Posts Tagged ‘sexual’


The restroom with the romantically lit changing table, nestled in the dark corner of the handicap stall was more attractive than practical to me. I should have known. It would, however, become the infamous locale of my first public diaper change. Like Chernobyl, Mount Vesuvius in Pompey, Mount St Helens, Omaha Beach, and so many other explosive landmarks related to less than happy occurrences in humanity’s illustrious history, this romantically lit changing table, nestled in the dark corner of the handicap stall would become a place of infamy.
Such an unassuming changing table extended from the rear wall of the roomiest stall, in an elegantly lit bathroom, where candles caused shadows to flicker and creep across the walls marking my movement from the entryway to my pending doom. Darkness came to gather in the corner of the stall and ultimately settled over the innocent looking changing table smothering any existing light and dulling it to an orange glow.
Reaching out my hand and placing the perfectly organized diaper bag on the cozy table, my finger grazed the top of the hard plastic meant to hold a soiled and yet sleeping baby girl. Sleeping for the moment….The resulting cold permeated through my hand resonating outward, inward, and upward following paths forged in the womb decades ago. It should have been the omen I needed to turn away–my impetus to seek refuge elsewhere, but inside the darkened catacombs of my brain, came a reassuring echo. The echoing voice should have been the omen I needed to turn away, because it was the same voice that has failed me repeatedly, relentlessly and reliably. The voice was there at the grocery store and told me to steal that candy and sealed my fate. I heard its words tell me to drink the beers that made me run when the cabbie came. The voice is pleased to meet you, I hope you guessed its name….
My daughter rested in my left arm with her head kind of hanging off of the side like a drunken sailor being carried back to his ship after an all night bender by the shore patrol. She wore a onesie covered in dancing kittens made of the softest fleece Target could import from China. I remembered the steps leading me to this moment, and the looks from the other diners at this fine establishment with an equally fine changing table, nestled in the dark corner of an elegantly lit restroom. My walk was met with the approving eyes of mothers at other tables. Their smiles seemed to say, “Look at you, fine sir, taking an active role in caring for this child…” I nodded at them in recognition of their recognition of my contribution to my child’s rearing. I was proud and knew that, in me getting this changing right, I was showing my wife that we were still normal and could function outside of our home. This moment had to happen, and I had to be successful, because the world hinged upon the outcome; the entire world hinged upon this single instant in my life.
Changing the child is a routine that offers little forgiveness. The child cares not whether she is wearing a diaper and will do her business even if it is not convenient for the individual changing her. I know that this is true because earlier in the day, Whitney had been very kind in explaining to me that my method for changing the child was flawed. I was surprised at the detail with which she was able to describe the flaws in my style; furthermore, I was surprised at the rehearsed nature of her suggestions. Whitney spent quite a bit of her suggestioning on the amount of time I leave the baby without any diaper beneath her when transitioning from old to new diaper. I remember thinking, “What does she know? I am a winner and I am not going to be trifled by suggestions.”
The stage was set; the players were in position, and the show was about to begin. You enter into the changing process happy. You are happy because you are doing something to help your child be more comfortable. I hate sitting in my own urine, and therefore, I do not want my child to sit in her urine–it seems logical that this child would be extremely happy to not be sitting in their own urine. I learned in the elegantly lit stall that a baby girl is just as illogical as a grown one.

