Are we alone in the universe?
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Could Jesus microwave a burrito so hot that even He couldn't eat it?
Until recently, I'd long considered these to be the most unanswerable questions facing mankind. Then my wife got pregnant. Now, after five months and four hundred and seventeen iterations of "So, are you ready for the baby?" I'm changing my tune.
Forgive my frankness as well as my French, but how the f#@k * should I know if I'm ready for this baby? If by "ready" you mean that I've purchased a crib and I'm not running a meth lab out of my basement, then yes, by all means, I'm ready.
But if by "ready" you mean I'm prepared for the myriad of lifestyle changes and overwhelming increase in responsibility the birth of my son is sure to bring, then, well, there's just no answer for that one. After all, this is going to be a rather big shock to my system.
Baby's have never really been my thing. The next diaper I change will be my first. To the best of my knowledge, I've never even held a child under the age of two. And I'm pretty sure a few of my cousins were in high school before I realized they had joined the family. Does this make me a bad guy? Well, probably. But does it make me any less "ready" for my baby than the next guy? N....yeah, you're right, it probably does that too.
But so what? I've got to believe you will never be less prepared for anything in your life -- save for perhaps your first prostate exam -- then the birth of your first child. What can I possibly use to gauge my likelihood of success? The only thing I've ever been responsible for is my dog Maci, and she's best known around these parts for having consumed an entire carbon fluorescent light bulb I inadvertently locked in her crate with her. Whoops. That resulted in one of the three emergency room visits she's had in her two years under my watch. I realize these are not good omens.
But that is the most beautiful -- and terrifying -- fact about procreation: there are no minimum skills requirements. You've got to muster a GED before you can be trusted with the deep fryer, but any asshole can make babies. As a result, people far dumber and more irresponsible than me have been pumping out kids for centuries, and the human race has still managed to evolve to the point where the global economy is thriving, modern medicine has made pandemics a thing of the past, and technology has become so advanced, with the click of a mouse I could tell you what Ashton Kutcher is doing RIGHT NOW.** So most people must be getting this child rearing thing right, right? And since most people shouldn't be trusted with anything more complex than a ball of string, how hard can raising a kid be?
Here's the basic blueprint as I see it. As infants you feed them, clean up after their messes, and slowly indoctrinate them into hating the things you hate. As they grow older you nurture their inquisitive side, encourage them, and force them to walk home from the Little League field if they don't get three hits. And finally, as they mature into adults, you love them unconditionally, support their dreams, and if all goes well, they'll repay you by shattering your heart and moving 2,000 miles away. Then you're done. That doesn't sound that bad, does it?
But that is the most beautiful -- and terrifying -- fact about procreation: there are no minimum skills requirements. You've got to muster a GED before you can be trusted with the deep fryer, but any asshole can make babies. As a result, people far dumber and more irresponsible than me have been pumping out kids for centuries, and the human race has still managed to evolve to the point where the global economy is thriving, modern medicine has made pandemics a thing of the past, and technology has become so advanced, with the click of a mouse I could tell you what Ashton Kutcher is doing RIGHT NOW.** So most people must be getting this child rearing thing right, right? And since most people shouldn't be trusted with anything more complex than a ball of string, how hard can raising a kid be?
Here's the basic blueprint as I see it. As infants you feed them, clean up after their messes, and slowly indoctrinate them into hating the things you hate. As they grow older you nurture their inquisitive side, encourage them, and force them to walk home from the Little League field if they don't get three hits. And finally, as they mature into adults, you love them unconditionally, support their dreams, and if all goes well, they'll repay you by shattering your heart and moving 2,000 miles away. Then you're done. That doesn't sound that bad, does it?
Look at it this way. Lauren's been preparing for this her entire life. From her role as babysitter to kindergarten teacher to my wife, she's garnered more experience dealing with infantile behavior than most. And SHE'S freaking terrified of what's to come. That shouldn't make me feel better, but it does.
So to answer every one's question, no, we're probably not ready. But we'll be OK. Sure I've almost killed my dog on several occasions, but I also love her to an unhealthy degree. And I'm confident Lauren and I will love our son exponentially more, provided of course he takes to playing fetch as quickly as Maci did. That should keep him sleeping through the night.
And if nothing else, having a son will provide years of material for writing annoying songs on my guitar. I just finished one for Lauren titled "I Like the Way Your Feet Taste in the Morning," but apparently it infringed on an earlier copyright.
Butch Walker’s Five Minute Songwriting Challenge - More amazing videos are a click away
*F#@k not actually of French origin
**first two evolutionary accomplishments may not have happened
