Precocious. A short story about bad communication and father/son relationships".
"Exactly what kind of stupid shit have I gotten myself into this time?" I asked my father.
"Don't worry, it only gets worse ... er ... better I mean," he replied.
"Growing up I invariably figured the two of you knew inherently how to raise us, now I question my ability to survive even my pregnant wife's wrath, much less an incessantly crying baby."
"Funny you feel that way. Your mother and I raised you despite our ignorance and oddly enough I feel no more qualified now than I did more than twenty years ago."
"Oh, thanks for that. You know what? I seriously doubt, based on your uplifting words here, that you truly are more qualified."
"I love you too son," said my father. "Now instead of concerning yourself with the future, start thinking about the here and now and get in there with your wife. It's a right of passage and I'll be damned if you get to skip out on this one!"
Immediately upon conclusion of my not so reassuring conversation with my father I somewhat less than bravely headed back to the room and my once lovely wife now overcome with fear, anger and most importantly rage at seemingly nothing but me. These memories of a day some seven years ago remain vivid in my mind. In fact, it's amusing what a mind chooses to place into the vault and that which it seems to discard like some Sheik discards used Jaguars.
Regardless of what anyone might profess, whatever literature, scripture, propaganda or media might say, childbirth is not, by any means, a beautiful miracle. It is simply a function of biology, and certainly one of nature's most awful and gut-wrenching sights to behold. I've rarely even for a second understood the parents who weave these intricate tales of how they've never before witnessed a more perfect baby and how eager to hold and caress "Johnny" they were the minute he breached the birth canal. Let me for a minute explain, for all of the delusional parents and more importantly for those who are easily manipulated by such tales, that
"Don't worry, it only gets worse ... er ... better I mean," he replied.
"Growing up I invariably figured the two of you knew inherently how to raise us, now I question my ability to survive even my pregnant wife's wrath, much less an incessantly crying baby."
"Funny you feel that way. Your mother and I raised you despite our ignorance and oddly enough I feel no more qualified now than I did more than twenty years ago."
"Oh, thanks for that. You know what? I seriously doubt, based on your uplifting words here, that you truly are more qualified."
"I love you too son," said my father. "Now instead of concerning yourself with the future, start thinking about the here and now and get in there with your wife. It's a right of passage and I'll be damned if you get to skip out on this one!"
Immediately upon conclusion of my not so reassuring conversation with my father I somewhat less than bravely headed back to the room and my once lovely wife now overcome with fear, anger and most importantly rage at seemingly nothing but me. These memories of a day some seven years ago remain vivid in my mind. In fact, it's amusing what a mind chooses to place into the vault and that which it seems to discard like some Sheik discards used Jaguars.
Regardless of what anyone might profess, whatever literature, scripture, propaganda or media might say, childbirth is not, by any means, a beautiful miracle. It is simply a function of biology, and certainly one of nature's most awful and gut-wrenching sights to behold. I've rarely even for a second understood the parents who weave these intricate tales of how they've never before witnessed a more perfect baby and how eager to hold and caress "Johnny" they were the minute he breached the birth canal. Let me for a minute explain, for all of the delusional parents and more importantly for those who are easily manipulated by such tales, that