Basking in the scintillating sun, I bit into a velvety ripened peach. A slight breeze caresses my warm skin and sends goose bumps down my arms. I’m gazing out at a pastoral forest from the sanctity from my front porch. The squeaking floorboards from under my rocking chair remind me that this pristine land I see will remain undeveloped forever.
The sugary peach nectar drips through my sticky fingers. Nibbling the last bit of flesh around the pit, I think about throwing it yonder, amongst the leafy thicket. It would land in the woods and remain undisturbed. Earth’s fertilizing soil would nourish the seed for years and years, blooming into a seedling. It would then grow into a peach tree only to subsequently produce and reproduce more juicy peaches. This is nature’s little miracle, this is reproduction.
Much like if you toss a seed into fruitful soil, two lovers laying in bed will foster impregnating results. After a couple ruffling romps, the magic of insemination produces lots and lots of babies. I don't have a baby. But my coworker Lenda will in a couple months, that’s right, she’s preggers!
She told me the news today when I stopped by her office. As excited as I am for her, learning of this recent news worries me. Lenda is my age and if she’s pining for kids, shouldn't I be as well? The theory of association dictates that I should be settling down to pop out a few kids of my own. Yikes. I love kids, but the idea of being responsible for another human being from infancy to adulthood strikes a power chord of anxiety deep within.
It isn’t that I don’t think I’m capable, people tell me that I’m great with children. And not to toot my own horn, but I agree with them, I am awesome. I have some infallible skills when it comes to understanding how kids perceive their world. I can speak their language, move their speed and educationally aid them in their journey through life.
There is dignified honor that comes with raising a child with a personalized branding; I can definitely see the benifits of having genetically related kids. But the horror of responsibility! Eighteen years of such dedication. Not to mention life-long association! This is downright frightening.
Lately I’ve been thinking that maybe my destiny with children is only as a spectator. Besides, a homosexual man is thought of as a curator of society, or a maintainer of culture. Without us, history would be forgotten, humans wouldn’t have discovered fire. Trendy up-and-coming neighborhoods would be still be ancient cave slums instead of preserved historic townhouses.
Children? Pleeease...I’d be a mess of a father right now. My current life is too eclectic for kids.
I think the endless nights of drinking at clubs and partaking in debauchery relinquishes a stable upbringing atmosphere. A child would simply wither and die.
And when I’m not flying high in socialdrum, I’m huddled in a corner thinking profusely, scribbling wordplay on the nearest cocktail napkin—the latest addition of useless repartee to be published in a self-titled memoir. No, a child is not a good idea for right now, but what about the future?
I’ll be singing a different tune when my biological clock starts ticking away audibly in my mid-thirties. I imagine by then I’ll be a peppery salted adult. Yes, I imagine I’ll be ripe for progeny then.
I can see it now, my husband and I nestled in a cute suburban cottage. I’ll be wearing an apron while planting cabbage in our victory garden; he’ll be inside emailing the latest addition to the editor of his exceedingly popular New York Times editorial column. The children will be sitting quietly at the dining room table listening to Mozart and finishing their math homework. I think maybe that’s what it’ll be like. As for now, unless you’ve got Michael J. Fox in a DeLorean waiting outside eagerly to hit 88 mph, I’ll hunker down for the currently unexpected.
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