All Hell Breaks Loose

My routine is simple: I undo the bottom portion of the onesie and fold it backwards so that it is not directly underneath what I call the blast zone. At this point, I am ready to make the move and remove the diaper. Things are going so well to this moment. I remove the straps from the diaper, grip her feet together and gently lift her little butt off of the soiled diaper to remove it. Again, complete success. Flashback to the cold I described earlier in overly, and unnecessarily verbose hyperbole. That same cold was about to travel through her tiny cheeks paralyzing her body and causing all hell to break loose even with the thin paper changing pad I put down to pad the plastic. The resulting chain of events has changed the course of diaper changing history. Initially, this baby girl was stunned by the cold and relatively silent, but her face contorted into that of an old man, and in the candlelit orange glow, I thought her face was a cherry red hue. To increase the cold factor two times, I forgot to warm the baby wipe with my hands before “prepping the landing zone” for the new diaper. It didn’t seem to increase the old man face, so I continued. In the slowest possible manner, I turned my attention to the new diaper.
Diapers come all folded in a manner conducive to packaging into the smallest container possible, and this in itself is not a huge issue, but the fact that I left the diaper in the bottom of the diaper bag, is. I pulled the diaper out, extended the diaper to the correct proportions for applying, and I looked back to beautiful baby girl. To my surprise, laying quiet and warm, on top of the folded up legs of her onesie, in a pool of her own urine, was my daughter. Urine. The amount of pee was unreal. It was like a urine-soaked crime scene. The folded up onesie had absorbed a great deal of the urine, but there was still excess enough urine to pool off of the sides of the table, making splashing sound as it hit the tile floor, which echoed through the elegantly lit bathroom. I picked up the child and looked onto the carnage from above. There was no doubt about it, my daughter would not leave the elegantly lit restroom in dancing kittens. Her onesie was the first thing to die that day–the second was my pride. Maybe Whitney would think it was normal for a changing to take 20 minutes….Maybe Whitney would not remember that it was dancing kittens, and would accept little monkeys without question. Maybe, if she did recognize these small details, she wouldn’t immediately connect the dots and ask if I waited too long to get the new diaper under the baby….
I cleaned up my mess. I wrung the urine out of the dancing kittens. The torque from my wringing of the fabric had left the dancing kittens looking like a bunch of white people dancing on the club floor. I dressed the baby in the spare onesie with little monkeys and said, “Monkeys look a bit like kittens,” and I walked out from the elegantly lit restroom into the cacophonous conversations of diners chatting on the path towards my table. I could see the look on Whitney’s face from forty feet away. I swear I saw her mouth the word, “monkeys?” inquisitive tone and all. How did this woman see monkeys from that far away. I tried not to make eye contact and just pretended all was normal. Whitney leaned in and smiled at the baby and said in a happy sounding, make your baby smile kinda voice, “daddy didn’t listen to mommy, did he……” I stayed quiet and thought, “stupid dancing kittens…..”

I just want you to know, because I have been holding it in for years……

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I can feel it, there is a baby eager to make her way into the world and meet her father….and her mother too, I guess, but she has been with her mother for a good nine months now, so that is probably nowhere near as exciting as meeting me.  I would want to meet me if I was her. 

There are two types of fathers in this world.  Trust me; I have done extensive research (meaning I asked three people their opinions and a simple majority confirmed it).  First there is the father who will not venture below the waistline during the evolution of labor.  They want nothing to do with what is going on in the nether regions during the most critical stage of the birthing miracle.  The “above the waisters,” henceforth referred to as ATWs, are not wrong for their longing to keep clear of the “zone of the unimaginable,” because what happens down there doesn’t make a whole bunch of sense. 

For one moment in time, all the pressure and energy of a woman’s being is centered on an area that the man has been centering all of his pressure, energy, and attention on for years.  Now, in an ironic twist, the ATW has decided this magical place we men never quite understood, but were lured to like a moth to a flame, is best left alone and he becomes a cheerleader rooting his wife on, face to face.  He leans into her, giving her an arm or finger to squeeze, and says glittering generalities surrounding motivational phrases we used to scream from sidelines, dugouts, and bleachers during sporting events. 

Trust me, ATWs say the same things to their wives during labor that they would when a man gets up to bat and there are two runners on in the late innings of a baseball game.  They just make it sound more breathy and motivating.  During a game, we yell to our teammates, “This is your time, brother, pick one and drive it, don’t leave them stranded out there on base, bring ‘em home.”  During labor, the ATWs go with what they know, they lean in and say, “This is your time, you’re a mother, concentrate and drive through the next push, don’t leave that girl in there, we need to bring her home.”  ATWs never stray too far from what they know.  The mother has become a teammate and they are going to get her through this very individual moment in what is generally a team sport.

The second type of father is a militaristic man (MM), not to imply that he is more of a man than his counterpart, ATW, but that he is very different.  He is a man who is trained to be at the most chaotic point of any evolution.  He believes that is the place where he can provide the best support to the woman in her moment of peril.  The MM believes that the point of friction is where he should be shouting out orders and organizing the next combative muscle movements.  He needs to see the breach point and somehow find a way to gain the initiative and exploit the enemy.  In the case of labor, nature is the enemy, and the natural process of birth is a thinking, breathing, and adaptive enemy at that. 

The MM thinks in terms of objectives, phase lines, stages, and culminating points.  He has divided up “Operation Baby Boom” into distinct phases, and even more specifically, into smaller stages.  He is looking for the best moment to mass his combat power and engage the enemy in what he refers to decisive action.  The woman lying on the bed is his main effort, and the doctors surrounding her are all supporting efforts.  Should something go wrong, the doctors are poised, and ready to assume the main effort.  The MM has briefed all parties involved and he is ready to cross the line of departure. 

