Daddy's Coming Honey!



A Wild Beastie Goober

With the death of MCA, I thought to myself that if I believed in Buddhist reincarnation, little Noah could grow up to be a Beastie Boy. And now, with the death of George Lindsey, I’m thinking more along the lines that Noah’s going to grow up to be a Goober. And now that Maurice Sendack is dead, I’m thinking Noah is gonna grow up to run away and go where the wild things are. Either way, he’ll be like his dad: A wild beastie goober.

Carrie’s nesting now. She as all her pre-birth chores done. She puts around the house declaring “I am whale.” Whales are one kind of beautiful; women who look fantastic while carrying a baby at full term is another. Women, your one flaw is this: you listen to the wrong men, reading their magazines and bringing their eyes to the mirror. Shame on you. Shame on us more so. You ate first, but it took a whole devil to make you do it.

She’s bored, folks. Mostly because she finished her quilt. It looks like this.

A pattern of tones for our child. The soft white of bedsheets and calmness. The green borders are the ends of the wide earth to which he will travel and see one day and, of course, it has a silver lining, a blue horizon. The brown is the four corners of the world, study as we mean for him to be. The intersecting blue is the raining shower of blessings. The stars just mean that we hope he will shine and they’re also like pinwheels, meaning he will be clean energy conscious and stuff. No, Luke, they do not represent Jewish stars of David to honor our Jewish heritage, though if they were we would be proud of them, as we should not tolerate antisemitimitismismsim. Carrie really haggled for a good deal on these quilting products, though. I’m getting verklempt just thinking about how good a job she did.

She’s craftay. And she’s just my type.

I’m writing this on our due day. I didn’t think it would happen today. I keep thinking of what he will look like. Then I think of what kind of parents we’ll be. It’s easier to say what we won’t be.

The kind that let their children roam free, long as they come back for supper. Maybe, if this was Kansas. This isn’t Kansas.

The kind that excrete a protective bubble around their child. You know, come to every socializing event telling their kid not to touch anything or have any of the snacks the other kids are having, or even play with the other kids. They over-sensitively filter everything their kids are allowed to touch, hear, or see. “Bobby! That race car has a dragon on it! Don’t you know that’s the devil’s symbol?”

The kind that over-stimulate their kids with boy scouts, accordion lessons, swim team, pewpackers, forensics, turtle racing, and the science fair. Easy, easy. One thing at a time.

The kind that push their kid to be an adult at the age of seven. They’re giving a class presentation to the other fourth graders that Mom and Dad stayed up all night making for them, and they can’t remember the name of the spider they’re pointing to and their parents ridicule them for it in front of everybody.

The kind that dress them every Sunday like it’s a funeral or a wedding, and whisper in their ear what a bad example those other families are that don’t, because that’s how you gauge somebody’s spirituality, by whether they worship God dressed like Wall Street bankers who left their good clothes at the cleaners.

The kind that let their kids watch whatever they want on TV, and for as long as they want.

The kind that drop hundreds of dollars on birthday parties. Birthday parties.

The kind that remind their child every chance they can that success means going to college.

The kind that remind their child every chance they can that success means getting married. Before the age of thirty. Or ever.

The kind that fight in front of their kids.

The kind that let them date seriously when they’re eleven.

The kind that take them to McDonald’s for lunch every time because it’s easy and, hey, kid’s love McDonald’s.

The kind that buy into every new wave of child rearing just to make their kid special. “Oh, we’re trying that new Dr. Shcuglenfaagen technique. She’s not allowed to eat any raisins and we don’t say anything nurturing until after six pm.”

The kind that get frustrated and blow a gasket if their kid goes through a “meat is murder” phase.

The kind that slap their kid’s wrist the minute he “does that limp wrist thing,” because that’s how you handle gender identity confusion.

The kind that don’t let their kids touch anything in the woods. Or the kind that adopt a little girl from Africa, only to take her to Pandapas pond and when she finds a bug they say, “put that thing down, honey, this isn’t Africa!”

In terms of positive affirmations, I just want us to be Godly parents. I’m just glad I got her to help me out with that. She’s got this. Ya think?

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Comments

  1. You are going to be awesome parents! I love reading these. Good luck with everything!

    | Reply Posted 5 years, 7 months ago


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