I was out surveying at work today when I noticed that my fingers were sticky. I did the inevitable look down and saw that during lunch I had dripped some delicious blackberry jelly all down the side of my shirt. I had then subsequently gotten it all over my trusty GPS (no, not my new sporty personal one; the $3,000 one from my office). As I was using my fingers as a squeegee and savoring the sweet, slightly gritty leavings of my lunch I came to a revelation.
When I have kids I could totally blame shit like that on them! “Hey buddy, you’ve got some brown stuff on your shirt.” “Oh, yeah that’s chocolate. My kid was eating a Snak-Pak and some must have gotten away from him… (sigh)…kids.” Or better yet; “Honey we need more Snak-Paks, it seems Billy went through all of them.” “In only three days?!” “Yup, that little sucker loves pudding. Heh, like father like son I guess… (sigh)…kids.”
Then I really got to thinking about it. A few years ago I got really bad heartburn while LJ’s parents were over one night. Her mom suggested that I mix some water and baking soda and that that would take care of it. I skeptically gave her home remody a shot and it worked, it actually worked. Unfortunately though, much like a fourth grader’s papier-mâché volcano science project, my stomach acids reacted to the baking soda with all sorts of fizzy fury. I started laying down some incredibly foul belches. They were so heinous in fact that at one point my mother-in-law commented that my completely innocent dog must have been the culprit of the horrific odors. In my awkwardness I immediately joined in and blamed him as well (sorry Zeus). Well, thinking about this I immediately came to the conclusion that I could easily lay the blame for any nasty belches or errant farts on dirty diapers. Brilliant.
I’m in no way saying that I won’t love my children. I just think they will be a rather convenient scapegoat until the age they can rebuff my accusations with a well formulated and concise counter argument. So, ostensibly never. I can see it now. There we all are in the family room. LJ wrinkles her nose in disgust and asks who disrespected her house. At that point I quickly chime in with “Billy must have. You remember how he was as a kid.” “Dad please stop doing that. I’m 26 now and have full control of all my bodily functions. Besides it was never me growing up it was always you. Don’t you think its time you started taking responsibility for your own farts?” At which point I respond, “Your argument is flawed from here to next Tuesday. Let me just break it down point by point…” Until, everyone is too tired and confused to assign blame. God, I’m going to love having kids.