I Don’t Know What in the Hell I’m Doing

Images from a kiosk at the Great New York State Fair. I did not buy these onesies.

My dad won’t remember this, but at some point in my childhood he told me not to have a kid until I was 30.

We both have memories like wet cheesecloth, so I can’t say with certainty that it happened either. But I think it did, and I took that request as advice. He didn’t have me, his first born, until he turned 31, so maybe he knew something.

My younger brother Paul went him one better and didn’t have his own first kid until he was 32. That was way back in 2003. He’s now got four boys on the ground.

At 30 I was ready for a kid. I was alone in that feeling, so that didn’t happen, not at age 30, 31, or 32. I made my peace with that, but life happens and the next thing you know, IT is happening. And I’m going to be 48-frickin’-years-old when the boy arrives (of course it’s a god-damn boy, my family has balls full of Y-chromosomes).

I’ve had a full 18 orbits around the sun of extra training as a human being to get this right. And I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

I have no business bringing a human being into the world.

Not because the world is currently a shit-show. (Which it is, but that’s beside the point.)

(I thought the world was such a shit-show back in the early 1990s that I considered getting a vasectomy in college. Think back to 1992 now and — LA riots aside — it seems like a quaint, 50s-esque time where the only thing wrong was too much hair-spray.)

Also the 50s was bad, not at all like Happy Days.

But I digress.

This feeling of know-nothing-ness, of course, is nothing new. It is likely the mantra of all new (and a few experienced) parents-to-be. I feel guilty even bringing it up. But still the plague-o’-doubts creeps in as the due date (January 26, 2018!) creeps ever closer.

I boarded this train to Doubts-ville, so let me tackle the reasons why I shouldn’t have a kid:

  1. No patience. On my first trip to a Babies R’ Us, a crying child made my skin crawl so much I almost ran into the parking lot.

(The other reason this is okay, is that kids who curse are fucking adorable.)

I may try The Good Place or Johnny Dangerously “forking iceholes, holy shirt, you bastiches,” format. The only thing funnier than real cursing kids is kids cursing incorrectly.

The list could go on and on but I’m tired from painting my son’s future room and wondering which wall he’ll take a crayon to first, even though I’m going to make his closet doors into a blackboard. God, what a little icehole he’s gonna be!

Time for a nap. Or a movie with swears in it. Or to make a mess, or perfect a skill (maybe painting a wall, which I suck at), or go for a fast drive on sharp corners in an aging Prius. Because I got fit all this stuff in in 102 days.

Author of KALI: THE GHOSTING OF SEPULCHER BAY and BETA TEST! Writer/Editor for PCMag.com by day; writer and layabout by night.

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