So I've been dating this girl, Pilar.
Such a sweet girl, so why am I queasy for 2 days out of every 3?
That's right, kids. Pilar is pregnant, which means Timmy's apparently gonna be a daddy. Unless I can punch her in the stomach and use a wooden spoon in ways that are completely unrelated to cooking.
I know, I know...that's the wrong thing to think. I can't help it. I'm not fit to be a father, just as I'm not fit to be a son. If I could just get a bag of rock salt, a plunger, I wouldn't have to be sick for two days out of three. Instead, I have to wait for the miracle to come. And buy a bassinet. And medical care. And figure out how to not fuck things up.
What if it is retarded? Is it too late to drown it after it comes out? What if I look at it and can't hold it, ever? What if it has all the worst parts of me? What if it grows up and doesn't want to look at rocks or read or sit in the rain? What is going to happen when I fail it? What if it thinks I could have done better, and I agree with it? What is going to happen then? Are we going to sit in some dismal and dank space, staring at each other in flickering candlelight, both wishing the other were dead? How many ways can I screw this up?
Maybe I'll be lucky and the world will end. Maybe a quick trip down a flight of stairs...
Maybe I will love it.
Maybe it will love me.
Maybe we will sing stupid songs and hold hands
and I can tell it lies about clouds
and it will believe me.
Maybe we can talk about families,
and maybe I can be strong enough to cry with it.
Maybe I will not call it "it."
Maybe I will call this baby mine,
and this baby will call me. Forever.
___________________________
Most of that post I wrote 1 1/2 weeks ago, because I'm prescient. It was only today that she told me she was pregnant, and only today that we got the results from "the Pee Stick." I had already made my peace with becoming a father, although I still had my reservations about it.
In the UAE, a woman who is not married but is pregnant gets thrown in jail. After she comes to term, the baby is taken and the woman is deported (at the very least, lashed and stoned at the worst). This, clearly, is not an option I am willing to take. So today Pilar and I talked about it. She kept saying "I wish I was dead" even though each time she said it, I tickled her. She kept saying "What am I going to do" even though I kept reminding her (via tickling) that the question should be "What are We going to do." We decided that she has to go back to the Philippines, ASAP, and I will join her there in the near future. It appeared as if things were going to go relatively smoothly, other than the separation and the fear.
I always imagined, if this day ever came, that I would be the one to suggest an abortion (cf: title of this post). I wasn't. Pilar did. I'm going to be a would-have-been father. An "if circumstances had been different" father. And, a little bit, I am relieved.
But a small, tiny piece of me wants to hold my baby. An infinitesimal portion wants to send a picture of my baby to people I have known, and across the bottom of that picture I want to scrawl: I Have the Ability to Love. A large part of me just wants to go to sleep for a while, to wake up, to go to work, and to never think about it again. That majority will win, for now. But some nights I know I will yell at my apartments walls that I can love just as well as anyone. And I will pull down that used, positive pregnancy test (which I didn't throw away) and think of all the things which could have been. Because those are the things I like to think about in the latest watches of the night: what could have been.
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