Well, Jo’s 6 months pregnant. Before you know it, I’m going to be a dad to a precious little girl. And you know what? I’m know I’m going to be the worst father ever.
First of all, I’m not ready for this. I don’t think I’ve ever fucking been ready to have kids. Making another human the center of my universe is not something I want to do. I don’t have the friggin’ talent for that. No doubt I will take my frustration out on her. Not overly, just a lot of little passive-aggressive bursts that undermine her self-esteen and well-being. One day, in around 20 or 30 years, she’ll trace it “all” back to me while laying in some therapist’s overly hard couch. But by then, it’ll be way too late.
That won’t be my only shortcoming. When it comes to discipline, I’ll be the weakest and most inconsistent person ever. If she asks for candy right before bed, hell if I won’t say yes right after her mom says no. She’ll easily learn to come to me when she wants something that she shouldn’t have. And on the off chance I actually don’t fall like a house of card and say no, I’ll change my tune if she whines or throws and tantrum or God forbid CRIES. That should at least help me lose her respect, not to mention undermine her mother’s hard-earned authority.
Damn. I’m gonna suck.
Obviously, she’s going to have to get disciplined by her Uncle Sammy more. I mean, he has more authoritativeness surrounding him. I mean, come on: who’s the real kid in this family?
My kid’s going to have all the things I never really had as a kid, whether she wants ‘em or not. Piano lessons, Little League, and ballet. She’ll grow to resent the fuck out of me for forcing her into things and’ll reject everything I try to give her, even the stuff she likes.
Sure, after a while, there’s no doubt that I’m going to go hunt for the rest of my life. Hell, it’s in my blood. But there’s no way I’m not going to be around her as much as I can. NOT bloody, I might add. I wouldn’t wish a crimson childhood on anyone.
I reckon after the first few years, the novelty’ll wear off and I’ll leave the bulk of the parenting to Jo. Yeah, she’s as stubborn as me and will fight me for a gun, but she better take it as a part time job. It scares me to think that she’s gonna end up like Jess. Or Mom. Even though Azazel’s dead, there’s still that part of me that scares me as much as pisses me off.
So, while she’s busy teaching her how to tie her shoelaces or build a snowman, I’ll be hiding in a garage, working on my other Baby or out on the road with Sam. By the time she’s in high school, it’ll be too late to make up for all the lost time, so I’ll overcompensate by smothering her with attention. I’ll gladly take the title of overprotective father.
As for the birds and the bees, forget it. I don’t even want to think about teaching her the facts of life. Hopefully, she’ll learn what she needs to know from Ellen or Bobby, people who did things right, because I’m going to feel extremely uncomfortable talking to her about any of that stuff. ‘Specially since this whole thing started with me deserting the whole “wrap and tap.”
Teenage years……. Hell. That’s a whole half decade of difficult times. In addition to not having the slightest idea of what she’s into and what her interests are, I’ll be fighting Hell spawn and myself as well as her all the time. Unfortunately, once she’s old enough to reason with, I’ll have resorted to yelling things like, “BECAUSE I’M YOUR FATHER AND I SAID SO!” I’ll be snapping and harassing her about what she’s up to, who she’s hanging around with and what she’s doing with life, and debating whether or not a third generation Impala is worth the upkeep (yeah I said it; hand-me-down cars are all the rage). And after all this, I’ll still be surprised when she moves out right after high school and hardly ever calls.
And I haven’t even touched on how I’m going to fail to teach my daughter life lessons through positive examples.. Or the high probability that she’ll end up one of those children who keep their feelings bottled up inside and just snap one day. Or how my apparent drinking problem will make the emotional chasm between us even harder to bridge, eventually causing her to take up the bottle herself. Or how all of this will make it almost impossible for her to have healthy relationships with her own kids.
Oh, well. At least I’m going to attempt to try. It’s apparent I’m not destined to have that apple pie life and I’ve come to terms with that. But, like Clint Eastwood and John Wayne did, I’m not gonna stop trying for that. Or something similar. At least, says that ring I buried in the ammo box in the trunk of the Impala. I’d usually talk to Sam about these things, but it’s obviously he’d approve if one day a ring popped up on Jo’s finger. It’s just one of those things that I never thought I’d see myself doing, but it just feels right.
And now I feel like I’m going to start reciting Shakespeare or something. Somethin’ along the lines of, “Doest thou love me like a red rose? For the glimmer in thou’s eyes sends the stars to shame.” …..Yeah, I read Shakespeare. And yeah, that didn’t make sense. Eat me.
