window to our partying neighbors and had what can only be described as one of those moments when you realize that age has a lot to do with things. Their front lawn was full of inebriated, young co-eds, whooping and hollering, playing beer pong and jumping in the little inflated pool, half-naked -- and here we were, sipping our pinot noirs and taking our blood pressure. As the cuff of the blood pressure machine tightened on me, I thought, “When did this happen?” “When did I downshift into middle-age?” I guess if we really knew how to have fun, we would have made a drinking game out of taking our blood pressure. The person with the highest reading would have to guzzle his wine then chase it with a shot of prune juice. We would then take everyone’s blood pressure again and the one with the highest read out would win.

As all good things come to an end, our gathering eventually wound down. Sadly it was still light outside. Based on the blood pressure results, several of our concerned guests had already made doctor appointments. Others tried to remain as calm as possible and even lay down on the couch with their feet raised, trying to take advantage of the red wine’s blood thinning properties. When the final guest had gotten up the strength for his return trip home, I stood on the porch waving goodbye and I couldn’t help but notice, once again, the raging hormones from our neighbor’s festivities. It was like the party would not leave me alone. It kept calling out to me, “Come and join us! This is where you belong. Come!” I briefly entertained the idea of bringing my blood pressure machine over there, ya know, just to mix things up a little, but then thought, “Nah, better not. It might get wet.”

Soon thereafter, my wife and I locked all the doors, turned off the lights, double checked the lock on the back door and went to bed. As I reached for my dental-guard on the nightstand I accidentally hit the remote for our posture-pedic bed. It immediately raised my back to a level where I couldn’t help but see out the window to even more young co-eds dancing and splashing in the little inflated pool. As I settled back down and closed my eyes I realized that our gatherings really weren’t so different. They also had gadgets but instead of digital blood pressure devices they had bongs and blaring ghetto blasters.

These ghetto blasters as it turned out made it difficult to sleep. Susan and I laid in bed, unable to sleep for what seemed an eternity due to the raucous laughter and shenanigans coming from our insensitive, drunken rowdy neighbors. Finally, my wife blurted out, “This is ridiculous! Don’t they realize it’s almost nine o’clock? Honey, would you please do something about this?” Her request set off an internal alarm in me. Did I want to have this confrontation with a bunch of drunken kids? No, I hate confrontation; in fact I’m not even good at being direct. It’s a family trait. Growing up, if we wanted the salt during dinner, we wouldn’t directly ask for it. We would merely say, “Is that the salt over there?” Or if someone wanted the rest of your dessert instead of clearly asking, “May I have the rest of your dessert?” we would say something like, “Are you going to finish the rest of that?” This, we assumed, would imply that we would like it if you weren’t going to finish it. This indirect approach would more often than not result in confusion and me not getting what I wanted. This type of behavior would affect me later in life. When I started dating it became very difficult getting to second base. I would say, “Does your shirt open? It does? Are those breasts? Are you going to be using those breasts?”

My wife was right. As much as I hated confrontation, I was the husband and it was up to me to do something. I didn’t want to be the “bad guy” in this scenario, but what right do they have disturbing our sleep? I swung my legs out of bed, slipped on my pants, zipping my fly up with extra determination and grit. I quickly pulled my sweatshirt on over my head. Since there was no zipper to pull down hard I, instead, tugged the back of the shirt down to cover some of my butt. I think Susan knew that I meant business. There are some things in a marriage that the husband just has to do.

I marched downstairs to our front door and fumbled for the light switch to our porch. I braced myself, and then firmly flipped the light switch on and off five solid times. If that wasn’t a strong signal, I didn’t know what was. I confidently returned to bed, informing my wife that I had taken care of our problem. After another half hour of their drunken revelry I informed my wife that maybe they didn’t get my message. I thought to myself, “What part of the blinking of the porch lights did they not get?” I knew I would have to take a more forceful measure now. I jumped out of bed again and marched over to our window. Determined to end this madness I firmly grasped the bottom of the window shade, then quickly raised and lowered it a solid six times. As I got back into bed, it dawned on me that I should have had the bedroom lights on so that they could see the contrast of the room going dark and light as the shade went up and down. Because of that, they, once again, didn’t get the message that Mr. Nealon was disturbed.



