I’d like to have kids. You know, with you.
I can almost see already how it will unfold.
I think our first baby will be a boy. You’ll think that I’ll be thrilled with a son. And I will be. But I’ll also be a little secretly sad that it wasn’t a baby girl to take after you.
I’ll hold him for the first time.
“He’s gorgeous,” I’ll say.
“He really is.”
“He looks just like me! Kidding. He looks like both of us.” I’ll smile and kiss you. “Though he mostly looks like me.”
And we’ll get him home.
It’ll come time for the first changing.
“Baby, I’m so tiiiiired,” you’ll whisper.
“But it smells really bad.”
“Peter… you’re the one with all the diaper changing experience.”
I’ll carry the little stink bomb into his room. I’ll open his diaper and…
“Oh, sweet mother! Wow. Just wow. I know you hear me on the monitor, woman. You better not be smiling.”
You’ll pull the sheets up to cover your face and to stifle the giggles.
“It’s just…” I’ll continue. “So. Bad. It’s like you’ve been feeding this kid Indian food and evil!”
And then there’ll be the middle of the night feedings.
“Baaaaaby, can you get this one?”
“I don’t have any breasts.”
“We switched to a bottle weeks ago.”
“Well, sure. There’s that.”
“I gave birth to your son.”
“That one is not going to work forever, you know.”
“Yes it is.”
And when he gets a little older, he’ll waddle over, climb up on my knee and watch baseball with me.
“Daddy, who’s playing?”
“The Toronto Blue Jays. We like them.”
“Who is the other team?”
“The New York Yankees. They are poopy.”
“I think Mommy likes them.”
“Your mother is a bit of a harlot. I wanted to wait until you were older to tell you…”
“I like the stripes on their costumes. I am going to cheer for the Yankees.”
“I will straight up give you to the gypsies.”
“Peter!!” you’ll yell, after entering the room without me noticing.
“Kidding. I’m kidding!” I’ll shake my head side to side and mouth “I’m not” at the kid. Then I’ll mime “I’m watching you” to him.
And when he’s 15, he’ll want some cash to go to a movie with that cute little brunette girl from his English class who writes poems but won’t show them to anyone but him. You’ll balk because the girl’s mother “always skimped on snacks for the kids’ soccer games” five years earlier. And because, “she’s a judgmental bitch who dresses like she thinks she’s still 22!” And he’ll be sad. And I’ll take him aside. I’ll explain that what seems like love at his age, often isn’t, and that he’ll meet thousands of women in his life, each with attributes that will make them special. And I’ll tell him that you and I are doing our very best to help him grow up healthy and happy.
Then I’ll slip him a couple of 20s and say, “Don’t tell your mother.”
It’s gonna happen. Make your peace with it now.
Then he’ll graduate from high school.
And I’ll be annoyed at sitting there for so long. I’ll wonder, a little too loudly, who wrote those terrible speeches. And then the little bastard, who you’ll claim ruined your body (he so hasn’t) and who I’ll resent because his upcoming half-assed university career is going to cost me the stash of money I had put aside for my personal robot that sings Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock’s “It Takes Two” and makes the world’s best pancakes, will take the stage.
He’ll get his diploma.
And we”ll know we did good.
I’ll hug you.
And I’ll hope, with every ounce of my being, that when he finds someone to spend his life with, he’ll be half as lucky as I’ve been.