A little more than 50 hours from now, I will become a father. Again. I don’t know why.
Well, scratch that. I do know why. I am a huge fan of the why, and especially the how.
Hey, Pumba! Not in front of the kids!
What I mean is, I don’t know WHY I decided (and yeah, these things always come about as a result of a decision, right or wrong, easy or hard) to have another kid. I’m not what you’d call a good father. I mean, I guess I’m an ok dad so far: I have a job, we have a house, a car, our kids are getting a decent education. I don’t get rip-roaring drunk and beat everyone in the house every Saturday night. I play games with the kids, take them to free comic book day. But there’s more to being a dad than just being there, right?
I love my kids. I want them to be as successful as they possibly can, go through life getting hurt as little as possible, and find all the love and happiness that there is. But… I can’t stand them! OMG. I hate these kids so much. Every day. Every single day they do things that make me angry. Defcon One, launch the airstrike, kiss humanity goodbye angry. They relentlessly push my buttons and it drives me crazy.
Even now, as I type this, I’m contemplating punching one of the kids so hard my fist goes through him and impales itself in the second kid. “But officer, I only hit them once!” The little one is knocking on the big one’s door, “Bug! Bug! Bug bug bug bug bug bug. Bug!” (She calls her big brother Bug.) “Bug! Mom wants you!”
“Bug,” (We’ll call him Bug) comes out and tries to hit her for banging on his door.
“HEY!” I shout, because that’s all I do anymore. Just shout ineffectually. “If you hit your sister so help me God I will raise Mickey Rooney’s bones from the ground and reanimate his dead corpse and tell that undead monstrosity to eat your eyeballs!” The big one’s so confused about the possibility that I might not be bluffing, he backs off.
The little one now starts screaming. “NO! DON’T LET THE MACARONI EAT BUG’S EYEBALLS! DADDY! BUG NEEDS EYES TO WATCH POKEMON!”
She hits Bug, since he came out of his room and that’s what she wanted to do anyway. He shouts “STOP TRYING TO KILL ME!” and tries to hit her back. She screams and goes running through the house arms outstretched like a raptor’s about to shred her alive.
Mom is in the bedroom, trying to nap, what with a baby coming in 49 hours, and she awakes with a start with a screaming four-year-old racing toward her, and a ten year old with murder in his eyes chugging through after her like a retarded steam train on LSD. I’m on the computer, trying to write a blog post. I haven’t written anything good in five years. That was the last time I could get an hour’s worth of quiet time before 10:00 pm. It’s like trying to live through the events of Apocalypse Now from a tea cafe in the middle of Viet Nam. Now the boy is roaring/crying like a Tyrannosaurus with a Syphilis flare up. Apparently the four-year-old got a good shot in.
In two days, I extend my contract on Fatherhood, for at least another 18 years. I don’t know why. I truly don’t. Four year old is here now. She wants to know why the iluminati rule the world, and why there’s a giant eye on a pyramid on the back of money. It’s all like reverse Charlie Brown. All I hear is wahwah-wah-wahwahwah-wah.
I gotta go.