The party got more and more raucous and finally I realized there was no other way around it. Sometimes you just have to confront a situation and get it over with. I would have to be a man about this and take the most drastic measure. Once again I rolled out of bed. I stomped into the bathroom and removed two Tylenol PM’s from the bottle in the medicine cabinet. We stuffed our ears with ear-plug wax and downed the Tylenols with room temperature water from our preset bottles of Evian on our night stand. Dude, we shut that party down.

In the days and weeks following our gathering and the party across the street, I looked back on my younger days, but as I reflected, I couldn’t remember blowing it out as much as our neighbors were inclined to. I wasn’t a prude but I also wasn’t a reckless, wild partier like most of them across the street. I went to parties. I saw couples pair off and disappear into the rooms upstairs. “Don’t they worry about getting pregnant?” I thought. “What if someone got knocked up at that age? Wouldn’t that put the kabob on their partying? How would they deal with that?” I could only imagine how high someone’s blood pressure would spike if they were saddled with that situation.

The whole contrast of our party and our neighbors’ had really put my age in a new perspective. This is not to say that I was having a mid-life crisis, but I was becoming increasingly aware that I wasn’t getting any younger (although I suppose that realization is what prompts most mid-life crisis). Since I had no kids that I knew of, I started to think that it might be nice to have one soon seeing as how I had been putting it off for a while. I was at that age when, not only was my hairline receding but so were my gums. It’s like they’re in a race to see which one can get behind me first. Between you and me, you really can’t tell that my gums are receding, though, because I comb them forward.

I was fifty-two, and for the first time I started to feel the weight of my years. It’s hard to tell the years and months in LA without the seasons. It is true, Los Angeles has television seasons but it’s just not the same. I mean, sometimes, just out of nostalgia, when the Fall TV Season begins I will wear my flannel shirts, but more often than not it is just too hot. Without the seasons to measure years, the only gauge that helped me recognize increments of time was by how much my friend’s kids had grown and changed since the last time I saw them. Children grow so fast, don’t they? It seemed like one minute their kid was in the maternity ward and the next minute it was in rehab. Another alarming “lots of time has gone by” wake-up call is when someone in their mid-thirties approaches and tells me what a big fan they are and how they grew up watching me. When anyone, whether it’s your kid or some guy on the street, comes up to you and says that they “grew up” doing anything with you, it’s official that aging has come to your house.

Age creeps up on you and will frequently rear itself in different ways. I didn’t think it would happen but it did. It may sound cliché, but some younger people’s music now seems like loud noise to me. Maybe some of it seems loud because it is loud. One of my pet peeves is when a car pulls up along side me at a traffic light and the young driver has his windows down and is blasting rap music loud enough for the whole block to hear. The pounding bass notes register a 7.9 on the Richter scale and I fear my windows are close to splintering into a thousand little shards. His audacity always amazes me. What makes him think I want to hear his music? Does he assume that I and everyone else within a square mile enjoy the service that he is providing? Does he just want everyone to know that he is party central? Well, guess what?

Maybe today I am not a fan and I don’t appreciate it. My road rage begins to rear its ugly head and I start thinking…how would he like it if I went and got my favorite book, highlighted several chapters and held it out my car window right in front of him? “HERE, READ THIS!” I would yell, “RIGHT HERE! SEE THESE PARAGRAPHS? NORA ROBERTS! IT’S OKAY. YOU DON’T HAVE TO THANK ME. IT’S A SERVICE I PROVIDE FOR EVERYONE. JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW THIS IS WHERE THE PARTY IS AT!”

And what about having a baby at my age? Even if Susan got pregnant tomorrow I would be fifty-three when the baby was born. I mean, it wasn’t over for me, yet, but I felt I was “circling the drain.” Incidentally, I love these phrases that signify someone is close to death. In fact, I’ve made up some of my own:
- He hasn’t checked out, yet, but they’re bringing his luggage down.
- He hasn’t bought the farm, yet, but he’s applying for a loan.
- The vultures aren’t circling, yet, but they’re asking for permission to take off.
- She hasn’t kicked the can, yet, but she’s got it teed up.
- The curtain hasn’t dropped, yet, but we are well into the third act.