It’s late and I’ve gotta head back over to David’s tomorrow so I’m heading to bed. No, not to get down on one knee (I need a while to prepare for that to backfire, and if it doesn’t, for something to be shoved down my throat by Ellen), but ‘cause Jo’s got a ultrasound appointment. I already feel antsy. Doctors, nevertheless hospitals, don’t make me a happy camper. I’d prefer a needle and thread to gloves and syringes any day. But this time, I’m taking one for the team. Or Jo is, anyways.
The sixth day of the week and the number 13 both have foreboding reputations said to date from ancient times. It seems their inevitable conjunction from one to three times a year (there will be three such occurrences in 2012, exactly 13 weeks apart) portends more misfortune than some credulous minds can bear. According to some sources it’s the most widespread superstition in the world today. Some people refuse to go to work on Friday the 13th; some won’t eat in restaurants; many wouldn’t think of setting a wedding on the date.
Exactly how old is difficult to say, because determining the origins of superstitions is an inexact science, at best. In fact, it’s mostly guesswork.
So apparently going to Hell isn’t the worst thing that can happen to a hunter. I mean, yeah, going to Hell is pretty far up on the “bad” list, ‘specially when you manage to come back, but DAMN. For me, at least, this is worse than that. In a verydifferent way.
So Jo’s, err…. Got my bun in her hot ass oven? Does that even make sense? [Curls my lips upward] Bad analogy, but still. She’s pregnant. Obviously we didn’t take enough precautions when…Okay, not goin’ into that. My sex life is none of your business ‘n I’d rather keep it between me and Blondie, thanks.
And I can already hear those wheels in your heads turnin’. And yes, I realize how un…whatever I am. Unprepared? Half a man to be a father? Not worthy for them? Yeah, I’ve had ALL those things and more run through my head since Jo told me. Fuck…
Would it be such a bad thing to think that I actually considered Sammy’s idea for a second? The whole settle down and live that apple pie lifestyle? I mean, yeah, it’d be beneficial to Jo and the kid, but I seriously don’t think I could handle that. My bloods on the road, Jo’s is too, and honestly? I seriously don’t want to turn into my Dad. Yeah, yeah, I know that sounds bad but damn it! I really wish I had grown up in some yuppie suburb with parents who’d drive me to the same school every day and had those things that every kid in those 80’s movies had sometimes. I’d give just about anything for Sam to have had that life and I’ll be damned if I have a kid that has to live like we did, on the road, dealing with the monster under kids’ bed in the daylight.
Having our own place with a backyard and a school bus actually doesn’t sound half-bad. Jo makin’ some sort of Harvelle family recipe and Ellen callin’ every day to check up on her grandkid. It was a bittersweet thought. I bet that’s what my Mom thought would be happening before she got planted to a ceiling. Which makes me only want to stick around even more. If anything happened to her, I’d kill whatever even THOUGHT about hurting Jo. I swear to fucking GOD I would. But come on? The only way that I’d be able to protect her from all this is to have her with me and Sam 24/7 and I know she wouldn’t want to be on the road like that. And that’d just lead to pointless bickering and shit we have no time for. For all we know, Sam and me? Ticking time bombs.
I’ve considered asking Jo to just forget about me. I mean, that David guy seems pretty nice. He’d probably be a better parent than I would and may actually consider dropping out of the business, because he’s a hunter AND got his own place. He’d just have to drop one and be on his marry domestic ways. [Snorts] I would kill for that type of security, but according to the US department of whatever I’m a dead man. And Sam’s….Wanted? Dead? MIA? Hell if I know. I haven’t actually managed to get my hands on Bobby’s crappy ass computer to get into those files. Or force Sam to get to ‘em. But I only considered that for a split second. I mean, come on, I’ve seen and read too much shit to think that kids without two parents or divorcees or step-bitches or WHATEVER aren’t all that good in life (yes, I read).
And obviously, I care about Jo. About her feeling, about what she wants. Ever since she tagged along back to Bobby’s with me in, what? July? I’ve felt closer to her. I mean, more closely than any of those hundred other girls over the years. Sam called it “love,” and I’m beginning to feel like…Well, feeling that. It’s such a weird…..Feeling. [Swallows] Not goin’ into that. Weird.
So now, I guess I gotta figure out what Jo wants, needs, and how to mesh all of this shit together before something bad happens….Again.