The MM has his head right into the business area of his wife’s nether area.  He is fighting back pushing the doctors out of the way and doing this himself.  He is intrigued by the entire process.  Sure, he shouts out motivational phrases, but they are less like cheerleading and much more specific.  After a push, he looks up and gives his wife a situation report (SITREP).  The SITREP includes basic information about the evolution.  “Good push, I believe the baby is close to crowning, the next push is going to be an important one for us, I need you to really bear down; we have the enemy on their heels, and I think that they are just about out of options. The contraction lasted 90 seconds, and was three minutes and thirty seconds from your last.  Using this as a gauge for the next one I believe we can consolidate and rest for two more minutes, but then we will need to press forward. Stand by.” 

Without restraint from hospital personnel, the MM will not contain himself when the baby crowns, he will reach up there and pull the baby through the obstacle belt.  The MM doesn’t understand why the labor takes more than 15 to 20 minutes, and seems to be rushing the process the entire time.  And, as is the case with many military planners, the MM doesn’t necessarily have the best exit strategy.  Once the baby is out of the womb and laying there in all of his or her glory, the MM is overly emotional, and cannot figure out what to do with his hands.  He doesn’t know how to hold a baby, but he is dying to try.  The MM has never felt more masculine than he does at the moment he sees his baby, and this baby is his next General Officer…

I am certain that I will be the father who is all up in my wife’s business.  I am excited and ready for this to occur, and all signs in my house are that this kid is coming with a vengeance in the next few weeks.  I cannot write anymore today, as I have to put together a crib.  Earlier this week I put together a stroller, and a car seat thingy.  We are surrounded by bottle whozits, and pink whatzits, and breast feeding thing-a-mbobs, and some kind of diaper changing magic place.  I have been tasked by my wife to help her nest and I have some required reading to complete on the subject of sleep schedules.  Right now, she is snoring to my left because she can only sleep in small bursts.  The baby has infiltrated every aspect of her life.  This baby, not yet born, has infiltrated every aspect of my life, and I couldn’t be happier.

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years.


Weekends are where life really happens in the Phillips household.  Weekdays are like a pause in what we really want to do around here.  As fall sets in, the mood in our home always brightens.  Everything about the season is happy to me.  I think the fall reminds me to slow down and relax, to look out the window and see the show that nature is putting on, and to look at my wife and remember who it is I married.  She is a fun, fun lady, and during this time of year, we do a lot of “us” stuff.  We work together around the house, we set it up to look like a harvest scene, and most importantly we enjoy ourselves.  Don’t get all weird with me, I am not going to spend the rest of this blog writing about how incredible my relationship is, because those of you who have been reading my blog, already know that.  I am going to tell you about the training I have put my wife through.   She has passed a rigorous program that would have broken a lesser woman.  I started thinking about this earlier this week and felt like you needed to hear what it is like to be married to me.  I think you all would love it (being married to me), and therefore you need to catch a glimpse.

Being married to me is awesome.  I am not a braggart; I am an honest man who tells stories.  Being married to me is awesome (This is my thesis).  Besides being generally easy to deal with, I am an inciter of chaos.  I induce into an otherwise relaxing lifestyle—turmoil.

I like spending time with my wife.  I like sitting around with her while she reads smutty novels, and on occasion, I like to pick the book up, and read the passages in a very dramatic manner.  Dramatic renditions of raunchiness are awesome, and they make Whitney very happy.  She loves it when I do this and shows me by giving me the “stink eye.”   I am going to teach my daughter to do this as well.  Once a husband or child grabs the book and begins an overly dramatic monologue entitled “Saddle up and Ride (an actual book title I found on our kindle),” it probably gets a little difficult for the reader to re-engross themselves in their fantastic voyage through word porn.   If there are any men reading this, I challenge you to do the same; it will either lead to a bonding moment between you and your wife, or your wife will never feel comfortable to read around you again.  Either way, you have succeeded in the one thing all husbands love to do….terrorize their wives momentarily.  Don’t mistake what I say for wanting to hurt our wives.  We don’t want to hurt them; we want to drive them crazy.  Only crazy to a point, and then we want our wives to chill out and prepare themselves for the next battle.  (This may actually be my thesis).

