Crybabies

NBC has a new show that smacks of an after-school special, one gloriously broadcast at night so adults are home to laugh at its idiocy. This one has an interesting premise: from what I can tell, they take teen couples who are getting it on and make them take care of babies. From the promos, these are a collection of infants who could make Olympic sports out of wailing and the projectile vomiting of green stuff. By the end of the series, I'm pretty sure these teens will be wearing full wet suits while having sex. At least I will be.

Now, when meemaw was in high school, post-industrial revolution and even the discovery of a colony of Walkmen in the forests of Montana, our school district's idea of baby education involved us carrying around 10-pound bags of sugar for a week. Which for a nerd like me was delightful, because I got to dress her up in baby clothes and display her proudly in a stroller leftover from my youth. I became so consumed by the project that I was almost in tears when, on day 7, a stream of tiny white crystals began trickling from her pink dress. She was leaking, and not only did this mean sure project failure, this was my sweet sack of sugar, people! And, shocker, the school nurse was SO not helpful! Eventually, I put her in a Ziploc bag and didn't get knocked up. But seriously? A bag of sugar in the era of the Space Shuttle?

I must say that our health teacher's stories of teens impregnated while dry humping were infinitely more effective. I certainly haven't done that since.