Get Real
Lovie and I got married in 2006. She was a thirty-seven-year-old single mom to Pookie, and I was a thirty-six-year-old, semi-professional bachelor. Despite our relatively advanced age, we knew before we even tied the knot that we wanted to have a child together.
A child, mind you. At least that was my thinking. Lovie thought that more than one might be nice. “Let’s just focus on having one,” I offered. “Then we can see how we feel about having another.”
Obviously the news that we were expecting triplets tabled any future conversations concerning more children. Or so I thought. One night, when our trio was just six months old, Lovie casually mentioned to me that sometimes she thought it would be “funny” if she were to get pregnant again.
There were many adjectives that came to my mind with such a scenario, but “funny” was not among them. After all, in trying for a simple addition to bring us just below the national family average, we had somehow become the Waltons in one fell swoop. I wasn’t convinced that my potent brand of semen could be trusted to produce only one more. With my luck, I’d knock Lovie up with quintuplets. Then we’d be burdened with our own reality show:
John and Caroline Plus Nine
I don’t know about you, but one-upping the Gosselins didn’t sound like anything that I would ever consider even remotely “funny.” What if she wanted more after that and we duplicated our inaugural effort with yet another set of triplets? Talk about reality shows.
Our Good Lovin’ Made a Dozen? I don’t think so.
In December, I read that Kate Gosselin has a new show in the works. Frankly, it scared the hell out of me. After all, America needs more Kate Gosselin like Lovie and I need more children. If TV execs could possibly think that such a show was a good idea, I knew it was possible that Lovie just might relapse and again ponder the hilarity that would ensue with the addition of more children to our brood. Accordingly, I thought it would be prudent if I armed myself with TV show titles that would discourage such insanity.
Even If We Tried, Her Tubes Are Tied
But her tubes aren’t tied. So that didn’t make sense.
No More Trips ‘Cause John Got Snipped
Only I haven’t been snipped. And I never will get snipped — I’m scared of the knife. Besides, I hate frozen peas. The last thing I want to do is sit on them.
Lovie’s Bod Will Not House Quads
Not bad. But that title left a little too much wiggle room for my liking. Technically, it allowed for the possibility of Lovie’s petite frame housing fewer than four. And then I came up with it — the perfect title for the only reality show I would ever consider when it came to our family — no matter what Lovie had to say about it.
Ain’t No Maybes—No More Babies
Luckily, it’s been nearly two years since Lovie has mentioned anything about the humorous act of adding to our family roster, so my clever title has not been necessary.
But you never know.
That’s why I’ve got it. Just in case.
Author: John Cave Osborne