We do it in little criminal actions.  A great example:  In our home, Whitney is a Nazi-like organizer of the refrigerator.  She has a very systematic method for how she sees things fit together inside, and she hold briefings on them every time she opens up the door.  On shopping days, she will actually address the press in the middle of our house where she will outline the proper shelf for beverages, dairy products, where snacks will reside, and where random products that don’t fall in line with other things will go.  It’s simple.  Whitney would have done well in Napoleon’s Army as she has a knack for ensuring her orders are always understood at the lowest level of the chain of command.  They sound  something like, “Heath, in your brain, I know you think ground turkey is a dairy product, but here in the real world it is not and, therefore, should find itself in the lowest drawer of the refrigerator.”  Sometimes when I go to the fridge, I put things back in there in the wrong spot on purpose, and I get an amazing sense of rebelliousness swelling from my soul to the tip of my head.  Then I go and hide, and I wait, and I wait, and then it happens.  Whitney goes to the fridge and notices that her yogurt has been moved to the “random fridge item” shelf.  I come out from hiding, I walk past and say this, “Whitney, you know yogurt is a dairy item, right?” I continue, “Why would you put it in the ‘random fridge item’ area?”  Because Whitney is pregnant, she can only remember 17 minutes before the current moment.  I have used this to convince her she is slowly losing it.  As I walk away, she is mumbling to herself the same way the people in the movies act like when they are in the crazy house.  This is a victory for me—a yogurt induced victory.

Adding to her frustration, I like to pretend that every time she explains to me where items should go in the fridge is the first time she has explained it.  Furthermore, I like to patronize her by saying things like, “Dude, this is weird, I was thinking the other day how disorganized the fridge is, and that we needed to get on the same page in this house.”  If there is one thing my wife loves, it is being patronized—this is just another thing I recommend all husbands start doing in their homes…good times.  This is all out of love.  I love messing with my wife, because she is the only person in the world who could deal with it.

As Whitney has progressed through this pregnancy, things have become funnier and funnier to watch.   One of the things that has quickly become a great past time for me is watching her walk, stand up, sit down.  It is similar to when a turtle is put on their shell and just kind of flailing their arms about hoping they can develop the momentum to propel themselves into the standing position.  Before you all think I am calloused, I help out.  From wherever I am sitting, I cheer her on and time the evolution to see if she is getting better at it.  Awesomeness.

A final thing that I have liked to do is slowly reveal ways I got in trouble when I was a kid.  I explain to her about the time I stole people’s mail around the neighborhood.  I remind her I am a convicted shoplifter, I remind her that I joined a gang in Idaho Falls, Idaho.  We were the “gang that wore denim jackets.”  I wore headgear and in a gang fight, which subsequently got shoved through my cheek.  How many gangsters were ginger kids with headgear?  I was.  I remind her that I one time took a knife to our neighbors tree and shaved off all of the bark.  Apparently, the neighbors weren’t happy with the makeover.  I remind her that my high school friends and I were drunkards who would have sold our siblings if it meant we could get a twelve pack of Milwaukee’s Best (higher alcohol content).  I tell her that I used to torture my sister about her hair and how she had the exact same hairstyle George Washington had.  What kind of ginger kid with headgear would have the audacity to make fun of other kids?  This guy.  I tell Whitney, of the time I was taking another friend to baseball practice and wanted to change the cd out in the car and wrecked it into a jeep.  Right as the car hit the jeep, Tres Delinquentes’ “Step into the Madness” blared over the car stereo and it could not have been more appropriate.  I tell her all of these stories and then remind Whitney that our child will pay us back the hell we caused our parents; get ready.

Tomorrow I will tell you the story of how I convinced another blogger to give me a blogging award.

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years.


Two and three quarter days into my three day trek from Pensacola, Florida to Fredericksburg, Virginia, the phone rings in my truck.  Directly to my front, I can see my future.  Dark storm clouds are billowing towards my caravan pushing their way around the buildings of downtown Richmond.  My caravan, a motley crew, made up of a truck whose occupants include a handsome driver named, me, and two heavily sedated dogs, as their travel anxiety causes driver anxiety.  Following the truck, is a car whose occupants include a seven month pregnant woman, her swollen feet, which the pregnant woman contests are their own entity in themselves now, and behind her, in the rear passenger side seat, a three-legged Chihuahua sits shaking, because that’s what three-legged Chihuahuas do.  I am going to get to the phone call trust me.  Just not yet.  I want you to sit there and wonder why I would start this blog off by alluding to a phone call near the end of the journey and not the beginning of the three day drive that tested every facet of my being, from the fibers of my marriage to my ability to handle stress while manipulating a trailer through horrifying situations.

