I’m a dad. I have been for three months. I like my baby. I love him, even. This is probably because (head reason) I’m programmed to, and (heart reason) the sight/smell/sound of him is intoxicating and I can’t get enough of it. I want to smell him so hard I smell all the nutrients out the top of his head and make him stupid. I want his first words to be, “Dad? Stop smelling me.”
If you have a kid, you know what I mean. If you don’t, you don’t. You also don’t know it if you have a pet, no matter how much of a snuggle muffin it may be. I would put my cat Lava, whom I love deeply, in a blender and press puree should a situation arise where some modern Moriarty told me that doing so would ensure my son’s safety. I hope it never comes to that, but know that I am prepared for it.
One major thing I realized when he was born was that I am definitely going to die. Of course, I knew that on paper prior to his birth, but seeing a human life commence in front of my face drove bone-deep the knowledge that life must also end, just as thoroughly. Thoughts of death and mortality are common among new parents and for the first few days I would look at his adorable, smooshed-up little face and think, “You little cutie pie! You will attend my funeral!”
At least I hope he does. And I hope that funeral is way, way, way in the future, much further than I’d hoped it would be before I became a father. The way I see it, my new primary function on this earth is to simply die before my son. Hopefully it won’t happen until he is fully prepared to deal with the vicissitudes of life, the pleasures of which can range from eating a fresh Key Lime pie you made yourself after a rewarding 69 session with a new lover, all the way to using three credit cards to pay for back surgery because you couldn’t afford the COBRA payments after losing health insurance as a result of being laid off from your job as a teacher.
Another thing I’ve learned firsthand is that moms are more important than dads. Measurably. But dads are still important, too. I assisted my wife during her pregnancy, the birth of our son, and as much as possible over the first three months of his life, and I’d like to make it clear that a man who gets a woman pregnant and doesn’t stick around to help is a sad little cunt.
This is my impression of that man: “Unh… grunt … oh yeah! (JIZZES, EXITS, MAKING THE OTHER PERSON’S LIFE ALMOST IMPOSSIBLY DIFFICULT AFTER SPAWNING ANOTHER LIFE THAT WILL BE MISSING A MAJOR INGREDIENT. REPEATS CYCLE WITH WAITRESS IN NEXT TOWN)
The argument could be made that the mother and child are better off without this cunt-faced, cunty-cunt non-man hanging around, but I still think he should have his bank account drained twice a month and 70 pounds of pig-iron hung around his neck for at least 18 years. I also endorse pelting him with human diarrhea 8-10 times a day without warning, so he knows what he’s missing. Under no circumstances should he be allowed to smell the baby half-created by his lazy load as this action may result in an alchemical reaction where he shapeshifts into a person who takes responsibility for his orgasms so quickly that he dies of a heart attack on the spot.
These revelations, and more, can be found in my upcoming book, Fatherhood by Bill Cosby.