Derek Zoolander eat your heart out

Why, oh, why am I not allowed my God-given right to take a nice and ‘normal’ photo of the fruit of my loins?

After the sleepless nights, the mastitis, the walking-out-the-door-feeling-like-I’m-looking-hot-only-to-discover-snot-on-my-shoulder-ness, the LEAST he owes me is a lovely, cherubic-type photograph that I can keep in my wallet to show to perfect strangers.

But apparently…that’s too much to ask.

I’d better call Jim Carrey and order that DNA test…