If You Give a Mouse a Cookie

Today's post is highly inappropriate. Highly.

Inappropriate but absolutely hilarious, so I would be doing my faithful readers an injustice not to post, so here goes...

If you are a) my mother b) my preacher or c) mine or Chris' boss, you should probably stop reading right about now in order to prevent extreme awkwardness upon our next encounter.

One of my absolute all time favorite children's books is Laura Numeroff's "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie". To be honest, I really love "If You Give a Pig a Pancake" more, but, I digress. Because my life revolves around little people, I will mirror Laura's "If, then" story format in an attempt to make this slightly less inappropriate.

If you get diagnosed with cancer, you will probably be scared into thinking your baby making days are over.

Your oncologist will refer you to a sperm bank.

If you get diagnosed with cancer and your oncologist refers you to a sperm bank, you will probably realize that you need to rob a bank on your way to the sperm bank in order to take a stab at future procreating.

Once you rob the financial institution of your choice, you will consider securing childcare for your 8 week old baby in order to keep him from traipsing about a sperm bank.

You will quickly find that you have sadly, left your 8 week old Pumpkin Doodle with friends and family 4x this week in order to run around to 15 other various appointments. You will decide to take your sweet baby to the sperm bank with you and call it an "educational field trip" in order to make yourself feel better.

If you get diagnosed with cancer and your oncologist refers you to a sperm bank and you load up your 8 week old Pumpkin Doodle and sprint off to Downtown Atlanta in Friday rush hour traffic in order to beat the fast-approaching Chemo deadline, you will probably get lost on the way and have to stop for directions.

Once you find the absolutely gorgeous medical office building, you will proudly park your mommymobile, get a call from your Dear Hubby saying he is running late, and head off to find the office suite to begin sperm banking paperwork.

You will spend 15 minutes frantically searching the pristine medical office building for Suite 175 only to give up and ask the nice "Guest Relations Officer" for directions. He will look at you with a crooked grin and instruct you that Suite 175 is located roughly in the parking deck.

You will look confused and ask him "in the parking deck?". "Yes", he will say. "Go back to the parking deck, round the corner and you will see a small locked door. Ring the bell and you will be offered assistance".

You will blindfold your 8 week old Pumpkin Doodle upon realizing the silliness that is about to unfold, begin sweating profusely, and frolick through the dark parking deck to the small locked door. You will reach for the bell and be quickly escorted in.

The lovely office staff at the lovely sperm bank will ooh and aah over your 8 week old Pumpkin Doodle, removing his blindfold to gaze into his baby blues. You will start to giggle uncontrollably due to nervousness.

As you wait for your Dear Hubby to arrive you will sit quietly and attempt to complete paperwork without being distracted by a nearby sign listing the "Top 10 Reasons To Masturbate". You will try not to read it but curiosity will get the best of you and you will squint and hold your head sideways to make out the tiny printed reasons.

You will hear a door squeak and footsteps behind you. The lovely office lady attempting to help you stay focused on the paperwork process will greet the tall, dark, and handsome college kid nervously holding his ahem, "cup", and realize that his eyes are the size of Texas. She will (without warning) reassure him that, "No worries, this is not, in fact, your baby".

If you get diagnosed with cancer and your oncologist refers you to a sperm bank and you make it through the small locked door (30 minutes before your Dear Hubby) and hear this comment, you will absolutely fall out in the floor laughing hysterically. Your baby's binky will skyrocket across the waiting room and land face down on the floor. You will start a small bon-fire under a nearby table and burn that sucker.

You will notice a steady stream of tall, dark, and handsome young college fellas checking in, retrieving their ahem, "cups", and ask the lovely office lady why so many young guys are visiting the bank on this particular day. She will inform you that sperm banks are strategically located within walking distance from college campuses (Hello Georgia Tech students) in order to recruit the "cream of the crop". She will inform you that should they "accept any 5 foot tall geeky kids, they will surely risk going out of business". You will feel silly for asking and decide not to ask any more questions.

Your Dear Hubby will arrive with the fear of God look in his eyes. You will not blame him one bit, but reassure him, through laughter, that everything is groovy. He will complete the paperwork and play with 8 week old Pumpkin Doodle as he awaits instructions for his next step.

You and baby will, without warning, be quickly escorted to a small private room in the back of the clinic as to keep from being a "mood killer" up front. You will concentrate very hard on not touching a single thing A-N-Y-W-H-E-R-E in the tiny room. Your butt cheeks will start to fall asleep from attempting to keep them from touching the chair you are sitting in.

If you get diagnosed with cancer and your oncologist refers you to a sperm bank and you haven't run screaming from the parking deck by now, your Dear Hubby will be taken into an adjacent room and you will rock nervously in the fetal position until he reappears.

You will hand over your firstborn son as ransom for payment because you totally chickened out on robbing a bank earlier, say goodbye to all of your newfound sperm bank friends, wish them luck on their finals and ask them "WHAT WOULD YOUR MOTHER THINK??" and make a bee line for the small locked door leading, well, right back to your parked car.

The lovely office lady will ooh and aah over your 8 week old Pumpkin Doodle once more and remind you that upon his 18th birthday, you should provide him with directions to the clinic, as he would be a fabulous donor.

If you get diagnosed with cancer and your oncologist refers you to a sperm bank, you will squeal out of the parking deck burning rubber on 2 wheels and laugh yourself silly the entire way home. You and Dear Hubby will avoid eye contact for approximately 2 hours and promise never to speak of this day again.