Birth Daze.

I’ve been thinking about babies, y’all. Not in a sexual way. Normal stuff. Playing with them, protecting them, eating them. I kid, I kid. But seriously, you have to wonder what your baby tastes like. I see you nibble. I know that look. You want to eat a baby! I’ve just been thinking about having one. Not thinking about “having one.” Just what it would be like to have one. Damn, I just gave myself a scare.

I’m a nice enough dude, reasonably intelligent, alright-looking, carry no fatal preconditions. I could probably make a decent baby on genetics alone. It’s the wanting-to-raise-it part that still baffles me. Raise it to be what? I barely know how to be a human. I’d like to teach someone to be a helicopter pilot. Unfortunately, I don’t know how to fly a helicopter either. I could give lessons on how to freak out in a mall parking lot or how long is too long to hold a shit. But do I need to create a new human just to pass on those skills?

Sure, I can do a few learnable things. I can teach a kid to tie their shoes or ride a bike. 123’s, ABC’s. But just because I am capable of teaching things doesn’t mean I should. I’m an awful teacher. Prodigies can’t learn fast enough for my patience. Most of you are awful teachers. Don’t get defensive. Pause for a second and think about it…

…

See? I was right! For those of you still in denial, ask anyone you ever taught anything to. They’ll tell you. You’re terrible!

I figure, once you get past all that staying-alive baby stuff, I can educate a person up to five years-old. After five, I need some assistance. So what do I do? I drop the kid off in the education system so that he can be homogenized intellectually and socialized to hate me. Now I have this kid that is just like all the other kids, with two overwhelming differences: This one has all my neuroses and despises me. Normal in a bad way and idiodyncratic…in a bad way. Basically, that’s the worst kid possible. And the motherfucker is mine. He’s not the motherfucker. I am. I AM.

Logically, I’m having trouble sinking my teeth into this. I understand that most people can impart more useful skills than I can. They can teach a human to be self-sufficient. But I also know I wouldn’t be happy if I created a self and it only sufficed. If my kid doesn’t kick ass I am going to know quickly and lose interest. And it’s not like finding the best taco in Hollywood; researching on the Internet won’t help. Babies are a crap shoot. That’s why you make them with someone you love: Because if a stranger made you a crappy baby you would murder them. Seriously. Murder them. Even love can’t survive an unsatisfactory child. When someone says “It’s not you, it’s me,” that means it’s you. And when divorcing parents tell children “It’s not your fault,” it’s their fault. I’m a child of divorce. I’ve owned up to it and apologized.

If I could enlighten a child it would be different. I can’t. I can provide a dumb perspective, a couple tidbits of frat-house wisdom, and maybe a few intentional and unintentional laughs. If I turned that in as a resumé, I would be stunned to even receive an interview. Maybe you’re baby-making resume has stronger credentials. Maybe you got good letters of recommendation or did an internship somewhere. If so, by all means, spray a few in her uterus. But me, I’m gonna keep aiming for the titties. That way, though my babies might not grow up, at least they can die quick, happy deaths.

This post was a bit of a doozy. I just got fucked by celebrated a birthday. Allow me some adjustment time.

My name is Ben and this blog is the only baby I need.