One day I might start a family and have a little girl. You see I’m not worried that she’ll have a lot of ass holes to deal with. I’m not even going to threaten the future generation of boys with empty words and clenched fists spewing vehemence with the eloquence of a scorned televangelist. No,I’m going to raise her to be just like me. If anything, I should warn people about her.
Now my greatest fear about having to raise a child, my little girl, is her being called dumb. Yes, I said it. How would it go? A call to her school and my little girl seated on the black waiting chairs that look like they came straight out of a hospital waiting room. Her tiny feet are dangling because they can’t reach the ground and her pink barbie bag is on the next chair with her little arms around it. She would see daddy and beam up throwing me a smile – it wouldn’t be a ‘I’m happy to see you daddy’ smile, no, she’d throw me that ‘I’m sorry daddy please don’t be mad’ smile. By now she knows I’m a sucker for that. I’d walk straight up to the reception and ask to see the principal. I’d be let in and find wifey already chatting up the slightly overweight sassy lady up. She would probably be in her early forties with a round plump face and curly hair. She would wear those annoying floral blouses and I’d have the urge to ask her if bees follow her around often. But then in my best judgement I wouldn’t. We’re here about my little girl not her choice in fashion.
She would look straight at us and say ‘Baby girls performance is dropping’ and pause. I’d wonder why she paused like she just gave out results to a life threatening condition. ‘Is that all?’ I’d ask. She’d eye me then look at wifey then look at me then look at wifey again then shake her head. She’d probably wonder how she ended up with such an imbecile. Wifey will probably shake her head too and cuss me out under her breath, “godamn rack, this is serious.’ I’d then laugh ever so casually and fold my hands on my chin and ask her to go on. She’d venture into our family affairs trying to find the root of the problem and I’d enable her with tales of how the car sometimes doesn’t start in the morning and maybe being in the cold that long as we waited froze her brain. I’d then laugh again and this time she would shoot wifey a look written ‘I can see where she got it from.’
Finally after much back and forth, they come to the conclusion that baby girl needs extra attention. Me thinks to myself that miss principal needs the extra money to probably by another god awful blouse. The holidays are around the corner and baby girl loves playing out and hanging with friends and doing all those things a little girl does that her daddy would look gay talking about. Then I’d picture her disappointment when I told her she couldn’t, the smile that would dissipate into thin air, her little legs slowly coming to rest no longer swinging and her eyes tearing up as she looks at me wondering how I could be so cruel. Wife standing behind me showing solidarity but I have to be the bad guy because I go to work and she has to stay home with her – but she works too she just doesn’t want to be the bad guy. Her first day at tuition would have me carry her out of the back seat and have the teacher literally pry her from my arms as she screams and cries and throws her feet around in one last attempt. She’d cry the whole day and not even make new friends and wonder why daddy let her rot in prison. I’d come to pick her three hours later and she wouldn’t say a word to me sulking in the back seat.
No, just no. Baby girl wouldn’t go to tuition. She’s probably five she still has time to be a child. So what she thinks four times five is twenty six at least she can write that down. I’d look miss principle in the face and tell her no. I’d look at wifey and tell her we had to leave. I’d be the hero baby girl needs. I’d tell her not to worry about papers and tests and what not. I’d guarantee her that she’s got the best genes and daddy never had to go for tuition. I’d tell her to go out and be a little girl, play with friends, cook mud and say it’s cake and give that expensive doll a make over (that would probably end up with daddy buying a new one). I’d like to see her wake up in the morning dressed up with her little bag waiting for me to ‘take daddy to work’ returning the favor because I take her to school. It would be for moments such as those that I’d live for, well until she becomes a moody teenager and my coastal genes manifest and boys in the hood camp at our gate. Then I discover she has a blog where she writes about her frolicking adventures and my hairs gray out before their time. Then it hits me baby girl should never be a chip of the old block but then again I’d never be so proud.