I think it was Thomas Wolfe who said, "You can't go home again ... because every time you do, you find out someone from high school is pregnant."
For me, this quote is especially poignant because I went to high school with a bunch of girls with on-the-verge wombs and well-oiled ovaries. It seems like every time I go home for a weekend, I learn yet another alum chum is eating for two.
Take this past weekend as an example. I swoop home to pseudo-NOVA in Stafford-Infection, Va. on my giant flying dog. All the way home I sang, "Neverending Stoooo-o-ry," complete with the "falala" chorus because my flying pooch is Falcore's baby's daddy's cousin.
The song had me in good spirits to begin with, so when I arrived home and my mom threw a lei around my neck and said, "There's a bun in the oven," I nearly wet myself. I'm a big carbohydrate fan, and I had a feeling that the "bun" in the oven was one part banana, alotta part heaven.
Too bad someone from high school was just pregnant. Again. There was no banana bun, no heaven and the world's population was multiplying maniacally out of control because randy girls from Va. were all, "I want to get progressively fatter for nine months."
My mom pointed out that perhaps the spike in proliferation correlated with trendy new maternity-wear. Apparently, wide-load womb mamas now can wear much more than flowered muumuus. For instance, evening gowns for the "pregnant but elegant" demographic are available, the motto being: Just because you're pregnant doesn't mean you can't wear sequins, drink champagne and smoke long, effeminate cigarettes.
I, on the other hand, just thought that my high school shorties wanted people to coo that they're glowing and say they look radiant when they're really only sweating like pigs. Also, the fact that there's a baby back-stroking inside them can be used to justify eating their weight in pancakes.
Then, I got to thinking about my own state as a human being capable of reproduction.
These girls that are incubating creatures in their tummies are my age. I remember one had a pink Trapper Keeper notebook with a picture of Heath Ledger on it that I vandalized by mustaching. She said "like" way too much to be a mother. Yet she is eight months away from producing milk from her mammary glands. Which just makes me wonder if I'm ready to be a father.
I asked my mom if she thought I was ready to sire a terribly cute child with double joints like his pa. She didn't think it was the best idea because I'm still liable to throw a tantrum in a toy store if there's something I want and I don't have enough allowance on me. She thought I should sleep on it.
I countered that sleeping on terribly cute children is how Michael Jackson got in trouble with Oprah. My mom responded by holding up a white flag and admitting defeat. She patted my red head and said I'd be the perfect "daddy waddy." Then she took a Valium and danced the waltz with a broom for an hour.
The next day I asked my girlfriend if she thought I was ready to be a proud papa. She was drinking Diet Mountain Dew when I posed the question and snorted out a nostril full of soda in reply. I told her that I thought I'd be a perfect father because I watched a lot of "Full House" as a kid and I know how to handle pouty cry babies named Michelle, sassy "Motown Phillies" named Stephanie and chubby girls with teased bangs named DJ.
My girlfriend told me one should never use Bob Saget as a template for anything -- even though he is the funniest man alive. I agreed. Then my pants fell down around my ankles and I slipped and fell on a cat. This prompted Bob Saget himself to climb up from a sewer and pronounce me one of "America's Funniest."
I, of course, staged the double cheek exposure, knowing it would lure the retired host from his subterranean isolation. I really had to ask him what he thought of me procreating. If it meant sacrificing a stray cat's dignity, so be it. He was, however, hurt and a bit embarrassed that my Operation: Fanny Shenanigan was a set-up tailored specifically to goose him out of seclusion. So, to make amends, I gave him the rest of my girlfriend's Diet Mountain Dew and again needled him for sage advice.
Bob agreed to bestow a bit of Danny Tanner wisdom on me if I agreed to fall on a cat with my bare butt again. He went on to tell me that being a father was hard. Sometimes you'd live in this house with your kids, and other people would come and move in and suddenly the house would get full. I'd probably have to get rid of my flying dog. Besides, during pregnancies, expecting dads get no benefits.
Bob gave it to me straight: First, I can't under any circumstances wear sequins. Second, if I were to sweat like a pig bacon-ing out under the hot sun in a ranch in Arizona, I would not be glowing. I would just be a sweaty dude who probably needs to get his Old Spice on. Third, and most important, if I were to eat my weight in pancakes I would get indigestion and ruin my appetite for dinner.
I decided Bob was right. All the benefits of pregnancy are the mother's. If I want a creature to feed inside of me the only alternative I've got is a tapeworm.
It's sad ... yet strangely comforting. Sort of like Bob.
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