& i stop kidding myself

I already wrote about why I shouldn’t be scared of having a kid, and I might have halfway convinced myself of that for about 20 minutes. But now, as promised, a list of reasons I’ll be wetting myself over the impending Squatch invasion.

8 Reasons to Flip My Shit Over Parenthood

Look close and you can probably see her toes.

1. Responsibility. Sure, I like kids and we get along just fine. But I’ve always just been able to give them back to their parents when shit got real. True story: We were over visiting with some friends a few years back and I was horsing around with their kids. Somehow, her son bumped his head into my teeth, and started bleeding. The parents took care of the wound and calmed everything down, but I didn’t know what the hell to do. I was just the guy who bit their kid. Some asshole bites my kid, and I probably won’t have the first clue about plan of action. Do I get rabies shots? Stitches? Find a glue gun? And this isn’t the worst thing that can happen, either. That was just your run-of-the-mill, my-kid-is-bleeding-from-the-head occurrence. When the real shit hits the fan, will I do anything other than stand there and get covered in poo?

2. Have you ever seen a dirty diaper? Not cool. Not cool at all. AND I GOTTA TOUCH THAT! People tell me, “Oh, when it’s your kid, it’ll be different. You won’t mind.” I call bullshit. Or baby shit. Whatever. Not something to look forward to. I am, however, looking forward to the accolades I’ll get for potty training a newborn. Totally. Going. To happen. I know I said I wasn’t scared in the last post, but whatareyagonnado—I contain multitudes. We’re talking about human feces here. Who knows how they’re going to react till they’re staring it down?

3. You know—getting old, dying, and stuff. This is the kid that’ll eventually put me into the home. It’s hard not to think of that. I don’t know, maybe it’s a guy thing that the baby on the way makes you think about your own rotting corpse. I’m going to say it’s a guy thing and not that I’m just fucked in the head. Throw myself a bone there.

4. How are the pets gonna cope? Our dog and cat have been pretty cool around kids so far, but they haven’t ever spent a great deal of time around someone younger than 20. Let alone lived with an infant. I don’t know if Turk (the cat) will suddenly realize his inner jungle cat and realize that Squatch looks an awful lot like a helpless wildebeest. Or a pot roast. And The Gordie (the neurotic dog) has a history of killing baby rabbits. So, yeah, she’s not going to play with Squatch till the kid can at least throw a punch in self-defense. But Squatch’s safety aside, I get a little worried that the pets will feel a little abandoned in their own home, and that’s something that neither Karli nor I want.

Yeah, I screw this up and my kid ends up like Cameron from "Ferris Bueller's Day Off." Which wouldn't necessarily suck if that means I get a Ferrari.

5. There’s too much stuff to pass down. Sure there’s plenty of good things Squatch could inherit from me. I don’t know what they are, but Karli could probably tell you once she gets done laughing at that idea. But there’s a lot that I’m worried about passing on to Squatch that isn’t even genetic. I’ve got a lot of bad habits (post coming soon) that I don’t want our kid to pick up on, including my book-length list of phobias and tics that I’ve thus far managed to keep way, way down to keep from looking like a mental patient. I’ve got poor diet and exercise habits. I’m not the pretty one in the relationship. The list of traits and habits that I hope Squatch doesn’t get from me is so much longer than any list of good things that I’ll probably have to completely change by the time that kid gets here. I’m thinking maybe I’ll just start working on becoming Cliff Huxtable now so that by July, maybe I’ll have made it to Homer Simpson territory. (Side note: I hope Squatch gets Karli’s sense of humor, because she actually finds me funny. I think I’m sophomoric and pedantic, like most other people do.)

I found this image by searching "pop music artist." Three questions: A) Who is this? B) Is she even a musician? C) Dressing like this--is this a thing now?

