The Apocalypse

I am going to be a Dad.

This is a terrifying statement, for many reasons.

It’s not the baby. Babies are babies. They mimic. They copy. They improvise. They look into your soul, eat it alive, and then go off and read Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde. I’m not kidding.

And this is why I have fear. Our child will mimic my sordid personality. That’s what sends a tingle of doom down my spine. Because of me, no photographer will be safe for the next 76 years.

Fortunately, it won’t be just me and the baby. My wife gives me hope. She is normal, she is respectable, she is charming, intelligent, and witty.

These are wonderful qualities. If the apocalypse came tomorrow, and we were fighting zombies with our bare knuckles, I would still have hope. (If you’ve ever seen her playing Plants vs. Zombies, you know exactly what I mean.)

And–better yet, she has chosen the path of the stay-at-home mom. Our child will spend the day soaking up her sunshine in the well-tilled fields of homeschooling nirvana. We may as well be planting the baby in volcanic soil.

This doesn’t leave me off the hook, of course. After the table is cleared and the dishes are washed, I get my turn at this whole childrearing thing.

Somehow, in the three hours between dinner and bed, I cannot turn our child into a werewolf. If you have any experience with werewolves, you know how dubious a task this actually is.

(Further, you may ask how I convinced my wife to marry a werewolf. This is a fair question. I have no answer.)

Oh, and what about weekends? From dawn to dusk, I could (potentially) have the child all to myself, with brief interruptions for feedings. What fearsome things will I inflict on the baby during these extended bouts of quality time?

Well… I have this all-terrain jogging stroller…

- Daniel