My Baby Daddy

So…. my husband decided last night that it would be hilarious if I referred to him on my blog as simply ‘my baby daddy’ and if we went on Maury Povich to have a paternity test done. The former I can stomach, at least for the remainder of this post, but the latter got me a little aggravated – particularly since this will be grandbaby #6 on his side of the family and our little one will be the first one born within wedlock. Oh, the irony. So while I will not be going on Maury Povich unless D permits me to dress in a too-short polka dotted halter top with a flask in my back pocket and a lit cigarette dangling from blood red lips while I listen to the audience degrade me for my terrible mothering skills (Oh, the horror! She’s a terrible mum already and she hasn’t even given birth!), I will, for the remainder of this entry, refer to D as simply, ‘my baby daddy’. Feedback is appreciated. Who knows? If it entertains you enough, I may keep it up.


Anyway, I decided this entire entry should be about my baby daddy. Why not? I didn’t have much else planned to write for you today, so I’ll try to come up with something interesting….

As many of you know, my living room is currently facing a rather sad plight. It has been (to quote Lisey) “stripped of its carpet and its furniture” and has been left to fend for itself as it attempts to re-emerge into the world as something transformed into a thing of beauty. Unfortunately, this metamorphosis is not going nearly as smoothly as the metamorphosis of, say, a butterfly. Or a moth. Whatever. My point being that butterflies and moths have god or mother nature or some other force looking out for their development while my living room has – sadly – only me. Thus, the living room shuns itself from the world in an attempt to hide the ugliness I have been wicked enough to bestow upon it.

Or rather, the ugliness my baby daddy bestowed upon it.

You see, I’m not actually the one who stripped the poor living room of its carpet. Or its furniture. Come to think of it, I’m not the one who started stripping the paint off the baseboards, either. That was my baby daddy. Let me tell you a little story about the series of events that led up to the sad plight we face today:

Once upon a time we bought a home that had the 2nd ugliest carpet in the history of the universe (next to that orange shag carpet somebody thought up circa 1974) and a lot of painted woodwork. Though H tried and tried, she simply could not fathom how this could be the highest standard of beauty for her home to live up to. And so, one day she said to the man who would become her baby daddy, “Wouldn’t the living room look lovely if we ripped up the carpet, re-stained the floor, and re-did all the woodwork?” To which her future baby daddy simply replied, “That’s a lot of work”.

Fast forward 3 years. Suddenly, H’s baby daddy starts to strip the paint from the baseboards. H is overly excited as this leads her to believe that she and baby daddy will now transform their living room into a thing of beauty.

Time passes. Fast forward 6 more months. Suddenly, H’s baby daddy randomly rips the carpet from the floor. ‘Oh, thank God!’ exclaims H, believing that she and her baby daddy will finally make some progress and their ugly duckling living room will grow into a beautiful swan!

More time passes. Fast forward 3 months. Suddenly, H’s baby daddy sells all their living room furniture to his mother. All of it. Baby daddy assures H that this will motivate them to complete their living room in a timely fashion. After 9 months of false starts, H is cautiously optimistic and hopes that their living room will one day be livable again.

More time passes. Fast forward 1 ½ months. Baby daddy has worked on the living room for a total of 2 hours. H (who is, by the way, knocked up) works diligently on the living room 3-4 nights per week. Baby daddy explains to her that he has a lot of other responsibilities to take care of. Strangely enough, H has still managed to cook, clean, do the laundry, buy the groceries, etc., etc., etc. and work on the living room. While baby daddy pays the bills, H looks longingly out the door and wonders if she will ever see living room furniture again. Then baby daddy asks for some ice cream and she sighs a big sigh and quietly curses the ugly carpet and painted baseboards that started this whole thing in the first place. That weekend, H goes to her parents’ house so she doesn’t forget what a loveseat looks like.


As you can see, the living room renovation isn’t exactly going as planned. Oddly enough, baby daddy insisted that getting rid of the living room furniture and having to put his (very large and expensive) plasma TV away would be motivation to finish the living room in a timely manner. Obviously, baby daddy was wrong. H, on the other hand, couldn’t give a shit less about the stupid plasma TV and just wants baby daddy to stop sitting around in her craft room watching Cubs games and going, “shhhhhhh” at her while she’s trying to sew.

Anyway, I’ve come to the conclusion that D simply doesn’t care about the living room as much as I do. Clearly. And so the poor living room has to rely on me – the girl who lacks the skills to draw convincing stick figures – to transform it into a thing of beauty. I know, I know – I feel sorry for the living room too. But I guess there’s nothing we can do about it at this point unless, of course, any of you out there are interior decorators.


But enough about my living room. This is supposed to be about my baby daddy, right? Hmm, what other interesting things has my baby daddy done of late?

Some of you have heard that my baby daddy sings. He sings a lot, especially on Saturday morning. But here’s the catch: he just randomly sings about whatever activity he’s participating in. He sings about folding socks. He sings about brushing his teeth. He sings about watching TV. He sings about paying the bills. He sings about hanging up his towel. He sings about eating Raisin Bran (though Cuthbert says this is forgivable, as – and I quote – ‘Raisin Bran kinda does make you wanna sing’). He sings ALL FREAKING MORNING. While he varies his tunes from time to time, his favorite thing to do is to use the tune of “Camptown Races” and just add his own words. There is a method to his madness, it appears.

This is all fine and dandy, unless, of course, you happen to live with him on Saturday mornings. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I’m a horrible wife for letting the singing get to me and that if that’s the worst thing he does, I’m certainly the luckiest wife on the planet. YOU ARE ALL WRONG! If I have to listen to that horrid Camptown Races tune while my baby daddy sings, ‘this is how I fold my socks, doo da, doo da’ one more time I may run my car into a bridge embankment.

If you want to know if it’s really that bad, call Velma. She had dinner with us last night (and, incidentally, helped the poor living room with its plight) and D sang the entire time he cleaned up the kitchen. Velma is quite mild tempered, but even she asked me if he’s always like that.


In all seriousness, I have a pretty good baby daddy. However, none of the really nice, sweet stuff he does is all that funny and I’ve got to keep you entertained. Otherwise, you won’t read my blog (and then where would I be?). But now that I’ve entertained you maybe I can hold your attention long enough to tell you about some of my baby daddy’s endearing qualities, including the following:

*He has actually been inside of the JoAnn’s Fabric with me enough times to know where the buttons are located (husband of the year award, right there!)

*On that note he has actually PICKED OUT buttons for me.

*He doesn’t mind at all if I am out until 3 am dancing with a bunch of men he never met, provided that 95% of them are gay.

*I’ve never actually used our lawn mower. Or our weed eater. Never. Not once. And our lawn is pretty well groomed.

*He weeded the garden for me for weeks when I was too morning sick or tired to hold a hoe.

*He is intently focused on the bumpy thing that was once my stomach and likes to touch it at least once a day, commenting that it is cute even though I just think it is fat (serious awwwwww factor).


So you see, my baby daddy isn’t all that bad. All these endearing qualities almost make up for ‘I’m eating all the Raisin Bran, doo da, doo da’ on a Saturday morning.

Almost.