6. I’m already lame. This is the exact same reason I gave in the other post as a reason not to be scared. But that’s mostly because I don’t have to be worried with the fact that diverting all my attention to a baby won’t cause me to miss out on all this other greatness around me. But that kid will grow up. And I’ve already lost touch with what’s current. Seriously, if you turned on a radio to a Top 40 station, there’s a 98% chance that I couldn’t tell you the name of the song. Or the person singing it. Or the genre of music that it is. Or even that there’s still such a thing as a Top 40 radio station. There’s a 1% chance that I’ll be able to identify it as “that song from that one TV commercial for that thing.” And there’s a 1% chance that I’ll even recognize it as music. I’m already that guy. It’s been a long time since I was “cool.” That was in second grade, just after we moved to Kansas, and I lied and told everyone I was from Germany. That lasted about 19.5 seconds, just till they realized that wasn’t actually that cool. (Side note: I was an idiot as a kid. I hope Squatch doesn’t inherit that, either.) So what the hell am I going to do when Squatch stops liking my music and develops individual tastes? Then what do I talk about? Or do I just leave the kid alone between the ages of 10 and 23, hoping that after a while we’ll have something to talk about again?

7. We aren’t rolling in it. I’ve never been one to worry about money. That’s always been Karli’s thing. But I’ve also heard that having a kid sometimes makes dads freak out about money. Hasn’t happened for me yet. But I do know we aren’t rich. We’re doing okay, but I don’t know a parent out there who doesn’t want their kid to be comfortable and happy—if for no other reason than to make other parents go batshit out of jealousy. We don’t really care about keeping up with the Joneses (we don’t even know the Joneses, but they sound like pricks); however, it’d be nice if our kid wasn’t just that weirdo squatting naked in the yard with a stick. I’ve already claimed that title, and no little shit is taking that from me.

8. There’s just so much! I believe the goal of the internet is to drive me crazy with a glut of information. Congratulations, internet, you’ve won. I already wrote before a little about how I have no idea what we’re going to do about child care or schools where we live now. I don’t mean to sound like a snob, but I’m just not impressed (because I teach kids from around here). But that’s just the start. There’s figuring out what the hell the clothing sizes mean, and diapers, and feeding the kid, and potty training, and play dates, and toys, and movie ratings (thanks for nothing, MPAA), and pedophiles, and Disneyland, and traveling, and seeing family, and birthday parties, and doctor visits, and holyshithowdoIfigureallthisoutinsixmonths?! Please tell me it comes with a manual and hardware wrapped up in a little plastic bag like the shitty furniture from WalMart. Right?

And this is just the tip of the iceberg. I stopped before you lost too much interest. There’s plenty more that I didn’t even mention (but will probably post on later) to freak out about. We really did this on purpose?


4 thoughts on “& i stop kidding myself

  1. “We don’t even know the Joneses, but they sound like pricks.” I KNOW, RIGHT?! If they’re anything like Don Draper’s wife from Mad Men, I want nothing to do with them. Looney tunes.

    Here’s the thing I keep going back to in my own freak-out exercises with the baby, and it sometimes helps a little: my husband and I are not have A baby; we’re having OUR baby. She’s not an outsider. She’s *already* in our little club of awesomeness. I’m sure I won’t feel like that all the time once she’s born and screaming like a banshee and doing all the scary things babies do, but it helps me to remember that we created her and that she’s in our camp.

    • Yeah, that’s a helpful way to think of that. And our club’s pretty exclusive, too. But since the club of awesomeness is already taken, we might have to make ours a club of badassery.

  2. I think that flipping your shit is, clearly, the responsible thing to do. I mean, isn’t that what we are all doing about now?

    Also, if you can identify MORE than 2% of the weird, poppy crap on the radio, you are probably not old enough to be a parent in the first place. Ke$sha don’t know nothin’ about birthin’ no babies. Just sayin’.

    I do try and keep myself abreast of pop culture by following Kanye West on twitter. You know, because he says such thoughtful and important things as, “I know this is not a very rapper thing to say but I haven’t bought a new car or piece of jewelry in about 2 years…” If anything helps with parenting, it is being a follower of Kanye West. I have a renewed sense of confidence in myself every time I read anything he says. I am SUPERMOM.

    Lame is the new black.

    • Interesting thing I once heard someone say about Kanye West—if you add “Liz Lemon” to his tweets, it could easily be Tracy Morgan’s character from 30 Rock.

      I think flipping my shit is a good sign, actually. It shows I care. Or that I have no concept of reality. Either one makes parenting easier.


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