I felt as though I was “somewhat into the third act.” When I was sixty-three, the baby would be ten. When I was seventy-three, the baby would be twenty-five. I know, you’re thinking my math isn’t accurate. That’s because my plan is to close the age gap over the years by using my wife’s ‘anti-aging’ moisturizing cream at night…and also by keeping it away from the baby. I figure I can shave off a few years with this strategy. My wife always uses moisturizing cream. It’s amazing how many different types of moisturizers there are. They even have different moisturizers for different times of the day and different parts of your face. Occasionally I can tell what time it is by simply looking at my wife’s face. There are also correct and incorrect techniques of applying these moisturizers -- absolutely no rubbing under the eyes, just lightly dabbing. Apparently rubbing would only encourage wrinkles and crows feet. Once you are away from the eyes you are free to rub -- but ever so gently.

I’ve also noticed a product always seem to sell better if there is a story about how the developer came up with it. For the price of some of these moisturizer creams there had better be some very good stories behind them. There’s one very expensive moisturizer I’ve noticed in our medicine cabinet that was apparently developed by an astronaut to treat his burns from an accident. I am guessing that this astronaut purposely tried to burn his wrinkles off. But nevertheless, if it’s good enough for his burns it will certainly take care of that slight wrinkle I have on my forehead.

More of a concern than the age difference for me was what gas price differences would be. When he is ten, a gallon of gas will probably be $10.39 per gallon. When he is twenty it will probably be $22.76 per gallon. In all honesty, I am confused about the rising price of oil. Something is not on the up and up because I went into a pharmacy recently and noticed that the price of petroleum jelly has not gone up at all. Not one cent. I stocked up and got three cases because I know one of these days ‘the man’ is going to realize that he hasn’t hiked up the PJ and then we’re out of luck. Too bad we couldn’t use petroleum jelly in our cars. I guess it would be tough to get in there, though. You’d have to work it in and around with your two fingers. Could you imagine the people lined up at pharmacies to get petroleum jelly? Thankfully, there are no more lines at gas stations. In fact, gas stations have become the new pick up places – forget the club scene. Instead of sending a bottle of wine over to someone, you can send over some gas. “Excuse me,” you would say to your service station attendant, “I would like to send three sixty-nine and nine tenths of your finest gas over to the young lady at pump five in the Honda Civic, please.”

It’s not just gas prices going up, but everything seems to be going up. I don’t like it when that woman comes through the restaurant with that basket of roses. They’re like twenty dollars each – for a single stem rose! I think that’s pretty steep. I feel bad for the guy on his first date. He may not even like the girl he is with but everyone is watching to see if he is going to buy a rose for her. It’s awkward for him and for the date. That’s all I’m saying. I mean you don’t see a guy coming through the restaurant with a bucket of tools, do you? “Buy a wrench for your date, ma’am? I have three quarter inch open end, I have ratchets, vise-grips.”
It was not that I never wanted kids, I always did. It was just that I was never ready to have them. The more I thought about it, the more the timing seemed right for me now that I was “old.” It must be the way I planned it subconsciously. I like planning things consciously and subconsciously. For example, there are a lot of videos that I purposely do not rent or want to watch now because I want to save them to watch when I am in a retirement home some day. The truth of the matter is, at that age, it probably won’t make a difference whether I’ve already seen a certain movie or not – more than likely I won’t remember seeing it anyway. I wish I knew how to plan unconsciously. That would be so much easier. Anything that happened in my favor, I could take credit for planning unconsciously. I also think it would make life a lot easier for me if I could get things done unconsciously.

