The Ides Of September

From the moment Anita’s precision-delivered urine stream struck the pregnancy test strip 4 months ago I knew my existence was going to be forever altered. I was now in charge of a new life, one that was 50% me or poolboy. I came to suddenly understand that I now had a pet for whom the societal tolerance for abuse was remarkably narrow and felt the pride of fatherhood surge within me. I knew this would be a moment I would cherish without fail until something interesting came on TV.

People always equate a baby with grand potential and lofty hopes, but it’s important to remember that you can have tremendous potential to be a fuck-up as well. Given that many of the choices made by this imp will be heavily impacted by the wisdom I’ve offered or the love I’ve withheld, there is a tremendous pressure to affect that potential in a positive way. I have to admit that thought had never weighed that heavily on me until recently, because I always had a solid conception of the father I intended to be. In my mind I would never miss a Little League game, no matter how inebriated I was. My child would never want for the latest and greatest in toys, as I would continue to purchase them for myself and gladly share them on occasion. The only fly in the proverbial ointment was a calloused reality check from my wife reminding me that we might not be having a son. A-disillusioned-father-to-be-says-what?

Normally I would equate such a statement to Yet Another Ludicrous Thing Said By That Chick Who Lives With Me, but she had a point. Though there have been no women birthed in my father’s lineage for several generations, it was entirely possible that I was carrying the recessive gene for un-males. I just never truly entertained the notion because my child-rearing spectrum never included girls. I was raised with two brothers and I took a significant role in taking care of my two nephews. Certainly God would appreciate my resume and bless me accordingly because that’s what kind, just dieties DO. However, what if He didn’t?

God, for what I lack in omnipotence, I surely make up for in self-awareness. I know what I am and am not capable of and what my genetics favor. I’ve run thousands of mental iterations on outcomes for my child based on its gender and the scenarios speak for themselves. Perhaps you could consider the rough timeline I’ve developed for what my child can come to expect from life if they turn out to be a boy or a girl and decide to intervene if necessary?

My Beautiful Bouncing Boy – A Projected Future
Birth:
My son emerges from the birth canal doing pull-ups on the umbilical cord. A nurse swoons to a faint while tabulating his Apgar score after he throws her a wink and fires an imaginary hand-pistol at her. I name him “Guy”, which is equal parts unimaginative and awesome.

Year 1:
He takes his first step, first backflip, and first barfight. His first word is “ESPN”.

Year 5:
Guy enters Kindergarten already able to read at a 7th grade level. When praised by his teacher for the same he remarks “…but I don’t know why I’d bother reading when I could be looking at you, Dollface.” She swoons to a faint.

Year 6:
He is elected captain of the Varsity football team at the neighboring high school.

Year 9:
Having accomplished every conceivable accolade and fathomable goal in human existence, he retires as a Warlord, Conquerer, and Breeding Stock for humanity.

My Gilded Gracious Girl – A Projected Future
Birth:
Upon hearing the doctor exhort “It’s a girl!”, I frantically begin searching about the room for the penis that must have gotten lost in the fray. Embittered by this cruel turn of fate, I tell a nurse to mark her name down as Harlotina on the birth certificate. Anita is furious because we had previously agreed to use Coutesanna should this eventuality occur.

Year 1:
I am told that my daughter is doing all manners of brilliant and staggeringly cute things. I have yet to witness it myself as I am in the garage softly weeping and polishing my shotgun in preparation for the dirtbags who intend to date her.

Year 2:
I finally come around enough to change my beautiful little girl’s diapers for the first time. I am oddly content until I realize just how swiftly and naturally she threw her legs up in the air and wonder if it is a portent of things to come. I leave to polish my shotgun some more.

Year 5:
She is already reading at a 7th grade level and making lots of friends with her sparkling personality. I laud her efforts and support her tirelessly until February rolls around and she brings home a sack full of Valentines from countless boys. My daughter is obviously a tramp. I am left with little choice but to cast her into the basement, where she is bereft of light and male companionship (apart from the occasional male rat).

Year 16:
She is still in the basement. I have lost three fingers and an eye combating various escape attempts over the years (how in the world she managed to fashion a shiv out of rats I’ll never know…) so I am forced to send her meals down the laundry shaft. She must be maturing into a young woman now, as she’s putting down at least 2 lbs of raw beef a day.

In the event there is no God, there is still something that can be done. Together we can ensure my little girl escapes my clutches long enough to find some real happiness in the arms of her butch lesbian lover. That is why I have set up this Paypal account below, the proceeds of which will be collected to fund the extensive psychological therapy my little girl would need to someday be a quasi-adjusted member of society.

In the event it turns out to be a boy, the sum total of it will be converted to singles for our first father/son day at The Spearmint Rhino, just like my father did for me when I turned 8. Please help – my future daughter thanks you in advance from the confines of her underground cell. Thank you!