It’s been a long time since I’ve had vomit in my hair. Admittedly, it was a regular occurrence back in the days when I would strip naked and butt dance in the car after a wild party. Lately, the gastric juices are coming from a six month-old bundle of bad breath.

My firm resolve never to become a Grandma failed me when my youngest decided to poop out a baby last August. At Michelle’s baby shower, we were asked to write a special message for the baby … you know, for when he learns how to read and set the house on fire and stuff. All my children were of the female gender, so I wasn’t sure what to write for a boy. I’m a writer and I choked. What advice would you give to a testosterone laden adolescent? I finally hit on my Hallmark moment.

Finish your homework

Do your chores

Say your prayers

Don’t pick up whores

My card was carefully placed in a scrapbook, next to all the sappy sentiments of the other guests, who clearly lacked a poetic flair and the foresight to prevent him from getting syphilis.

Once Calvin went from being a blip on the ultrasound to a spitting-up machine, I fell in love. When I come over, he gives me that huge smile, just before he grunts out a poop. There’s just one teensie-weensie problem: I now own a smart phone.

Complete strangers will find my phone shoved in their faces while I carpet bomb them with baby’s first Christmas and forty different angles of baby drooling in his sleep. Whatever you do, don’t get behind me in the Uber-Mart checkout line. If you have twenty items or less, you have just become a target of opportunity.

Don’t think it doesn’t require the self-restraint of Ghandi to only post one photo of my little dude in this blog. So, both of you faithful readers who waited out my blogging dry-spell, may I present Calvin Orrin Coleman: (thanks to Grandma) STD-free for six months and counting.