MyThreeDaughters

We were driving down the street last evening, reveling in the usual melodic sounds of a Van Load of Kids (Hey, she poked me with her marker; Mommeeeeeee, she’s in my personal space; Tell her to stop kicking the back of my seat, etc), when we passed the neighbor’s house and saw the neighbor guy in his side yard.
He had a fresh Yeungling in one hand, a lit cigarette in the other.
His wife has recently told us she is expecting their first child, in December.
I asked Wife: “What’s that guy’s name again?”
Mike.
And then the fun began. Wife knew where I was going, before I even set out (as she usually does).
“Mike’s DONE. He just doesn’t know it yet,” she said.
Oh yeah, I said, enjoy that beer, Mike. Smoke ’em while you got ’em. Smoke three at a time.
The girls sat bickering in the back seat, as wife and I each climbed up the corner ropes, so as to better come down on Mike’s head with the flying suplex.
Every night, when Mike comes home from work, he grabs a beer and heads to his tiny detached garage and enjoys a smoke.
Done, done and done, Mikey ol’ boy.
Though, start fixing up that garage now, Mike, ’cause it’s going to be the only place “in the house” you can get any peace. While you’re at it, might want to install a lock ON THE INSIDE.
“Yeah,” Wife says, “that could be the BEST Father’s Day, right? When you know you are going to have a kid, but don’t yet.”
Typical disclaimer: No, neither one of us would trade this for anything. It’s just a big change. A completely different, wrenching, cold lead slug to the brain change.
Down the whole 12-pack, Mike. Shotgun a fifth of bourbon. Set the carton of Camels on fire.
Happy Father’s Day.
You are SO toast.
(Fade to sound of evil, knowing laughter.)