I think as time has marched inevitably forward this whole concept of ‘children’ has started to burrow its way slowly into my brain, finding a small niche presently between the rather large ’sarcasm’ lobe and the equally sizable ‘Jack and Coke Absorption Center’. It certainly never held such a premier spot in my mind before – from what I can recall, as I was growing up, I was reasonably sure that having children required passing some sort of test, obtaining a government license, and perhaps several years of intensive training, possibly involving British nannies in some way. So I just assumed that when I showed up at the designated government office, they would take one look at me, whip out a large, red, “Not Permissible to Procreate” stamp and I’d be on my way, off to buy moon pies and pennywhistles and frolic in the park, carefree in the knowledge that the world would not be subjected to close copies of this ‘masterpiece.’
Apparently, this is not how it works. And the idea is starting to hit me that I have, indeed, set in motion events that will lead to a small replica containing, presumably, at least half of who I am. Not that that’s necessarily a bad thing (for me at least – the world may someday differ), although I have some concerns because it appears that for the first few years, at least, he/she will be unable to talk in coherent sentences, nor control his/her bladder and bowels in any sort of way. This is somewhat upsetting, because when I was a baby I distinctly remember having lengthy discussions with those around me, most notably about the Iran hostage crisis that was going on at the time. I also recall being potty trained inside the womb. So I will expect nothing less of my own child. But I digress – the disappointment I will feel if my kid doesn’t slide out of the womb and ask for a Newsweek before troddling off to the restroom is not really the issue here.
You see, I think the concept that frightens me the most is knowing that how I interact with him/her may have long reaching affects on the way that they live their entire life. Will my son or daughter share my interests, simply because they watch and emulate me? Will they respond to their kindergarten teacher with the same dripping sarcasm I afford everyone I meet? What if they inherit my fondness for Pop Tarts and french fries? My disdain for making and receiving phone calls? My strong dislike for sloppy joes? What if they develop some uncommon desire to endlessly watch episodes of Family Guy and the Simpsons and recount scenes from them to their coworkers despite the eyerolling and clear disinterest? My love of whiskey to ‘make the demons go away’? And what if they pick up my bad qualities?
Beyond the inheritance of my mannerisms, I’m also afraid of the opposite possibility – what if our interests clash? Will they like Star Wars better than Star Trek? I don’t think I can stomach my kid traipsing around dressed like Chewbacca, asking inane questions like ‘Who’s Captain Kirk?’ And oh god, what if he/she ends up a huge NBA fan, or even (horrors) a hockey fan!? Does that mean I have to sit through mindless hockey games straining my eyes to find the puck amidst the freezing cold rink and the rowdy, drunk Canadians just to placate my kid? I mean, I suppose I have to support them and their interests, but it’s going to be rough if the kid ends up liking Norwegian Opera. I may have to draw the line somewhere.
I mean, this influence isn’t all bad. I’ve definitely thought about using this “power of suggestion” in our favor – I’ve long thought that, when we put our children down to sleep (and how come you put a dog down to sleep you kill it, but with a baby you are really just putting it down to sleep?) that we should play the song “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” – over and over, every time they sleep. Then, when they enter what I’m told is called the “Terrible Twos,” and throw temper tantrums in the store because they want this or that, I’ll turn to them and say, “you know, you can’t always get what you want.” And with that, they will simply keel over asleep on the floor. I’m telling you, it could work. But everyone accuses me of “playing God” and “messing with my child’s mind,” and “breaking the laws of nature and good conscience.” I’m just trying to make my life a little easier at the expense of my child – is there anything really wrong with that?
In the end, I guess time will tell how everything works out. Everyone tells me I’ll be a great father, but in the deep recesses of my mind, there’s a little voice that keeps repeating “it’d be funny to implant wrong insignificant facts that may one day lose them money on a gameshow.” So if you are watching Millionaire someday in the future, and the poor guy/gal on the TV asserts that the philosopher Kirkegaard was Dutch (he was Danish), the Reuben sandwich was invented by my boss (it wasn’t) or that the original spelling of the country was Frantz until after the last German invasion, it’s probably a safe bet that’s my progeny. I’ll be the old guy in the audience, chuckling to myself.
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