My health teacher warned me.

I’m not going to lie to you – both of my kids were accidents.

Wonderful, happy little accidents.

Technically speaking, the wife and I have always been extremely careful when it comes to business time. In our fifteen years of marital entanglement, we have literally only tested the fates once. Yep, one single unprotected roll in the hey-hay in fifteen years. That turned out to be my son, Sam.

Just look at that handsome little lack of judgement.

Three years later – still very much aware of our previous amazing, perfect and glorious mistake – the wife and I were in the midst of another intense business meeting. We chose to be careful. Again. And to be honest, we didn’t even really do much of anything. I mean, if we were on Cinemax, you probably would have changed the channel. But, as it happens, one tiny incredibly determined Navy SEAL sperm managed to survive. It crawled and dragged and battled its way into the motherland and conquered its ovarian prize.

Lilly. Strong like bull.

Yes. Yes. I love my kids, I’m glad they’re around and all – blah blah blah. But the real issue here is the fact that my wife and I seem to have an incredibly potent combination of baby-making equipment. I’m packing some serious heat – I mean, every time I sneeze, somebody gets pregnant. And Sierra, she is the fertile crescent – teeming with placental nourishment. Plus, I think she’s pretty smokin’ and I have a hard time keeping my hands off her. Throw all that together and we could potentially have already produced (let me do some math here) a brood of over 20 kids to this point. Note: includes Irish twins.

20 freakin’ kids. That sounds exhausting. And expensive. And kinda noisy.

Time to find me a doctor. One with soft hands. And good aim.