Shotgun weddings & bastard avoidance

I never said we were normal.

We got married today. Again.

In fact, I got married today, to the same woman I was married to yesterday, and I wasn't even there.

To make a long story in no noticeable way shorter, our local town hall decided they didn't like the look of the marriage certificate we returned from Louisiana with, and unless we had it authenticated (again) by the governor over there, it would not be recognised as valid here in Holland.

Being far too busy watching television and eroding each others groins, we never bothered. A married couple, living in sin.

Until now.

The arrival into the world of spawn of people like us needs to follow the same administrative process as that of any old street tramp. Basically, Little Fitz needs to be registered at the town hall soon after (s)he rips ET a new one.

This is a task that is usually left to the father of the newborn, usually because the mother is too lazy sleeping off losing 25 lbs in fifteen minutes through a gaping bloody hole in her lower body.

I, as the father (all laboratory mix-ups aside) shall perform this fateful duty.

Ahhhh ha!

This is where they get us. If I were not married to the mother of the child I am registering, (which I am, but I'm not,) I could not register the birth in the normal manner. There would be Dutch disclaimers, affidavits, declarations, and carbon copy forms in duplicate to be furnished if we were not married.

So, here we are, 2 FedEx letters, 20 US dollars, one confused Louisiana governor, and four short years later, we are married in the eyes of the Dutch.

ET is quite smug at the concept of trapping me twice, but two can play that game.

For tonight -is our wedding night!

Picture perfect

I reckon if you dangled me from a cliff by my wobbly bits, I could write you up a storm.

Sit me down in a field of heather and daises where my greatest worry would be hay fever, or ants in my picnic basket, and I couldn't give you two interesting words to rub together.

Before June the 7th, or pre 'euphoric urination day' to give it its proper title, I was full of prose, misery, knob jokes, and neediness. Now, I'm full of laziness, Pringles, and excuses not to bother bathing.

General happy as a pig-in-shitness does not stimulate my creative juices.

There is nothing going on. Granted, there never really has been anything going on, but at least I was able to run that nothing through my human mangle of a brain and spit out something to amuse myself with.

Now, the best I can do is to tell you how Little Fitz is getting on, now that he, or she, is wife invading its way to the end of week ten.

It now has a nose that is 'clearly visible'. Visible to who, or to what, the book doesn't say, but ET will knee me in the face if I approach her guts with a torch again .

The wee bugger also has formed eyes, which are fused shut, like a perpetual Sunday morning. Lest there be any confusion, my Sunday morning eye fusion is somewhat more likely to be the result of a hangover, than any exuberant deity worshipping.

Inside its wee mouth, which is undoubtedly already miming 'please father' and 'thank you papa', is home to twenty little tooth buds.

About those teeth sunshine, keep the good ones, ditch the baby ones. Not the other way around. Like me. At thirty.

'Braces & a sperm sample' is the story of my last two years, so get your own angle, kid.

So, no genitals of note, an oversized head, fused shut eyelids, and twenty bloody tooth buds already formed. As much as the books try to make that sound cute, or as much as the ultrasound pictures make this child look like a penguin dozing in a hammock, Little Fitz is currently marginally north of Gollum in the handsome stakes.

I'm going to be really pissed if this kid doesn't emerge from ET's underpass exactly like the cute baby on the cover of this book I pick up 7 times a day. Complete with woolly hat.

Just without the coffee ring on his nose and the Pringle dust fingerprint on his forehead. Hopefully.