Plus One

By: Bandito

After my wife gave birth to our second child, I assumed that I would not have to address any more baby talk considering our son weighed in at an impressive nine pounds. I thought the trauma of delivering such a sturdy boy had deterred her from yearning for a third child, but I was sadly mistaken. Unfortunately that was not the case, because as soon as my son’s head cleared the canal, she whispered, “I want another one.” At that time I did not know if my wife was a masochist, or in shock from pushing through nine pounds of human flesh. The boy had barely taken his first breath, and my wife had already solicited sex for the purposes of impregnating her as she lay on the hospital bed with legs ajar, umbilical cord attached, and mother in law still in the room. When I refused, she calmly laid back down (as if her demons had been exercised). As I hurried off with the nurse to claim, mark, and tag the biggest fish of the day, I wondered if she was really serious.

Two and a half years had passed since delivering Hercules, and she was still riding my ass about having a third child. Hercules was almost completely self sufficient at this point, and my wife was going through a phase when a mother realizes her baby is no longer dependent on her for everything! Hercules was perfectly capable of feeding himself, he would notify us when he had to use the bathroom, and he attended preschool happily. Everyone was happy, especially me, because I had finally returned back to a normal sleeping schedule and I didn’t have to buy or change diapers ever again. I could tell that my wife was going through withdrawals as she watched her baby turn into a little boy. Nevertheless, she was applying more and more baby pressure on me by the day. I realized that I had no other choice but to dive into the situation head first,
and figure out a way to fill the void in her life.

Timing is everything and in my case, it was the only thing because it just so happened that my daughter was graduating from preschool
(I know, graduating from preschool –it’s a different time), my wife had babies on the brain, and my son was obsessed with animals. I thought
long and hard, carefully evaluating every possible scenario for the most productive outcome for my wife and family. The only feasible and cost-effective solution was getting a dog. A dog could potentially fulfill every need my family had. I would use the pooch as a graduation gift for my daughter, a
distraction for my wife’s baby blues and a weight for exercise for my little Hercules. I immediately proposed the idea to my wife that we could get a
puppy to celebrate preschool graduation, as well as giving the kids a sense of responsibility. Little did she know my true intention for getting a dog
was to satisfy her desire for a third child. Not to mention give me more time to develop new ideas on how to fend off future baby talk. She agreed,
and I immediately put her in charge of finding a foo foo dog specific to her liking. The reason it was so important that my wife picked the dog
was because with that power she could get the cutest little baby –oops, I mean puppy –in the world. Our new puppy would give me at least three years
of peace. I had to do it.

I am not sure how I got to the Burbank airport, but there I was sitting eagerly, waiting for the arrival of our third child, “Charlie”. Charlie was brought in by plane from the state of Washington. What a prude he already was. Charlie weighed in at a petite pound and half, with white fluffy fur, looking as if he just got a blow-dry before exiting the plane. Charlie was a Maltipoo, a new hybrid dog, a mix between maltese and poodle. The dog was tiny and expensive as hell.

There goes my cost effective approach.

Of course when we got home the kids were elated about the new addition to the family. They played with Charlie for about two days, and then went back to their regular routine. I was surprised by their disinterest after only forty-eight hours, but was less concerned about the kids’ happiness. My main objective was keeping my wife distracted, happy, and feeling motherly. She pampered the dog as if she birthed it. It is incredible how these foo foo dogs work on women. Had I known this dog would have this effect, I would have purchased three of them. Needless to say, I bought myself about three more years of baby silence, the kids are happy, the wife is back to feeling like she is taking care of a baby again.

Now all I have to do is figure out how to avoid stepping on dog shit in the darkness of the night.

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Comments

  1. says

    Hope your wife doesn’t read this blog. Pretty sneaky. I love your stories and appreciate your position. Hope your wife doesn’t have a plan up her sleeve.:)

  2. 3smiths says

    Is this how I ended up with 3 dogs (one of which is foo foo), 2 cats and some fish???? You husbands are sneaky indeed.

    Love the blog.

  3. says

    Just wait ’till their personalities start coming out. Do you remember Nicta, the Airedale? A pure breed, highly strung idiot. Given to us by auntie’s former boss. That was the first sign that auntie wouldn’t be working there for longer that a hot minute. It wasn’t a gift but THE dog from hell. It wrecked untold amounts of damage to itself, us and my pocket book. By this time auntie was no longer working to take care of the veterinary scams. Good riddens! Given to an unsuspecting El Toro Marine back in the day. He never brought the dog back. I suspect the dog either got away or the marine introduced it to war games and it didn’t survive. On the other hand, there was Brandy, the Lopsa Opsa. The finest foo foo dog there ever was or will be. She got up to 15 years. Auntie was so traumatized by her passing that she hasn’t wanted to get another one. Quiet is kept. I’m ready for another, but a big one this time. Wishing you all the best with yours or prepare for number THREE.

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