Trucks.  Huge trucks.  Huge trucks everywhere.  They growl like monsters.  They roar when they pass me, and the inhalation leading up to said roar sucks the trailer I am desperately trying to keep behind me towards them.  For split seconds every time I am passed by these beasts of the roadway I lose control of my train.  I feel it; my stomach feels it, and behind me, my pregnant wife has decided at these moments she should text me, the following, “Honey, are you okay, just checking cuz you’re swerving into the trucks…” 

I don’t know why but I have always felt like truck drivers are intimidating.  I feel the same way I would when I drive around them that I would if I was playing a pickup game of basketball with Michael Jordan—that being, completely out of my league.  I do this thing when they pass me to let them know I think they are cool.  One quick off and on of my brights to say to them, “you are past me, please feel free to come back over into this lane.”  They love me for this.  Sometimes they blink their taillights at me in an expression of gratitude.  I act like the kid who is trying as hard as he can to be part of the “in-crowd.”  At gas stations, I go out of my way to say hello them while standing in front of my trailer, my “beast of the roadway” leaning in the coolest pose I can muster.  I see them in the restrooms of the truck stops we frequent along our route and I probably spend too much time watching their mannerisms.  Once, Pregnant Whitney and I pulled into a gas station and walked in front of about five big rigs filling up their tanks.  I proudly escorted my pregnoid wife from their right to left and for just one awesome instance, I thought, “yeah, this is my lot lizard—I knocked her up.”  I was so proud at that moment.  Seconds later, Whitney did this weird pregnant leap, which actually means she stepped an inch farther than comfort would normally allow.  She lets out an odd whimper and then immediately stops, looks down and pulls the dog away from something that is unbelievably tantalizing.  Moments earlier, I had pulled a chicken bone from the dog that she had found on the side of the lot, so I assumed it was something similar.  Wrong.  There laying in all its awesomeness was a freshly used condom….My trucker brothers had been busy on this very piece of land…..I wanted to take a picture for my scrap booking….

As the trip begins, I can tell that my truck is in an uphill battle against the trailer.  My first acceleration to 65 mph took five minutes and I could watch as the gas gauge fell.  I looked up to the monitor that lets me know the fuel economy: 7 MPG.  Excellent, this was a good decision.  As the trip would wind up, I filled up my tank every 150 miles…..this is not bragging.  My wife filled her car up twice.  Excellent, this was a good decision.  I keep noting that the trailer is riding awfully.  Lurching forward, and pulling the truck downward in such a sharp motion, I thought that it was bad.  At the first stop, my wife, who is pregnant and has extensive knowledge of pulling a trailer or at least in her head she does, points out that the trailer is probably connected incorrectly; I ignore her opinion…remember the phone call…

Day two, my wife pulls out from behind me on the road and snaps a picture of my truck pulling the trailer.  She posts it to FB with a statement worshipping her ruggedly handsome husband pulling the trailer like a professional.  Comments pour in rooting us on as we struggle down Interstate 95.  My father was noticeably absent in my travels.  Not a word, a comment about how proud he is of his manly son who, like him, now pulls a trailer down the highway.  This could have been a connecting moment in our lives.  Maybe it could have been that moment in the father-son relationship where he thinks, “My boy has become a man.”   Nope, nothing, silence.  Our convoy continues northbound.

At some point on the evening of the second travel day, Fred Flintstone had entered my wife’s car and exchanged his feet with hers.  Initially, I was in such a hurry to fill up my tank and get back on the road that I didn’t notice what had progressed from knee down to my pregnant companion on this hellish journey.  Something happened.  It looked as if a balloon artist that worked at amusement parks constructed her legs out of those condom shaped balloons in such a manner that no distinguishable difference existed in the circumference of her legs from knee down.  At the bottom of her leg, where normal people have feet, were five round little balloons extending outward as if the balloon artist had adapted toes by twisting the balloons.  Couple this with her new walking style, and I now had a pregnant wife who looked like she was walking on wooden clubs with nubs for toes.  Cute as can be, but nevertheless, she was walking on wooden clubs.  Somewhere, Fred Flintstone was gallivanting around with Dino on a pair of normal human sexy feet, while my wife was a prisoner to wooden club legs adorned with Fred Flintstone feet. 

