The Kid Likes Baseball Now

I know what you are thinking. You're thinking this should be another Baby Daddy story. Well the jokes on you! This is not about my kid. This is about a kid applying for school. In particular, it is about a kid who was applying to Ivy League. Not only that, the kid sucked Now the student would have done alright, but he just would not listen to the reviewer (me). Not to toot my own horn, but TOOT, TOOT! Yes, I am that goddamn good at editing and reviewing essays. And yes, I ignore much of the editing I would normally use, when I write my blog. Why? Because fuck you. This isn't a goddamn college essay. If it was, I wouldn't be saying "goddamn".

But I digress. Why do I mention this particular situation? Because the kid had one of his Ivy League application deadlines last night. Normally I would not share about this, but the student made a mistake. They panicked over the essay. That alone is not an issue. I reviewed the shit out of it several times. At this point, I need to highlight one issue. The student had multiple essays, and said that "The word limit for each essay is 2,000 characters, and one is 3,000 characters."

Now I took this to mean that all of the essays had a 2,000 character limit, and that the other was a 3,000 character limit. What the student meant to say, however, was that the essays each had a 2,000 character limit and one of his was 1,000 characters above the limit. That makes a significant difference. Of course, by the time anyone knew what was going on, I was at Krav Maga.

I will now take a small aside to state that I love Krav. Evidently people love training with me, because I am short, strong, quick, and try to make it real. I also learned that people are periodically intimidated by me, because I have a look of pure joy when I am fighting. This is proof that being strong and looking crazy can win many fights. For everything else, there's dick-punch. Excuse me, "groin strikes".

Fast-forward to after Krav Maga, I was talking to the kid's college planning adviser about the essays. At this point I would like to interject a selfless plug for my college planning company. Message or comment, if you want to go to college. We help students get into high school (in the US), get into college (anywhere), and earn professional certifications. And we are particularly skilled at helping international students. That's it. That's the plug.

Back to the story, the adviser was telling me about how they had to cut 1,000 characters. When they called the kid to verify some information, however, the adviser learned that the kid was "out with friends". Now let me ask you something. If you have a major deadline for an Ivy League school, and you know that one of your essays is fucked, are you going to go out with friends? The answer should be "no". Because of this, the adviser decided to make all the cuts necessary.

The adviser said that the kid now cared far less about half the shit that was in the essay. Literally. If the kid said they "really liked" something, it was now just that they "liked" it. They also said that the kid was no longer a basketball player, but a baseball player. Why? Because baseball uses fewer characters than basketball. I then imagined what would happen if the kid was accepted, ad given a baseball scholarship. You see him receive the acceptance letter, with a full-ride scholarship, based on a sport that the kid doesn't know shit about. He goes to the first practice in his basketball clothes, and looks confused as to why everyone else is wearing pants.

Of course, I never really played either sport. I tried basketball once, but never learned the rules. I also never got the hang of not getting hit in the face with a basketball. Baseball was easier, though I usually got yelled at by the team. Evidently you don't throw the bat after each swing. My folks can't say much. My father was always invited to play first base. Someone asked if he was a good first-baseman, and he replied that wasn't a first-baseman. He was literally the base. They invited him to play when there wasn't a plate to stand on. My mother said that she is still waiting on that pick-up baseball game that her neighbors were setting up 50 years ago.

Moral of the Story: This kid now likes baseball, not basketball, and my family sucks at baseball.

Baby Daddy 26: This Isn't the 1800's

Holy hormones, Batman! So for those who don't know, I'm going to be a Baby Daddy. And if you didn't know, then where the fuck have you been? This is literally my 26th post about becoming a Baby Daddy. What's more, I have nearly the same number of posts as my wife is weeks preggers. That's a lie. She's in her 33rd week. And do you know what I learned? That the last several weeks are going to be a revenge of the first trimester.

Case and point: hormones. I remembered my wife's hormone shifts during the first trimester. If you didn't already read about it, go back and follow this pregnancy journey from the start. You'll know about the hormones, because of the hotel kitten. Now that the child is getting closer, however, the mood swings are taking a new face.

Enter last night. For the past day or so, my wife's mood swings have been fucking intense. If I didn't know better, I would have thought we were in the 1920's. Yes, that's a reference to Swing music. Fuck you, I'm tired and trying to make a reference that relates to extreme swinging. The other reference would have been a bit too "adult".

Yesterday, I got home from work, and I saw my wife on the couch. We started talking for a while, and everything was great, until something happened and she thought about the risks of giving birth. I don't know who the fuck wrote about dying during child birth, but they are a goddamn asshole. One, how the fuck can you write about dying, if you were the one who gave birth? And for everyone saying, "They could have been revived...", no. No they could not. Why? Because the fucking story ended with the mother dying. How do I know? Because my wife was sobbing. She then said that 80% of women died giving birth, during the 1800's. What's more, she started imagining what my life would be like with her gone. My wife, assuming she would die during child birth, imagined a world where I remarried a woman that beat our children.

Now let's pause for a moment. Just let the situation soak itself in. My wife has tears streaming down her face. Her nose is running. She's worried about this hypothetical situation. And she's squeezing her cat enough that he is gasping/meowing for air.

I talked to my wife and said that there were issues with her hypothetical situation. First of all, it's 2017. We literally have over 100 years of progress in the medical field. Two, I would never tolerate someone striking our kids. I don't even believe in spankings. There are so many more creative methods for instilling discipline. Three, this is not the 1800's! Keep in mind that I did not yell this. I am not that dumb. I was just emphatic.

She let out a chuckle, before crying and saying that she could still die during childbirth. She then referenced Game of Thrones, and how Jon Snow's mother died. Again, let's take a moment to appreciate this situation. First, I just dropped a small spoiler. Second, I am about to drop a couple of other spoilers. Fuck you, they are not important to the story. At least the details I am about to share are not.

I told my wife that she still did not have anything to worry about. One, she won't be giving birth in a castle. Two, she won't be giving birth under armed guard. Three, we no longer live in a time of dragons. My wife then referenced the fact that if she died during birth, our son would be like Jon Snow and know nothing. I then told my wife that can't happen, because look at our son's mother. He must clearly know something, with such a brilliant mom. She then turned to me and said, "But look at his father." Next thing I know, she's smiling and we are on our way to hang out with some friends.

Moral of the Story: Hormones are fucking insane. Also, we do not live in the 1800's, or the time of dragons.