I have spent the evening alone in my house, my fertile emotions tended to by a pair of emotionally remote, imbecilic cats.
With my wife at work all day, I was left to fend for myself. Vainly struggling to fill the hours I mowed the lawn rotely, did the laundry begrudgingly, and bathed myself half-heartedly. I prepared a dinner comprised of Chex and string cheese and, despite my misgivings, actually went ahead and ate it. I was perfectly aware that it was a meal fit for an eleven-year old, but was beyond caring.
I spent the remainder of my evening thumbing through a terrible book and trying to make myself go to the bathroom out of sheer boredom. The end result was 10 minutes of passed time and a broken blood vessel in my eye.
To you longtime readers, the observation that I’m incapable at managing himself is hardly revelatory. However, the fact is that I will become a father in a matter of weeks despite the fact that I just spent a few spare moments seeing how many of the presidents I could name in order from memory (only nine – I forgot William Henry Harrison in my haste to get to John Tyler). Will my son inherit my aloof demeanor and predilection for obscure historical references nobody understands? Will he be kind and sweet like his mother? Will he be a fat, lazy, string-chasing bastard like Ben Franklin? (I’m referring to Ben Franklin our cat – the actual Ben Franklin was not lazy.)
On the plus side, my wife’s VHS copy of While You Were Sleeping still works. I like that movie because it reminds me of sleeping.
Your kid will grow up knowing you can’t care for yourself and will therefore cook and clean for you while Bridgette is gone.
Whenever my dad tried to cook for us, meat was either black or red. Everything was deep fried. No wonder I became a terrific cook.
Maybe he’ll be just like his father, too bold.
Maybe he’ll be just like his mother. She’s never satisfied…
Whatever he’s like, I can promise you that I’ll be encouraging him to go with the Prince-style facial hair once he’s old enough.