It all started with yet another lesson. Did you know that when a woman says she’s late, it means more than just running behind on time? Apparently, it also means that she’s knocked up, has a bun in the oven, or is in the family way. None of which are any clearer, right?
Usually, it takes me a moment to connect the dots, and when the reality dawned on me, one thought came to mind: Boy, am I in trouble! We’re going to have a baby? I haven’t the first inkling how to be anyone’s father. In fact, if there is a test on fatherhood, I’d flunk before I fill in my name on the answer sheet.
Sadly, I don’t believe my common-law wife Sophia would fare any better. In all the four years I’ve known her, I’ve never seen her play with a baby, let alone cradle one in her arms. Sophia actually rolled her eyes one time I made baby noises at a toddler.
“So, what now?” I ask after she breaks the news of her pregnancy.
“It’s not confirmed yet,” she says nonchalantly. “I only suspect I’m pregnant. I’ll need more evidence to solidify my case.”
“Suspect? Evidence? Case? It’s a baby you’re talking about, Sophie, not a police investigation.”
“Pshaw! Like there’s a difference?”
“Is that how…” My voice falters as I consider the possibility. “Is that how you’re going to approach parenting? Same as police work?”
She laughs. “Are you kidding me? The two worlds are exactly the same. Name an area you think they’re different.”
I think hard. “Alright. We interrogate suspects.”
“Seriously? How else do you intend to find out which of your several offspring broke a glass?”
“Constant surveillance?”
“Ever heard of baby cams? Also, as a parent, you have to be totally paranoid. Eyes on the back of your head and all that. Want to keep going?”
“Erm… crowd control?”
She smirks. “You think it’s hard to handle a riotous mob? Try wrangling 30 brats and an amateur magician at a birthday party.”
“Okay, here’s a good one. What about when we have to talk down a suspect? You know, like to get a confession?”
“You mean negotiation skills? Ha, ha! There will come a time when you’ll need to convince a three-year-old that sukuma wiki isn’t poison,” she said.
“Even code words. We say 10-4 to signify a message received, right? How do you say cake when you don’t want your son to know what you’re talking about?”
“I-I don’t know other words for cake.”
“You spell it, dummy. C-A-K-E. Or you go like, ‘Hey, honey, I can’t take this nonsense anymore. I want a D-I-V-O-R-C-E.”
“What? Why would you not want the kids to hear the word ‘diverse’?”
She slaps her forehead and looks to the heavens. “Please, Lord, don’t tell me it’s actually true.”
Confused, I say, “What are you talking about?”
“Oh my God! When a married woman has one baby, it counts as two.”
I shake my head. “Mm-m! That math doesn’t add up.”
“It’s the husband, stupid. He is the other baby, and going by how you’re already acting, I might be in big, big trouble.”
I do more math in my head and nod. “If that’s the case, then get ready for 18 babies.”
She makes a face like she’s been slapped. “What the heck did you say?”
I drop my gaze and plough on. “I mean, I’ve always had this fantasy of bearing 17 children. If you then add a husband…”
And that’s how I get to sleep outside with the stray dogs.
