You better not cry, I’m telling you why … | PostIndependent.com

You better not cry, I’m telling you why …

Fried RiceHeidi RiceGlenwood Springs, CO Colorado

“Oh my GAWD!” husband-head screamed from upstairs the other morning. “What in the world is that hideous NOISE?”I smiled to myself in the kitchen and said nothing.”Make it STOP!” husband-head yelled down again as it continued. “I can’t listen to that!”I walked over to the television and turned the volume down a little bit.But I understood what he was complaining about. It was that obnoxious commercial that tells you not to shake a baby, while the kid screams bloody murder in the background for about 30 seconds and the father – at least we assume it’s the father and not a burglar who happened to hit the wrong house – attempts to make the baby shut up.Now, we don’t advocate anyone shaking or harming a child, but personally, the commercial makes me want to punch out the television.But babies are just one of the hazards of marriage that can result if you sleep too closely to a member of the opposite sex.Some people, like husband-head and myself, have opted to stay on our separate sides of the bed or, should we meet in the middle, exercise extreme caution to ensure this little experience does not happen to us.Others consider it a smorgasbord of stuff like eggs and spam, or whatever they call it.”The missionary came over the other night for dinner and he’s one of 12 children!” my Mormon mother gushed the other day on the phone. “Isn’t that wonderful?”The “I-don’t-have-any-grandchildren” undertone was not lost on me.”I’m so sorry,” I lamented. “Clearly, they don’t live near a Planned Parenthood or have access to a physician’s office that can provide them with birth control.”But what I was honestly thinking was … “For the love of Pete lady, CLOSE YOUR LEGS!”Naturally, there are a number of people who swear that having children is a wonderful experience that has completely changed and enriched their lives, even though this statement has been made by individuals who have not slept for at least three or four years.A friend of mine recently had a baby. Apparently, he and his wife had been trying for quite some time and were overjoyed when they discovered they were pregnant.Personally, I think he was just enormously happy at the effort that was being made.More than nine months later, they manually extracted the child from the mother’s belly because she was threatening to help it along by doing the infamous Jennifer Beals dance to the song “Maniac” from the 1983 hit movie “Flashdance.””She’s a maniac, MANIAC on the floor … and she’s dancing like she’s never danced before!”However, that wasn’t necessary and when the little darling finally emerged, she was the apple of her proud parent’s eyes.”So … have you had any sleep?” I asked my friend a couple weeks later. “Do you have, like, really dark circles under your eyes and stuff?””No, she’s perfect,” he insisted. “She sleeps for four hours at a time.”Four HOURS?If husband-head woke me up every four hours to get him a drink of water, I would kick his butt.He was also happy that his wife was breast-feeding.”They’re, like, PORN STAR breasts!” he said with excitement, but in a hushed voice.”Those are for the baby, mister!” I reprimanded, thinking that he would probably encourage that she breast feed until the child was in its mid-20’s.But I’m sure babies aren’t the worst hazard of marriage. Husband-head leaves the lights on all over the house, drops his clothes on the floor wherever they may fall when he takes them off, usurps every appliance in the house during football season and has no inhibitions about belching or flatulence – the louder the better in both cases.The next morning, another kid commercial came on – this time featuring a mother who was trying to teach her ambitious little boy to go to the bathroom.”Even an astronaut … has to go potty!” she sang out.It was a far cry from the screaming kid commercial.Heidi Rice is a staff reporter for the Post Independent. Her column runs every Friday. Visit her Web site at http://www.heidirice.com.


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