Yvonne Gives Birth To A Baby (Or Yvonne Might Hate Me After This)

I’m not really into those “I’m going poop” Twitter or Facebook status updates.  Those types of messages usually fall into the disgusting, boring, and TMI category.  But this requires a special post because of the monstrosity I witnessed today.  I love you, Yvonne.  The wonderful things you get to see while married and pregnant.

So I come upstairs to see Yvonne on the toilet going poo poo.  I’ve been downstairs for approximately five minutes, and she’s been on the toilet the whole time.  Naturally she’s a quick pooper and is done within a minute or two, unlike me and my male peers who can go for hours.  So it was unusual to see her still there.  Summarizing her own words, she said she had to go but it won’t come out.  I leave the bathroom and begin to move our cat downstairs when she calls to me, “come see the baby I just made.”  I’m thinking, “that’s disgusting”, and I have to move the cat downstairs.  But she insists I look at this baby.

And boy oh boy, was that a big baby.

I have never seen anything like it before.  It was beautiful and disgusting all at once.  This was the poop of a lifetime.  It was hard to measure since I didn’t want to stick my face in the toilet with this monstrous poop. But from my visual estimates standing up, I would have to guess that this baby was at least 4 inches in diameter and maybe 6 to 7 inches long.  That’s like a small football (American).  Yvonne probably lost like 4 pounds after that poop session.  This was amazing.

Pregnancy can do fascinating (or scary depending on how you look at it) things to the female body.  This is just one of the side effects, at least for Yvonne.  You eat extra food, and that waste has to go somewhere.  From a combination of being pregnant and a lack of drinking water, we were able to witness this once-in-a-lifetime poop.

I apologize for lack of pictures.  A moment like this should have been captured on camera.

Update: I forgot to mention that this poop, not surprisingly, clogged the toilet.

Bill Simmons’ Father/Son Story


The "Kramer Vs. Kramer" Award for "Best Performance by a Father and Son"

The Sports Gal and my daughter went back East last weekend, which sounded like an awesome idea until I remembered there were four football games. I got a babysitter for Saturday. For Sunday, I decided to wing it: tired my son out in the early morning, set him up in front of the TV in the late morning then hoped he’d fall asleep watching "Max & Ruby" or "Scooby-Doo." Within about five minutes of kickoff, he was screaming, "Outside! Outside!" I left the back door open, then half-watched him and half-watched the Pats game while also changing jerseys three different times. (Seriously, what were the odds of them winning as I did this? 100-1?) I finally hooked him on "Dora the Explorer" — the episode in which Dora had to find something and the backpack and the map helped her, and then they did it (inside joke for the parents out there) — and he fell asleep just in time for the start of Pack-Cards, allowing me to watch my fourth loser of the weekend get crushed out of the gate … but as soon as they started coming back, he woke up. From there, I had to half-watch him and the game the rest of the time. And the Pack ended up losing, as you know.

Now, here’s where you think I’m going to give you the old "The lesson as always: Don’t have kids" line.


See, I knew I was losing last weekend. (Kids + gambling = losses.) That’s why I wagered very little. But after the games, when I was super-depressed, we went to an outdoor mall called the Grove and my son threw a no-hitter. No meltdowns. Held my hand when I wanted. Didn’t throw any food when we were eating Mexican. Successfully pulled off a trip to a three-story bookstore with escalators without losing a finger or knocking over a shelf. Stayed on my lap when we rode the trolley. While holding an ice cream he even enticed two women to come over to him, then bend over even though they weren’t wearing bras or underwear. (OK, I’m exaggerating a little. They were wearing thongs.) It was more amazing than Kurt Warner’s performance a few hours earlier.

We drove home, then I gave him a bath and washed the Mexican food off his face and hair. He did his calling card — pointing down to his groin and screaming, "PEE-NISSSSSS!" then waiting a beat, pointing a little lower and screaming, "BALLLLLLLLLLLLLLZ!!!!!" — and I laughed my ass off like I always do. Then we put on his PJs, read a book and put him to bed. And as I was turning off the light, he said, "Thank you, Dada."

Here’s the point: In the old days, there was nothing that could have cheered me up after 0-4 and the ugly demise of a Patriots season. This time? My kid cheered me up. So if you’re ever wondering about the pros/cons of having kids, add this story to the "pros" list.

(And when he fed his dirty diaper to our dog the following morning, add that to the "cons.")

What Supernanny Taught Me

Yvonne and I like watch Supernanny sometimes while we eat dinner.  For those of you who don’t know what the show is about, the Supernanny (Jo) visits these dysfunctional families almost always with 3 or more kids and teaches them how to solve their problems.  The show actually does teach us some things, but I joking tell Yvonne the thing this show teaches me the most is to get a vasectomy.

We had a June deadline this year to decide if we wanted to have another child.  If we didn’t get pregnant by that deadline, or decided we didn’t want another child by then, I’d get a vasectomy.  Well there’s no need to wait for the deadline, cause Yvonne is pregnant with child number 3.

We’re still early on this one (only 5 weeks along), but if everything goes right he’ll have an estimated date of September 8 of popping out of Yvonne.  And yes, I did say “he.”  Not that I know what the sex is, nor would we have any idea at this point, but I finally broke Yvonne down and got the green light for the name Obadiah.  I think it’s more the point that we used up all of our names that I got the green light.  So if it’s a boy, and Yvonne doesn’t veto the name later on, we’re going to be calling our son Obi-Wong!

Of course if it’s a girl, or we decide later that we don’t want Obi-Wong, we have no ideas for another name.  I think we’ll have to go with another ‘C’ name with 5 letters.  A girl name might be easier to come up with, since a girl can pretty much be called anything and not be made fun of.  However, with a boy, I wouldn’t want my son to have some flowery name.  And I don’t want to call him Chuck.  If possible I would like the initials to be some technology acronym like CSS or XML.  But I can’t think of any tech acronym that ends in W.  Maybe WWW, but that is all.

Even with a vasectomy, I don’t know if that can stop a machine like me.  My boys are too strong to be stopped by a surgical procedure.  Each time that I’ve knocked up Yvonne, I’ve broken through on the first unsafe instance.  There’s no stopping me and my little guys.