My sister’s pregnant! What am I going to do now?

I'm sorry, you're pregnant...with a poop!

It’s a … child with the middle name “Jay!”*                                                      *Not my actual sister’s uterus.

Upon learning my sister was preg a few months ago, I realized I was going to have to change my ways, stop hating as many people, and transform myself into the kind of uncle her child prefers over his/her/its parents. This will be an incredibly easy-to-accomplish feat for me, mostly because I’m back living in their house (long story, it’s complicated without Denise Richards). The arrangement is temporary. I swear. Even though “temporarily” for me, when it comes to squatting in the homes of others, usually means between 1-5 years. Well, whatever, that’s plenty of time to turn their little bundle of joy into my devoted ally.

In the meantime, I’m trying to be helpful to the expectant mother in a variety of fun and exciting prenatal ways, including:

1. Prenatal yogalates. That’s right, in order to give my sister the extra push (but not too hard!) she needs to work out after a long day of financial sales, I’ve been doing fetus-friendly workout DVDs alongside her. I particularly enjoy placing my hands protectively over my nonexistent child and busting up laughing with my sister whenever the instructor uses the term kegels. Good times.

2. Grocery shopping. It’s important for the bun in my sister’s oven to understand how I feel about these kinds of boring, bun-buying errands, you know? So, when my sister and I make our weekly trek to Kroger, I make sure to toss out several negative comments about the experience of maneuvering our cart around sloooow people, both before and after we experience it. I feel like we already understand each other, this baby and me. He/she gets what I’m about, and I’m not about the lady on her cell phone blocking me from the frozen pizza section.

3. Name-hunting. I’ve been tasked with the all-important job of throwing out baby-name suggestions and then having them immediately rejected by the future parents in the room. It’s a relatively pointless job, but somebody has to suggest over and over again that her husband break his easily breakable rule of “no family names” and agree to insert “Jay” into the middle-name slot on the birth certificate, where it rightfully belongs.

4. Available texter. Whenever my sister isn’t feeling well because the parasite within her is sucking away all her nutrients, I encourage her to text me about her struggles so I can then text her back something about how my life sucks, too. I’m guessing the baby is beginning to understand that the “I’m having a crappy day” competition around here is FIERCE. In other words, a poopy diaper isn’t going to cut it.

5. Mommy blogger. I may not be a mommy, and I’m a spotty blogger at best, but I feel it’s my duty to capture the magic of carrying a child to term (second-hand) through this piece of $*** WordPress website of mine.

How am I doing in the uncle department so far? Do you think the baby will be pissed when I insist on reading him/her an excerpt of The Edumacation of Jay Baker every time it won’t stop crying? Discuss.

 

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