The Fruit Doesn't Fall Far From the Ass (Wednesday)
I know many of you (okay, none of you) have been clamouring for more of the patented P-man "A List of the 100 Records I Own" list but you, you unfortunate reader(s), today is not your day.
Today I will comment on our son and the experience of having a baby, this baby, in this house, these days, and I expect the torrent of saccharined words will start flooding out of me at any second now, like chunder from an inebriated frat boy, so besotted am I by the subject, and so willing am I to venerate the experience of parenting, and to reify he, my first male issue... the goodness and happy times should start, wait for it... now.
Maybe not. As much as I cherish my daughter (e) and son (a) I do not believe they are deities, royalty, or supreme beings. I do not believe that being a parent imbues me with any special insight to humanity, or humanness, or the meaning of the various inscrutable references I abandoned all hope of figuring out in reading 'Foucault's Pendulum' (they were, simply, far too numerous), the popularity of Kid Rock, Uncle Cracker, Cracker, Camper van Beethoven, Beethoven's Fifth, the list goes on. Parenting has not equipped me with any new tools to understand these things. I have the same near-empty toolkit with which I came into parenting. It contains, metaphorically, a chalk line and a hammer. Maybe that's like, a simile. Like, I'm unsure. In any event, my poor kids, having a dad so ill-equipped. They have, together, conspired to teach me daily lessons in humility. It is my wish to stay attentive to these lessons.
All that aside, they (whoever they are, I would appreciate an attribution for this one) say you forget how much work having a baby is and that lapse enables you to have a second. I believe the reference is not so much directed solely to the squeezing of the cannon ball through one's body parts, but the bit that comes after. 'They' are correct. I had forgotten how the infant e had us on the run. Damn it, why did I forget?
One thing I did not forget. Not once did I say to her, during any diaper change: do not point that thing at me. Vive la difference!
On to the subject of my son. Herein the torrent of warm liquid words, frothy like milk, the coffee shop milk produced by one of them high-fangled espresso machines, and the sound these machines make, it is the same sound our son's colon makes when his stomach is upset, and the froth, the yellow-curry froth which flows forth from his wee orifice into the halogen light of the bathroom. Yea, it is bubbly. Aspresso. But enough of this Hallmark moment, you saps, and onto the important subject of me.
I am of the view my daughter is precocious. Her ability to use the variety of vulgar terms she has heard from me (oh, man...) in appropriate circumstances is proof of that. I know baby a is a scant 3 weeks old, but I am concerned he is already lagging behind his sister. He can't do anything around the house, even when I show him how to do it. He is pretty useless.
Lately I have had some files where crystal-ball gazing in the form of expert opinion has figured significantly. I thought I'd try out one of the predictive methods in sorting put how a is going to do with his life. I will use the model which posits present behaviour as a predictor for future performance. I'll tell you now, the results are not pretty.
My son is incontinent. Therefore, as he ages, he will have no friends, and especially no girlfriends. This trait is worse than a repellent personality. I know this for a fact.
My son will be unemployable. He is always sleeping, or crying. Who wants to hire someone like that? My partners share their regrets regarding yours truly quite openly. Bastards.
I can never retire because my son is going to lie around all day, often in his own filth, waiting for me or his mother to tend to his needs. He doesn't clean up after himself. Sure, he's cute, but when will he begin to pull his weight?
In summary, the future for baby a looks bleak. Unless our senate (for which he may be qualified already) is hiring people straight out of the crib, it looks like Mo and I have a long road ahead of us. What was I thinking?
Today I will comment on our son and the experience of having a baby, this baby, in this house, these days, and I expect the torrent of saccharined words will start flooding out of me at any second now, like chunder from an inebriated frat boy, so besotted am I by the subject, and so willing am I to venerate the experience of parenting, and to reify he, my first male issue... the goodness and happy times should start, wait for it... now.
Maybe not. As much as I cherish my daughter (e) and son (a) I do not believe they are deities, royalty, or supreme beings. I do not believe that being a parent imbues me with any special insight to humanity, or humanness, or the meaning of the various inscrutable references I abandoned all hope of figuring out in reading 'Foucault's Pendulum' (they were, simply, far too numerous), the popularity of Kid Rock, Uncle Cracker, Cracker, Camper van Beethoven, Beethoven's Fifth, the list goes on. Parenting has not equipped me with any new tools to understand these things. I have the same near-empty toolkit with which I came into parenting. It contains, metaphorically, a chalk line and a hammer. Maybe that's like, a simile. Like, I'm unsure. In any event, my poor kids, having a dad so ill-equipped. They have, together, conspired to teach me daily lessons in humility. It is my wish to stay attentive to these lessons.
All that aside, they (whoever they are, I would appreciate an attribution for this one) say you forget how much work having a baby is and that lapse enables you to have a second. I believe the reference is not so much directed solely to the squeezing of the cannon ball through one's body parts, but the bit that comes after. 'They' are correct. I had forgotten how the infant e had us on the run. Damn it, why did I forget?
One thing I did not forget. Not once did I say to her, during any diaper change: do not point that thing at me. Vive la difference!
On to the subject of my son. Herein the torrent of warm liquid words, frothy like milk, the coffee shop milk produced by one of them high-fangled espresso machines, and the sound these machines make, it is the same sound our son's colon makes when his stomach is upset, and the froth, the yellow-curry froth which flows forth from his wee orifice into the halogen light of the bathroom. Yea, it is bubbly. Aspresso. But enough of this Hallmark moment, you saps, and onto the important subject of me.
I am of the view my daughter is precocious. Her ability to use the variety of vulgar terms she has heard from me (oh, man...) in appropriate circumstances is proof of that. I know baby a is a scant 3 weeks old, but I am concerned he is already lagging behind his sister. He can't do anything around the house, even when I show him how to do it. He is pretty useless.
Lately I have had some files where crystal-ball gazing in the form of expert opinion has figured significantly. I thought I'd try out one of the predictive methods in sorting put how a is going to do with his life. I will use the model which posits present behaviour as a predictor for future performance. I'll tell you now, the results are not pretty.
My son is incontinent. Therefore, as he ages, he will have no friends, and especially no girlfriends. This trait is worse than a repellent personality. I know this for a fact.
My son will be unemployable. He is always sleeping, or crying. Who wants to hire someone like that? My partners share their regrets regarding yours truly quite openly. Bastards.
I can never retire because my son is going to lie around all day, often in his own filth, waiting for me or his mother to tend to his needs. He doesn't clean up after himself. Sure, he's cute, but when will he begin to pull his weight?
In summary, the future for baby a looks bleak. Unless our senate (for which he may be qualified already) is hiring people straight out of the crib, it looks like Mo and I have a long road ahead of us. What was I thinking?
posted by p-man at 1:28 p.m.
4 Comments:
Give him a few weeks and he'll be drooling, too.
This may very well be the funniest thing I have read in a very long time. I can (frighteningly) actually see this taking place.
Sadly, my 21-month-old daughter also shows no signs of being able to support herself in any field...unless, of course, there are new developments in the burgeonging industry of bubble chasing.
Aspresso?
Are there special cups to serve that?
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