My wife and I are having a baby soon. As the due date rapidly approaches, I decided to take some time to reflect on myself, and I realized that I need to make some major life changes. As in, unless I fix these bad habits, me and the kid are in for some real shockers.
Let’s face it, there is nothing "good" about smoking; and I’m not going to raise my child as a smoking father…but fuck this is going to be tough. This beer is deeelish, all it’s missing is a Dentine Ice! Yeah, nothing goes better with a cold beer than a stick of gum. Damn I’m stressed out. I’m going to chew on this toothpick to the point where it looks like I blew a lumberjack.
But years from now I don’t want to have to explain certain things. "Daddy, why do you have a box on your throat?" Well, daddy is auditioning for the part of Stephen Hawking in the church play. (That just gave the Pope a seizure…and you’re going to hell.) "Daddy, I’m tired." OK little turd-burglar, hop on daddy’s oxygen cart and I’ll take you for a ride. Yeah, not gonna happen. But like Hank said, old habits like you are hard to break.
The only logical thing that goes with driving? Drinking.Let’s face it, there’s nothing "good" about drinking; aside from the fact that it’s awesome. Wine? Well hell yeah, it’s good for the heart! Whiskey? Warms the soul. Cold beer? Been bringing NASCAR fans together since 1809. (I’m pretty sure that’s wrong.)
I love booze. There’s never a "wrong time" to have a beer. But let’s face it, we do some really dumb shit when we drink. "Babe, where’s the baby?" The what? "The baby…our child!" Oh yeah. That. She’s in the dryer. "WHAT! How much have you had to drink?!" Uh…judging by your face…too much?
I’m not a "bad" drunk…but if it wasn’t for alcohol I wouldn’t have my social security number tattooed on my arm. So…yeah, about that.
Cussing and Shit
Let’s face it, there is nothing "good" about excessive profanity; aside from the fact that it’s fucking fun. I love profanity. No, I don’t think you understand (unless you’ve read this shit before), I fucking love profanity. I use it anywhere, anytime.
For example: "Goddamn those are some good lima beans. No, seriously; it’s like Gandalf fucking grew them in his garden and gave them to Yoda to cook. Use the motherfucking force, and a little Frank’s RedHot."
You see? I can’t have this kinda shit around my kid. Uh-oh. The little fecal-cannon of joy shat all over the place! Peek-a-fucking-boo! Yup, gotta work on that too.
Anybody up for a little backseat driving? I don’t necessarily suffer from road rage, but I do fantasize about running people off the road…and driving over cyclists. Okay, so yeah, I’m a little aggressive behind the wheel. And by aggressive I mean I treat my truck like a cross between a Porsche and an Abrams tank…and sometimes I pretend my shift knob is a missile launcher…and my cruise control buttons activate my machine guns. Yeah… about that. I’ve also been known to bump-draft Honda Accords as if I was coming out of turn 4 at Talladega. You know that guy at a stop light who takes off like a jet fighter when the light turns green? I’m usually four car links ahead of him. I need to cool it behind the wheel or I may snap a kid’s neck.
There are rifles, shotguns, and pistols all over the house. My living room looks like a typical day in Syria (dude, the dust hasn’t even settled). Hell, about once a month I rediscover an old firearm I thought I lost. There’s my Glock, been under my running shoes this whole time. And lord knows I haven’t used them in a while. And my wife always asks why we need all these guns. Well….come on….you never know. I mean…the…the zombies! And…aliens, and shit. Look woman, don’t come bitchin’ to me when a Klingon wants to snatch your iPad.
And finally, this is just a little one, but…
I’m Terrified of Babies
Okay, I’m not "terrified" of babies…but I just don’t know what to do with them. Greetings silent, tiny human. So…um….what do we have in common? ….AHA! A fond appreciation of titties! I like them too! But, you can’t speak.
And people are always like, here, wanna hold my baby? Uh…not really. What, you don’t love my baby? It’s not that, it’s…. Okay, look at it like this: babies are like grenades. I appreciate grenades, I love grenades…but I’m a little nervous around them. In Iraq we were given hand grenades (for all that trench warfare we encountered?), and honestly, I hated holding onto them. Because you know in the back of your head you’re simply holding onto a little ball of I’MGONNAFUCKYOUUP! And that’s how I look at babies. One false move and BAM!, screaming explosive shitting kiddo.
Plus, I have no clue how to talk to babies. I have two modes. One, talk to them like I’m talking to an Asian that doesn’t speak English:
HI – TINY – HUMAN. I – AM – MARTY. GET – THE – FUCK – OUT – OF – THE – LEFT – LANE.
And two, like I’m talking to a dog:
Who’s a good baby? Who’s a good baby? You’re a good baby! Sit! Stay! Good baby, here’s a dehydrated pig ear for you to gnaw on. Nom nom nom pig ear!
What do you do with babies? Let’s take her for a walk! A walk? I don’t take myself for a walk. Let’s take the baby for a sit on the couch. I’m in no position to advocate healthy living. Just last week I took a grilled cheese sandwich, battered it, covered it in Dorito crumbs and deep fried it.
I’ve got a lot to cover. But the first part of problem solving is identifying the problem. The second part…pawning it off on someone else. Thank God for my wife.