Anyone who is a parent can tell you that raising kids is a very demanding job. Any imbecile who has never raised kids and says it isn't that difficult, we parents should be legally allowed to make them eat a shitty diaper. Beyond the waste problem, parents have to deal with lack of or frequently interrupted sleep.
My wife, Monique, and I took turns attending to our babies needs. This way, at least one of us was getting a decent night's sleep every other day. We had two sons, Zac and Jon. They were a year-and-a-half apart in age. Monique and I had adopted our first son, Zac, when we were both 38. What we lacked in youthful energy we hoped to compensate by applying our so-called middle-age wisdom.
One morning when our youngest son, Jon, was about six months old, Monique came walking into the kitchen after a good night's sleep. I was sitting at the kitchen table with Jon in his bouncy chair next to me. He was one happy clam. Of course, the little shit was. Jon had a fresh diaper on and been fed. I, on the other hand, looked like I had spent the night being gang raped by a group of gorillas. The fucking Sandman was slacking off big time when it came to our youngest one. Jon was one very light sleeper. All I wanted to do was go upstairs, climb into bed, curl into a fetal position and cry myself to sleep. I would only have that distinct pleasure in fifteen hours.
My chirpy, well-rested wife said, "I had the weirdest dream last night."
"Uh." It took a great deal of energy for me to even make that reply.
"I dreamt that we adopted another baby and it was a girl."
Without missing a beat, I deadpanned, "And in this dream, what did your second husband look like?"
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