The storm clouds continued pummeling the scenery and at any moment, I knew I would be pulling my trailer through unknown roadways in a torrential downpour.  My phone rings and I look to see who would call me at this moment.  Had someone sensed my stress?  Had God shined down upon me with some voice that could calm my nerves?  It was my father.  I hastily answered waiting for the words from his mouth of recognition of my trailer pulling prowess.  My dad started talking, at first bantering about being on the road, but quickly, cutting to the chase.  The following exchange occurred two and three quarter days into my three day journey from Pensacola, Florida to Fredericksburg, Virginia:

Dad:  Son, I saw the picture Whitney posted of you pulling the trailer on Facebook.

Heath:  Yeah? (Said in a manner that knew the following words would be a moment I could not forget).

Dad:  Whitney got a good picture of the moment.

Heath: Yeah?  (Said in a manner that knew the following words would be a moment I could not forget).

Dad:  Two things.

Heath:  Yeah?  (Said in a manner that knew the following words would be a moment I could not forget).

Dad:  Your truck is too small, and the trailer is hooked up wrong…..

I immediately flashed back to when Whitney first pointed it out…I can’t stand it when she is right about things I ignored the first time she said it…..whatever.  So, I sit here in Fredericksburg, Virginia proof that you don’t have to do things right to get them done…  I sit here in the freezing catacombs of my trailer with my three dogs who all want dog mittens to keep their dog paws from freezing.  My wife sits across from me wearing summer gear wiping the sweat from her pregnant brow.  Excellent, this was a great idea….  

More to come…..


The neighborhood glowed a purplish hue in the early hours of the morning.  A breeze rustled through the knee high wild grass, blowing it to and fro making a chorus of white noise echo throughout the old swampland turned residential area.  But in the little house nestled in the deepest corner of a quaint cul-de-sac, in the Autumn Meadows subdivision, a sleeping, pregnant woman was up to her crazy antics.

An unsuspecting husband, sleeping soundly and innocently, had no clue or forewarning that a ninja was roaming the bedroom on a hunt for whatever spirit she deemed the enemy.  The ninja was a silent killer, highly trained in ancient arts lethal to most ordinary men.  Luckily the unsuspecting and innocent husband is no ordinary man, for he has been fighting the ninja for a decade now.  Admittedly, the husband underestimated the pregnant woman’s abilities.  He has read and heard stories passed down from generation to generation that pregnant women lose their coordination and agility, and to a certain extent, the pregnant ninja roaming the room had lulled the husband into a state of complacency.  When the pregnant woman is in her alter ego day form, she indeed has near zero dexterity.  But at night, when the neighborhood glows a purplish hue, a ninja is reborn and she is on a mission to kill.  Last night was no exception.

The husband rose to a flurry of activity.  The pregnant ninja had raised out of the bed the way I picture demons to have risen off of the lake of fire in Paradise Lost.   There was no bend in her knees or a push off; instead, she swung up, staying stiff as a board into the standing position—it was evident that this pregnant ninja was not a slave to the laws of physics as I understand them; however, I am not sure I understand physics.  The husband had witnessed something similar before during horror movies where the characters are possessed, but never had a pregnant ninja exhibited such a thing.

The bed is four feet off of the ground.  The pregnant ninja now standing in a full on warrior stance ran toward the foot of the bed.  To the husband, she looked like an Amazon Warrior capable of destroying the toughest foe.  The added bed height made the ninja look to be nine feet tall as she expertly maneuvered around a three-legged Chihuahua and a Blue Heeler.  She reached the footboard and perched for a second, examining the terrain around her.  Her eyes scanned the room until they locked on the husband who sat shivering and scared.  The husband lay silently still wondering if he was the spirit the pregnant ninja was looking for.  After what felt like thirty seconds of eye contact, where the husband was sure the pregnant ninja was mentally figuring out a way to disembowel him, the pregnant ninja leaped (not a slow get down from bed you would expect from an average pregnoid, but a leap, like the kind of leap where you are sure it is going to end in a somersault landing). 

The pregnant woman dashed to the door into the master bedroom, which she found locked.  As the ninja began the confusing process of unlocking the door, something switched.  Like God reached into the pregnoid’s head and pushed an “off” button.  The ninja was gone.  Whitney was back and as confused as ever.  She looked back to her husband and said following, “I just needed to pee is all…..”

The light in the bedroom glowed in an ominous purple hue as Whitney made her way back to bed and fell asleep.  The husband laid there, heart pounding, but alive.  However, this time, he knew he was alive because pregnant ninja let him live.  The husband is a strong and athletic man, and startlingly handsome……but no match for what he witnessed last night.  Pregnant ninja exhibited a rare display of mercy.  I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in since last night.