Clearly I was not one of those people who are fanatic about wanting children. I worked with someone once who desperately wanted kids. He was in his mid-forties, had been divorced several times, and had a successful career. I only learned of his yearning for a child after spotting an antique, wooden cradle in the corner of his home office. At first it seemed sad to me. I thought, poor guy, he really wants a child and this cradle reminds him everyday that he doesn’t have one. At the time I felt, because he was in his forties already, he missed his opportunity. I soon realized that was probably not how he was looking at it. He was probably looking at the cradle as a reminder of what he really wants and instead of what he doesn’t have. He saw the cradle as being half-full instead of half-empty. Of course, if the cradle were actually half full then it probably would only have been a half of a baby. Today he is the proud father of two boys and a girl and I am not sure if they are all sleeping in that cradle together.
Unlike my old co-worker, I really wasn’t taking any active measures to remind myself to have a baby.



At the moment that I was contemplating all this, instead of an empty cradle in my office, I had an empty safe. One day, before too much time had passed and I was too old, I was intent on filling it up. I didn’t have the same kind of daily reminder to have kids, and I came to realize that if I was going to have a child or children, and it would have to be a conscious effort. If it didn’t happen then, I wasn’t meant to have one and there would be no hard feelings with the universe. I guess I had always planned subconsciously to have a baby but now I needed to transition into consciously planning and taking active measures. To create my own cradle, I cluttered my floors with toys, dirty diapers, and drool. I contemplated calling a company that baby-proofs homes and have them work their magic on my baby-less home. I needed to think differently because up until now it had been me that was baby proofed.
I thought back to Miss Edana and those three mysterious children of mine who were supposedly floating around. I thought about the Popes and their words of wisdom and how I followed them so diligently for all my life—perhaps I was being a little too diligent. I mean, after all, my wife was the one person that I was supposed to get pregnant. The more that I thought about it, the more important the notion of having a child became. Even though I wasn’t desperate to have a child, I also didn’t want to regret never having one. I did not want to be rocking my frail body in a retirement home somewhere, someday, wondering what it would have been like to have one – kicking myself for never experiencing it. No kids visiting me…just a safe and lots of videos that I may or may not have seen. I made the conscious decision – I want to have a child. I may end up in an insane asylum, driven crazy by this kid and wondering what it would have been like if I never had him/her, but so be it.


Of course, all these aging baby thoughts that I was having were not taking place just in mind. At some point, I looped Susan into what I was contemplating, since she would most likely be involved in the whole baby process. Susan also agreed that something was missing from our life, aside from a filled up safe. She also wanted a baby, so why wait any longer? It wasn’t too late for me, but I was getting there. The fat lady hasn’t sung yet, but she was doing her sound check. I was already receiving AARP newsletters, but I didn’t qualify yet for the senior discount at the movies or on public transportation. I was making more and more trips to the bathroom at night and my joints were in the beginning stages of rigor mortis, but I could still lift weights in small increments. Heck, some of my friends were already becoming grandparents.

Luckily, Susan was younger than me and at thirty-four she was still “pregnantable.”
Age is all-relative. I really shouldn’t be worried about mine. Since I come from good stock I think I will live to be pretty old. My grandmother lived to be a very, very old woman. She died when she was one hundred and one years old and was perfectly healthy most of her life. When she was one hundred, though, she had a near death experience and her whole life flashed before her – and because she was so old that flash took almost four weeks. I guess at that age anything you do could be considered a near-death experience. Her sister, Myrtle, died several years after her at the ripe old age of one hundred and two. Myrtle woke up one morning at the nursing home and confidently told the nurse, “Today is the day I am going to die.” She had breakfast in the main dining room, then strolled back to her room, lied down and passed away peacefully later that day. Now there was someone with definite psychic powers.
With age, hopefully comes wisdom. With any luck, over the years, you have gathered more information to exchange with your child and hopefully you are more mature than a younger father would be. Tony Randall and Anthony Quinn had kids when they were in there seventies. (No, not with each other.) Some would say having a baby at that age is not fair to the child. Others, who had terrible fathers, would say the later the better. That way he won’t be around too long making your life miserable.

Yes, a baby will take up a lot of time and change my life but, hey, I’ve had enough free time over the years to do what I wanted or could have done if I wasn’t so unmotivated. I’ve been selfish long enough. Besides, how else can you have a hot nanny if you don’t have a kid?