Not too long ago, I sat and listened to two drunky-drunk people talk for like three hours about how the world is overpopulated and people really need to stop having so many kids because we are going to run out of food and yadda-yadda-yadda.
Halfway through their rant, I took a sip of my beer and tuned them out as the jazz record played in the background.
“Whatever,” I thought to myself. “I totally understand not wanting to have children. But ease up on the propaganda soup, huh?”
Still, the questions of when to stop having kids/how many is too many/how do you know when your roster is full, they all eat at a parent like me; nipping at the edges of my thoughts even when I’m not really thinking about it all that much anymore.
Up in my head, the credits were rolling, man. I was done.
Or I thought I was done.
But now, my wife drops some hints and suddenly I’m thinking…
Maybe I’m not done.
But then again,maybe I should be done.
But that’s offensive, isn’t it? (Yes, I manage to offend myself on a regular basis.) I mean, why should I be done?
Are you Am I calling me too old to be a new dad? I’m 41. Is that too old?
That is too old, isn’t it?
Hell no it’s not!
You see what I mean? The thing is tough, and the question is huge. Or is it?
To me, what matters most when I think about kids in this world is this: is there enough love for them to be as happy as we could possibly make them as a family?
Listen, people come up with all kinds of reasons that other people shouldn’t be having kids. I have had family members tell me to be done. Can you believe that? Is that the kind of advice I am supposed to feel thankful for? Because, it makes me want to stick my boot up a big ass, is what it makes me feel.
There are many things that I do not know in this world.
Hell, there are more than many; I don’t know most things. Most things that come up, I don’t have any answers to really.
I’m 41-years-old, and I like trout fishing and turkey hunting and NASCAR and pizza and Thai food and fat novels and cold beer and sleeping with a box fan blowing on me even in the heart of winter and watching Wicked Tuna and getting lucky in the bedroom every now and then with the same woman and Indian buffets and afternoon movies and mowing the lawn on sweltering hot summer days and being around my kids even when they are flopped down on the floor on a bad crying jag because they can’t have marshmallows dipped in chocolate sauce every meal for the rest of their lives.
I’m 41-years-old, ya’ll, and I have been seriously broken-hearted and broke down in the middle of the desert and flat broke to the tune of a one-dollar bill, too.
I have seen city pigeons drop dead off of a live power line, and I have witnessed two deer doing it unabashedly hard in the middle of an autumn forest.
I have dined with boring celebrities, and I have had good conversations with homeless people.
I have read War and Peace.
I might read it again.
Life as been mine for the taking and I’ve been taking a lot, I’d say.
And the more I think back about that night when two motormouths kept yapping about the need for less humans walking the Earth, the more I think I might want to be a daddy one more time.
Because I love my two kids more than I love hearing my own gums flap.
I love my two kids and I’m damn good at loving them too, if I do say so myself. And I do.
“So now what, dude?,” I ask myself.
So now what?
You can also find Serge on his personal blog, Thunder Pie.
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