Parents of teenagers, fear not, for I have a solution for how to keep your children from reproducing before they are ready. No, it’s not abstinence (hilarious). And no, it’s not condoms and birth control, though we need to keep those on the table.
The answer is simple: Drop them off at my house.
I’m not going to give them the routine “Oh, watch my kids for an hour and it will be all the birth control you need” experience.
This is the, “I’m going to terrify you to your very core and you will do everything in your power not to have a baby because God help you this will be the most awful bunch of sights, sounds and smells you will ever behold” experience.
I think the first step is to make your daughters cry by showing them what having children does to the body. We’ll start at the bottom and work our way up, OK? We’ll talk about spider veins and cellulite, complete with visuals of the backs of my legs.
I’ll lift up my shirt and show them how my once cute stomach now looks like an old man’s wrinkly ball sac because that skin has been stretched so badly that it now just puddles on top of my abs, which have separated and are basically useless aside from their ability to take punch after punch from a kindergartner convinced he is the fifth Ninja Turtle.
I won’t show them my breasts, of course, because I don’t want to get arrested. However, I will draw a chart that shows them where my breasts used to be, and where they are now. They probably won’t need much of an explanation regarding my hair, other than, “Haven’t shampooed it in a week.”
You know those machines that simulate labor? I won’t use those on your daughters, of course. No, that’s too obvious. Instead, I want something that simulates hemorrhoids. “Feeling like you are shitting glass is awful, isn’t it? Now, just imagine you are holding a screaming 3-week-old baby while doing it.”
After the anatomy class, the boys can jump in on this fun as it will be time to show them the clothes. Behold the spit-up stains, grass stains, poop stains and unidentifiable stains.
Did I mention these are the clothes in my closet? The ones I fit into now, the ones I hope to fit into again and the ones that are a only reminder of the body I once had but can’t part with because I’m a damn masochist.
Next, it will be free conversation time. I want those teens to see what it’s like to talk to someone whose brain cells have been nearly wiped out, and the surviving ones only generate information like which brand of diapers causes the rash and the fastest way to get a PBS show on the TV.
After just 20 minutes of me rambling about needing sleep and missing freedom, your kids should be primed for the next and final phase: meeting the children.
This really needs to be timed correctly. I’m thinking they need to meet my daughter right when she is about to go to the bathroom. Then they can witness the 10-minute charade of trying to get her to poop on the potty. “Please, poop on the pot-no, not on the floor, not outside, IN THE POTTY. Sit here, right here, on the potty. You don’t have to go anymore? OK, go play. AGH! Why did you go on the floor? You just said you didn’t have to go!”
Right before introducing your teenagers to my 5-year-old, I’m going to show him a string of commercials for the most amazing toys ever. Then, I’m going to tell him that they are too expensive, they aren’t on Amazon and that not even Santa can bring them. Cue the incessant whining and introductions with the teens.
By the end of the day, those kids won’t want to have a baby so badly that the 16-year-old boys will be scheduling vasectomies and the girls will be researching boarding schools.
I charge a bottle of wine an hour. You’re welcome.