Working Mom has a dear friend, who with her husband had a little girl just two months before Boobaby was born. They’re both fantastically sweet, thoughtful, and fun. Cooler than cool. My only complaint (and you knew I was going to have one) is this: They never appear to have any doubts!
They seemingly have no apprehensions about being parents, their lifestyle choices, nothing. And their baby excels. At 25 months she can tell time and speak in full paragraphs (topic sentence and three supporting sentences) and recognize most letters and play Mozart on the ukulele.
OK, maybe not the last one, but you know what I mean, right?
And the dad is super-popular among toddlers because he’s a swinger. You know the type? He grabs willing kids and swings them around over his head in all-out jitterbuggery. And they love it.
Now all this — super-advanced kid, popular dad, supremely confident parents — should make me just a little jealous, right? But it doesn’t. They’re gracious and not boastful, and besides, in some settings I’m the toddler-magnet dad, so I don’t mind passing the role around a bit.
I was sorely tested when they came over yesterday, though. They had come straight from a fertility appointment — they’re shooting for another paragraph-spouting offspring — and dad brought along his manhood report card.
Yep. They call it a report card. And in the matter “at hand” (sorry) he got “straight” As (sorry again): 135 million swimmers per milliliter and a special note from the technician: “GOOD VOLUME.” I almost expected to see a little smiley face. I’m not exactly prone to self-doubt, but I can’t help wondering whether my, um, “volume” would rate a congratulatory note from the poor soul whose job it is to measure such things.
I wonder if they sell a home test kit.