Despite our brush with fame yesterday, no paparazzi accosted me this morning on my way to the mailbox to drop off the Netflix movies. (PS: Dear Mr. Mail Man, Please quit sending us our next door neighbor’s movies. Just because the envelopes are shiny and red does not mean they go to same address. Besides, I’m getting a little weirded out at his choice of movies, since I feel compelled to open them. Ya know, just in case it’s something on our queue. Kthxbai.)
Every day I look at Boo and wonder what kind of person he will turn into. Will he struggle in school, or will he have it easy like I did? Will he be athletic and popular, or will he be a quiet bookworm? All I can really hope for is that he will be happy, and that he will be a good person, despite having heathen parents who didn’t raise him in an organized religion. (Sorry, son. Dad and I are down with JC, but we can’t stand people who act ignorantly in His name. Especially those evangelical idiots. And people who treat women as lesser human beings. Oh, and people who think homosexuality is bad, like drowning a basketful of kittens bad. And most Republicans.)
I also hope he grows up without regret, and learns to think for himself. Sadly, it didn’t occur to me until very recently that I should probably start questioning all the stories I was told as a child, stories whose truth I accepted on blind faith alone. It was never as bad as thinking that, yes, by lands, once upon a time (about 6011 years ago) people lived peacefully right alongside velociraptors and those evil spitting bastards who killed Newman. But I never actually stood back and examined my beliefs from an outsider’s perspective.
When taken literally, Christians kinda believe that some cosmic Jewish zombie can make you live forever if you symbolically eat his flesh and telepathically accept him as your master, so he can remove an evil force from your soul that is present in humanity because some rib-woman was convinced by a talking snake to eat fruit from a magical tree.
Finally, I hope that Boo can learn to appreciate the beauty in simple things, like laughing at fart jokes and listening to Going to California by the immeasurable Zeppelin. I hope he develops a sense of humor like his Nono’s. I hope he’s never afraid to tell me anything. I hope he can learn from my mistakes. I hope he doesn’t hate me when he grows up.
I really, really hope I don’t screw up too bad at this whole parenting thing. I promise I’m trying, baby boy.