Asking someone if they’re going to have a second child is like asking a shark attack victim if they’d like to take a dip in the chilly waters off the South African coast wearing a seal outfit bathed in bloody tuna.
“Nope, didn’t hurt a bit there Jim,” you reply. “Yeah…I do think I want to give it another go. That shark tooth still lodged in my sternum doesn’t remind me of the pure horror from last time at all. In fact, this time I’d like to get inside a real seal carcass and swim around the bloody chum while inside it. That will be a real hoot.”
Once you have a significant other people start asking when you’re getting engaged. Once engaged it’s when you’re getting married. Once married it’s when you’re having kids. And once you have a kid people become obsessed with when the next one is coming. But why would a first-time parent ever want a second child? If you don’t have kids and are trying to relate, new parent simulation is easy. When you’re at a bar with a buddy, buy him a shot of whiskey. Have him stand up to take it and when he does sock him right in family jewels as hard as you can. After he’s spent thirty minutes curled up in a ball on the ground ask him if he wants to do it again. It’s just like that. I think. Turning to violence is never an answer yet seems to be the emerging theme of this blog post, but anytime people asked me about the next one, I felt like doing one of those Happy Gilmore moves where he yanks the guy’s shirt up over his head and socks him right in the face.
“Yeah I’d love to get two hours of sleep a night, damage my eardrums from piercing cries, and lug hundreds of pounds of strollers, seats, bags, and toys around until my traps go numb. That sounds amazing.” (Surprisingly, 8 pound babies require 213 pounds of equipment defusing a million years of scientific proportional weight relativity algorithm theories).
And the bewildering thing? Despite all this – you do it again! Fear rides off on a donkey, yet for some reason the misery of child-rearing rides off on a cheetah. You forget. It’s god’s sick trick to keep humanity growing.
So on August 18th number two was plucked out of the depths from somewhere between the spleen and lower intestine forced into the world whether he liked it or not and I was just as green as the first time. Memory erased.
And I’ll be honest, he’s pretty darn awesome. I can’t imagine it any other way. But I sure didn’t miss the sleep deprivation and lack of a social life. Luckily that’s where beer comes in. (See beer review below).
So what happens after number two? What do people start asking then? The conversation comes to a fork with both paths leading to an unleash of anguish.
“So are you going to have a third or get snipped,” they start asking – as if there aren’t any other options. It’s as if just because you were able to produce two children, they think your penis is a societal menace, a fire hose gone rogue, spraying life at an unsustainable rate for earth. It needs to be eliminated at all costs if you’re not completely on board with a third. There’s no time to waste. You barely get home with baby two and the vas deferens-sautering-militia has already colonized and is heading straight for you. I don’t know what question comes after this but I’m guessing it’s about when one’s own funeral is because without a functioning vas deferens it can be quite flippant to ask when number four is coming.
Of course I don’t want a third. I’ve yet to have the memory erased from the second. But what if I change my mind down the road? I’m only good at two things. I’m a good typist. And I can produce at least two children. (Luckily you don’t see people being pressured into sautering their fingers together to get them down to 40WPM so at least I can say there is still a god). What if there is an apocalypse and the only humans left are a cabal of women (let’s say they are all a mix of Megan Fox, Mila Kunis and Minka Kelly just because) roaming the countryside looking for a man to save the world’s population? After weeks of searching, they finally pull me from the rubble, beaten and battered. The women rejoice that they’ve just saved the world’s population and demand to get started procreating immediately.
“Well, about that ladies… i was uh… told that I either had to have a third or make a decision to sever- … You know what? Never mind, let’s give it a try…”
So what does a dad of two drink to keep his sanity?
Brewed by: Russian River Brewery Santa Rosa, Ca
Style: American IPA
Cut from the same mash cloth as the world-renown Pliny The Elder, Blind Pig is the less-attractive but completely underrated sister from Russian River Brewery. Her sister will always be the hottest girl at the party but when you’re starting at a 10, this 9 is pretty darn good, and most people don’t realize she’s there. That’s when you swoop in. (Are we still talking about beer or – this is getting awkward). This is just a really good IPA without the glamor, lights and economic supply and demand annoyance that comes with Pliny. This is Pliny dressed in a pig’s clothing! Really, really good.
It doesn’t have the aroma hop punch that other high IBU beers have but it makes up for that in being one of the more drinkable IPAs on the market. It’s likely because my taste buds are disabled due to my lack of sleep so I will quote someone on Beer Advocate who says it has “nice resinous hops with huge notes of pine, grapefruit, lemongrass, and must.” It’s also possible I’ve just never spoken in tongues that include words like resinous or must. If he means to write musk, I never want to drink the beer again and if he means must, well I’m still lost. But nonetheless I think he’s onto something. Great beer. Give it a try. I’m turning my back on my steady maiden Pliny and turning to my mistress who is a pig. A blind one at that.