Pickles & Dimes

Lately I’ve been thinking about babies. Not in a “my biological clock is ticking loudly” kind of way, but rather “the biological clock alarm is about to go off soon, but that’s OK because I’m going to hit the snooze button a thousand times.”

I want children; don’t get me wrong. Jason and I even have their names picked out. (One name is from a TV show. With Steve Carell. Because that’s how we roll.)

I notice kids everywhere. I see them in restaurants and stores, and when they say “hi!” to me with their toothless, drooly grins, I get a secret thrill. And when they perform their arms-wide-open balancing act, I melt. I love their hair, the way shoes and hats look adorable on them, and the intense concentration they use when bashing toys into their skulls.

But…I’ve come to the conclusion that I am still not quite prepared for children. The reasons will be evident shortly.

Awhile back, Jason and I were dining at one of the Twin Cities’ finest sports bars. (Because we are fancy.) Next to our table stood a machine. A machine from the future. It claimed to foretell the appearance of our future offspring. Naturally, being the curious sort, we HAD to do this, because if you’ve seen pictures of us, you’ll know that our child will be a candidate for rhinoplasty straight out of the womb.

The implications were exciting: instead of waiting an agonizing 40 weeks to gaze upon our beautiful newborn, we merely had to insert $3 and wait five minutes. Behold the beauty of technology!

Punch-drunk with the power that comes from playing God, we breathlessly chose the gender of our firstborn: a daughter. Then we carefully positioned ourselves in front of the camera to best capture our attributes for prime DNA morphing. And well, here is the result:

Allow me to introduce you to our 36-year-old librarian-child. In between gut-busting laughing fits, we determined her hairstyle to be circa 1982. And no, we don’t know what the deal is with her outfit. And if you think MY forehead is large, well, just take a gander at our daughter’s Skull Billboard™. Warning: you may need sunglasses to defend against the glare.

After a heated argument over who she resembled more, (Jason, firmly: “Satan”) we decided that it would be a shame to leave this poor child defenseless on the playground, and ponied up another $3 to spawn her a brother who could share the cruel taunts and childhood humiliation.

Realizing that the computer chose the most unflattering aspects of our appearance, we made an effort to smile widely, deducing that not smiling produces GIANT FOREHEADS. Foreheads that can read minds, possibly. We were hoping against hope that the comminglization of our DNA for our second child would produce a “normal” son.

And he is, if normal means being the only 3rd grader with a five-o’clock shadow. We will have to send him to school with a can of shaving cream and a Schick razor in his lunch bag. (“When the stork delivers a boy, our whole factory jumps for joy. Burma-Shave.”) However, we are especially proud of his bowl-cut. (“The better to hide my mind-reading forehead-orb with, Mommy and Daddy!”)

Perhaps our $6 could’ve been better spent buying a box of condoms. Or some tinfoil to shape into hats to defend us from the mind probes.