It is entirely too early to begin thinking about this, but it just dawned on me that eventually I will have to explain sex and relationships to this kid. Even though he’s only eight months old, I’m sure that even if I began preparing for that moment right now, I still won’t be at all ready when the time comes. I suppose I could always break the ice for “the talk” by describing my first stab at dating:
The doorbell rings, and a man wearing a handlebar mustache and brandishing a meat cleaver opens the front door.
“Why hello, Mr. Uncreative Stereotype,” I say, “I’m here to see your daughter.”
“I KILL YOU!”
“Umm, is she ready, by any chance?”
“I FIND WHERE YOU LIVE, AND I KILL YOU!”
“Uh, okay then.”
“I CUT OFF YOUR HEAD AND CRAP DOWN HOLE IN YOUR THROAT!”
Magic moments . . . But now is not the time to get lost in fond remembrance. Nay nay, we must look forward to the future:
The scene occurs approximately fifteen and a half years into the future. I sit in the Barcalounger by the fireplace, of course with a full head of hair, getting my Ward Cleaver Father Knows Squat vibe on, staring intently into a newspaper with a profoundly omniscient, yet not at all pompous, expression on my face. The kid ambles into the room, the picture of dejection.
“Why, what ever is the matter, son?” I ask, my voice positively oozing with concerned gravitas.
“I think I’m going to have to break up with my girlfriend,” he says.
“And why is that?”
“We never get a chance to talk to each other. First the WiMAX went wonky again, and the DNS servers went from recursive to just cursing. Meanwhile, her Bluetooth Blackberry headset broke, and the latest software update bricked my iPhone. We tried rerouting proxy server settings to use our refrigerators’ IM protocol, but now Skype won’t work and we can’t even get a satellite signal on our GPS camera toasters.”
All gravitas gone, I stare blankly in his direction. Finally, the silence is broken. The words, “What the bloody hell was that mumbo jumbo you just said?” escape my lips. Then I regroup and think of the answer to all of his problems, because by this point Ward Cleaver is a sniveling pipsqueak compared to me. “Wait a minute,” I say. “She lives right across the street. Why don’t you just walk over there, ring the doorbell, and see if she’s home?”
He stares blankly in my direction. Finally, the silence is broken. “What the bloody hell was that mumbo jumbo you just said?” he asks.
And so the generation gap regenerates. Besides, I’m sure there’s some guy with a weird looking mustache running around screaming with a meat cleaver over there, anyway.