With Fathers day approaching this Sunday I decided to take advice from a good friend and be topical and timely with my entry today. This time of year, schmaltzy heartfelt articles espousing the joys of fatherhood abound. Magazine layouts have photos of clean-shaven Caucasian fathers wearing pastel golf shirts and khakis lifting their offspring as they look in each others eyes and laugh in unison, if its a Canadian magazine its an Asian father. Why is that? Why is it anytime you need to portray a multicultural sensibility in a Canadian media advertisement the “go to” safe ethnicity is Asian? And why is it always khakis? Is khaki more paternal than other fabrics? Should I buy some khaki and make up for this parenting shortcoming in my wardrobe?
I decided at the young age of twelve that I never wanted children. I really don’t know why I never did. The best explanation I can give is that I just never had the “drive” or need to have children, and honestly I still don’t. I have trouble wrapping my head around why people want to have kids. I just never felt that deep down emotional need. One time, I asked Mrs. Mitch to articulate that need to me so I could understand it. Was it like really wanting a dog? Was it like being really hungry? Was it like really wanting to finish a University degree?
“No,” she replied and tried her best to explain it to me but lets face it, Mitch doesn’t speak feelings. Its a struggle for me to connect emotionally with my feelings or other peoples feelings. I have a mental disorder and it makes quite difficult for me to have feelings. I’ve been debating for a while now whether or not to disclose the fact that I have bipolar disorder served with a side dish of obsessive compulsive disorder. Then I felt not disclosing it was really going against my “honest in all aspects” approach to the blog. I find that other people find my mental disorders a lot more interesting than I do.
My bipolar isn’t the interesting maniac highs and low kind, mine is more of the if one is happy and ten is depressed I’m a constant five and a half kind. Its like the half-caff vanilla soy latte version of Bipolar disorder. Not really that interesting. My obsessive compulsive disorder isn’t even that interesting, just your run of the mill germ-o-phobe, and mild scheduling obsession. Even my medication isn’t that interesting, I’m on low dose Kurt Cobain Pez also known as Lithium, which are supposed to help me sleep, but make me pee three times a night. So there you go, I got some run of the mill mental disorders, and feelings perplex me. We now return to our regularly scheduled programming.
Once, when I was eighteen I asked my doctor for a referral for a vasectomy. That how sure I was I never wanted to sire some offspring. Obviously Little Mitch is here so my doctor said no. I did eventually get my vasectomy, last month in fact and it was a mutual decision with Mrs. Mitch. Little Mitch came two months premature and the risk of another “fruit of my loins” coming early was extremely high. There’s “loins” again, you watch; this word is coming back in a big way, you’ll thank me later. So we decided it wasn’t worth the risk to have another child and I joined the nut cut club. The information sheet the doctor gave me made recovery sound so simple.
Recovery was simple, but the sheet did downplay how annoying it is to be constantly aware of one specific body part for a good three weeks. Here’s something the sheet didn’t tell me. You know when it gets hot your junk hangs low right? Like getting out of a hot tub or wearing jeans on a hot day. Well, with a nut cut you may get inflamed plums, but your body thinks, “wow the boys are really hot, let ’em hang!” and hang they do, like they have never hung before. Billowing sails wrapped around a couple of plums. Uncomfortable. About as uncomfortable as my mom telling me she’s an avid reader of my blog….my blog which I compared the NHL season to a blow-job and jerking off to Lethal Weapon 2…sweet Jesus.
Now you’re probably confused because I just spent the better part of today’s blog telling you I never wanted kids but I talk about Little Mitch, often and a lot. You’ll notice though I never was negative about it, I was factual about it. I like to sum it up as I’m a “not a kid guy who had a kid I love more than anything.” For those of you wondering, yes Little Mitch was planned. Mrs. Mitch likes to regale people with a story of when Little Mitch was still in the planning stages. After a rousing “lets have a baby” talk I had a mild panic attack and tried to bribe her with a dog, cash, or monkey to not have a baby. Not my proudest moment.
One of my favourite things about Little Mitch is his conversation skills. Often the most profound conversations of my entire day are with my 3.5 year old son. Taking a bathtub with Little Mitch. Hes spaced out deep in thought, no doubt pondering the existential complexities of his existence…. “Hey bud, what are you thinking about?” “I’m not. I’m playing with my balls.” Little Mitch is sitting on the couch seething after Mrs. Mitch gave him a well deserved spanking. Turns to me and says completely matter of fact; “Daddy we need a new chick. I don’t like this one anymore. She spanks my bum.” Lying in bed one night, Little Mitch turns and says to me “Daddy, I have a secret.” No doubt he will tell me of his undying love, and profess in the total innocent manner of a child how much I mean to him. “Daddy I think Kelly Clarkson should move in with us. She can sleep in our bed and Mommy can go live in my room.” Personally, I was pretty much on board with this idea, sometimes you just can’t argue with sound logic.