Lying is Fun ...

Once the doctor confirmed our pregnancy, we decided that it would be best to wait until Christmas to spring the news on family and friends. After all, Christmas is a time of love, sharing and excitement. It also signifies the birth of God’s greatest creation—the Christmas carol, which must be sung out of tune and at excessive volumes. Luckily, my family has mastered this art.

But that meant three more weeks of keeping it secret. THREE FULL WEEKS! The only thing I can keep for three weeks is a sink full of dirty dishes. Brittany pointed out that we kept it quiet the four weeks leading up to the doctor visit, but that was different. We weren’t sure. There was no real proof. For all we knew she just had gas. Now we had a picture—undeniable evidence.

If it were up to me, I would have started making phone calls immediately, but Brittany swore me to secrecy. She even made me pinky swear on it. Pinky Swear! For those unfamiliar with the ritual, all that’s important to remember is that if you break the Pinky Swear you’re out of the secret loop forever. (This rule holds true everywhere, except in Texas where they substitute “out of the secret loop” with “cutting off your giblets.”)

For the next few weeks I kept my mouth shut, which was harder than pronouncing “indubitably.” Some people made jokes about us getting pregnant, but that’s pretty standard when they’ve known you as a couple for nearly a decade. Other people (my dad) offered us a bribe of collectable Matchbox cars for a grandchild. And a few others (Brittany’s sister Mel) threatened to remove Brittany from her wedding party if she didn’t have a baby-belly come September.

Not that we were feeling any pressure.

Quickly, it dawned on me that in order to keep folks from finding out we were going to have to lie. I mean, people would start to wonder why Brittany couldn’t play soccer anymore. They’d definitely question why her boobs were getting bigger. And, of course, she’d show the telltale sign that’s unavoidable to every pregnant woman on the planet—no alcohol. Now I’m sure several of you will say, “A glass of wine is good for the baby,” but that kind of irresponsible attitude is what leads so many good kids to ABA—Alcoholic Babies Anonymous.

We spent a full night coming up with lies, excuses and trickery. Soccer was erased by a “stomach bug” caused by “bad Chinese food.” The boobs were hidden by thick sweaters. We couldn’t go out because we had to save money for a “dining room set.” These were all reasonable, acceptable excuses that people bought hook, line and sinker.

Alcohol, on the other hand, required a more delicate and complex approach.

My wife is no lush, but she does enjoy the occasional beer when we’re out at the bar or with dinner or for breakfast, and it’d be extremely unusual of her not to order at least one. With that in mind, we developed two plans to get around key situations.

Scenario #1: Our weekly post-volleyball BW3 meal with her family. I would leave the gym early, beat everyone to the bar and order three nonalcoholic beers, which I would sneakily pour into two tall glasses. It was genius and worked like a charm. It was also the nastiest thing I’ve ever tasted.

Scenario #2: Out with friends at Mulligan’s Pub. It’s impossible to pour fakes beers into glasses in a crowd, so I’d order two regular beers and give one to Brittany. While she sat in the corner pretending to casually “sip,” I chugged mine. “Can you hold my drink while I hit the restroom,” I’d say. When I returned, we pulled the old switcharoo and no one was the wiser. The problem with this plan, though, is that I have very generous friends who often buy rounds. Four hours and 14 beers later (seven by their count), I was falling down, slurring my speech and earning the nickname “lightweight,” not to mention the hangover that awaited me.

Ah, the tough sacrifices parents make for their children.

By the time Christmas rolled around, the gland in my body that produced lying-enzymes had grown to an impressive 14 pounds. I had mastered a skill that, once the holidays were over, was going to be rendered useless. After all, I hate lying to people and refuse to ever do it again.

“What’s that, dear? Oh no, you’re TOTALLY looking skinny.”

(Well, never do it again starting tomorrow.)