Mini Me?

Obviously learning you are expecting a new bundle of joy brings along a myriad of feelings.  Most people claim to feel overjoyed, thrilled, excited, blessed.

I felt fear. . .

And trepidation.

This kid could be exactly like me.  

Holy shit.

I have plenty of respectable qualities.  Those aren’t the ones I worry about passing along to my offspring.

Yesterday, I had to have a routine physical for some life insurance underwriting.  I’m deathly afraid of nearly all things medical.  The nurse was to come to the house at 7 o’clock last night.  That meant I had all day to work myself into a lather agonizing over a blood test, a urine sample, a blood pressure check, and a height and weight check.  I was up at 5:15 yesterday morning and wasted no time starting to obsess.

What if they find some horrible disease?  What if my blood pressure is sky-high?  What if I’m too fat to get a decent rate?  I should just cancel the underwriting.  It’s really not worth all this hassle and expense. If I’m dying, which the blood test will certainly reveal, Chris will be able to comfortably support Mac. I’d rather not know I’m dying. . .well we’re all dying but you know what I mean. . . 

Argh!  I looked at Super Chunk sleeping peacefully in his little rocker seat.  I hope to gawd, he isn’t scared of the doctor like me.  

And that’s when I started thinking of everything else I hope he isn’t.

I hope he isn’t the kind of kid that lies awake at night obsessing that if he doesn’t close his eyes “properly,” they will somehow cross in the middle of the night and get stuck that way. (I can’t tell you how many countless hours of sleep I lost obsessing about that in grade school.  Opening and closing and opening and closing my eyes over and over.)

I hope he isn’t the kind of kid that curiously attempts to give the cat a rectal exam with a paintbrush (The attempt was thwarted and the cat was fine).

I hope he isn’t the little asshole that squishes and smears some kind of disgusting juicy purple berry all over the neighbor’s pale yellow Lincoln Continental (I am remorseful but still feel very fortunate we never got caught).

I hope he isn’t the kind of kid that worries constantly about his future. While everyone else in my First Grade class was sitting around reading those stupid Mr. Happy and Little Miss Sunshine books during indoor recess, I couldn’t enjoy one moment of it because I was certain you didn’t read such fluff in law school.

I hope he doesn’t verbally assail me when I tell him “no.”  I hope every freaking day doesn’t involve at least four or five absolutely fucking exhausting debates over all kinds of unimportant things.  (How his pants are hemmed.  How his hair is combed.  Why he can’t eat a spoonful of butter dipped in the sugar bowl for dinner – guilty, guilty, guilty).

I hope he doesn’t run over the neighbors tomatoes with his bicycle.  I hope he doesn’t stick his penis out the curtains of the front windows when people walk by.  I hope he’s not stupid enough to wedge candy wrappers in his nose.  I hope he never has to lie to his piano teacher about the amount of time he practiced that week.  I hope he doesn’t throw peas all over the kitchen, dried field corn at oncoming vehicles, or rotten crab apples at the UPS truck.  I hope he doesn’t pee in his McDonald’s Happy Meal issue Smurf glass in the sandbox because someone dared him to do it. . .

He is my Son, but I’m clinging to the hope he got his Father’s best qualities. . .and NOT his love of playing with matches. . .

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