It was 6 am when my son Damien and daughter Scarlett decided to jump on my bed and wake me up. I had just fallen asleep about 30 minutes earlier after getting back from my best friend’s bachelor party. At that moment, I was sure having children was a giant mistake.
Damien, in his shy little voice, went right up to my ear, that was half exposed with the rest of my head under the pillow and asked, “Daddy, can you make me pamcakes (sic) that look like Mickey Mouse.” Then he kissed my ear and I was sure I’d be living a happier life if I never knocked up my wife and had twins.
Just then, Scarlett crawled to the bottom of the bed and pulled the covers up exposing my feet. She grabbed my pinky toe and said, “this wittle (sic) piggy went all the way home,” then she hugged my foot and said, “I wuv (sic) my daddy.” I swear I almost barfed, and scolded my twenty-two year old self for thinking bare-backing it was a good idea.
That’s when my wife walked in the room. She was in her workout gear as she does yoga in the morning to stay limber and fit. She grabbed the children and started tickling them on top of me, all three laughing, as I dreamt of living in a studio apartment above a Subway restaurant.
Thankfully, my wife pushed the children out of the room, telling them I need my rest. After she closed the door, she slipped her workout gear off and got under the cover with me. After some aggressive touching on her part I thought to myself, maybe a third kid wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
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