Playing with the big boys. Well, the boys, anyway.

Guess what my wife brought home for me today?

Biohazard1

And to think — some people’s wives buy them iPhones. (You know who you are.)

Oh, lordy. Remember how I was emotionally scarred by my friend’s stellar grade on his masturbation test? (Who else would get an A+ in self-love?) And, of course, you’ve read how our favorite Dutch Treat made his contribution, too.

Now it’s my turn.

Working Mom’s OB is worried that we’ve been trying for a year and gotten nowhere on a Boo-sibling. Never mind that all the machinery has worked before, nor that Boo only de-boobed a month ago. (Remember, we managed the weaning by giving mom an emergency appendectomy, just like the baby books advise.)

I mean, I think we could give it a month of non-nursing, post-op impregnating before we call in the big guns. (By which I mean the fertility tests, not whatever gun metaphor you had in mind.) Moreover, if anyone’s juices are in question, wouldn’t they be those of the hormonal former nurser?

But these things are co-ed nowadays, and so tomorrow will find me with the above decorative orange bag clutched in one hand and my ego tucked away in the back of the freezer.

I’d say "wish me luck," but, well, eeeew.