Baby on Board

By Christopher Okiishi

Oct. 22, 1999

On one of my recent travels, I purchased a charming book of short fiction called "Alec Baldwin Doesn't Love Me," and I've been reading a chapter here and there, as time has permitted. It's pretty good stuff–wry, witty observations about modern life, told in a slightly sardonic, but hardly bitter fashion. And I have always enjoyed short stories, much like I have enjoyed gay relationships–you get the bang of the whole deal for only a fraction of the time commitment.

The other night, however, I read a section that chilled my blood. The author was recounting the worst Christmas of his life, when, at age nine, his well-intentioned parents began giving him "practical gifts," like sweaters, or underwear, or dental floss. All the details were eerily reminiscent of my own child hood–even down to the paging through the Sears catalogue looking for potential, better gifts. Casually, he mentioned in the closing sentence, that he would never forget "Christmas 1977."

Hmm, I thought. Nine-years-old. 1977. My third grade math skills kicked into high gear, and quickly realized that the author and I were the same age, and, as was conveniently emblazoned on the dust-jacket, the bastard had over a dozen books in print. Some had even won awards, albeit awards I'd never heard of. Instantly, I launched into a high-drama existential panic! I frantically cataloged my meager life-accomplishments, coming up pathetically short. I've never had a hot-selling album like Jamal, never made a failed, but otherwise noble run a public office like James, never even dated an Asian like Aprille. And I certainly hadn't made any lasting contributions to American Literature like this schmo. I had some serious catching up with the Jones's to do.

But where to start? How does one leave a mark on society when one is pressed for time? The solution hit me clear as a bell–it was obviously time to procreate.

Actually, it's been something I've been toying with for a while. I'm on a reasonable financial footing for the first time in my life, and am getting tired of shopping for myself, and, let's face it, The Baby Gap crap is pretty darn cute. But as luck would have it, to paraphrase "Raising Arizona"–the laws of nature and the prejudices of others conspired to keep me childless. Despite our best efforts, my boyfriend's insides were a barren place where my seed could find no purchase. I called a few adoption agencies, and was told that they could have a child for me in three years and thirty-thousand dollars, or I could take in a "conformity-challenged" teenager right away. I told them I'd get back to them when I made up or lost my mind, whichever came first. I tried to put the idea out of my head. Maybe Chris Stangl is right and children are just repulsive little bags of puke, I told myself, but every time a passed a day care on my way home, my metaphorical uterus hurt.

I wanted a child and I wanted one bad. There was really only one option–I would have to steal me one.

After a week or so of mulling over details and strategy, the opportunity pretty much walked up and smacked me in the ass. I was in Hy-Vee, pondering my weekly dilemma–Slim-Fast vs. Ho-Ho's, when I felt an unwelcome grope. I spun around, more intrigued than alarmed, hoping against hope that the perpetrator was one of the more beefy stock boys from the can-goods aisle, but instead, I found by self knee-to-face with the most adorable toddler I had seen in ages. He was no more than two, just getting a head of wispy blond hair, and wore nicely coordinated overalls and baby-Nikes. Okay, so his socks clashed with his tee-shirt and the rattle he carried was so last year, but I figured I could work with that.

He stood, transfixed, gazing at the wad of keys dangling from my pocket. I felt an instant kin-ship with him as I realized that babies, like gay men, are drawn to shiny things that move. I quickly scanned the aisle in both directions, and, failing to find a parental figure in sight, decided to make a break for it. Giving him my pager to use as pacifier, I scooped him up in my arms and made a measured, but deliberate stroll for the door. My heart raced, as we started to pass other shoppers, but I was met with only kind smiles and encouraging coos and ahs. A boy and his dad. Out shopping. What could be more adorable and innocent?

I started to fanaticize about the future–his first bike, his first date, his wedding which I could pretty much assure would be fabulously tasteful. Late night talks, early morning car pools. Homework, music, sports...okay, so I'd have to do a little research here and there, but I was gonna be the best father he could ever hope to have. My son. Maybe not my own flesh and blood, but those were never my strongest legacy anyway. I would teach him everything I know, give him everything I had–and, I hoped, that would someday be enough to compensate for pretty much ripping him off from his family.

Just then, he grew tired of my pager/key combination, and began to toss his little head around looking for better toys. Gosh. I though, short attention span! He's already taking after me! His eyes finally settled on my face, and his happy, pleasant-baby face began to darken. Concerned, he looked for traces of familiarity in my features, and, finding none, his mood turned sour, and he began to wail. Soft whimpers at first, like an outboard motor, or lawn mower, but eventually evolving into a piercing shriek that only the smallest and most helpless of humans can manufacture.

Needless to say, we were attracting significant attention. People who had previously found us adorable, now clicked their tongues in disapproval. There is nothing quite so pathetic as a grown man trying to soothe a screeching child, and although I'm hardly a novice, I was getting nowhere. When the security guard approached to ask if something was wrong, I realized that the jig was up. I explained that I had found the frightened beast wandering alone, and I was hoping they could help me find the mother, who, fortunately, chose that exact moment to make a frantic appearance. The child lurched out of my grasp, and buried itself in his mother's breast, sucking madly at his thumb, and wiping his eyes on her blouse. Obviously relieved, she offered me her heartfelt thanks, which I received politely enough to avoid suspicion. The crowd dispersed, and the guard returned to his post, all contented that my intentions were pure. By the time the mother was ready to move on, the boy was fast asleep. I imagined what it would feel like–his warm little body nestled into mine for comfort–his trust implicitly and perfectly mine. I watched her walk away, this stranger who would now get to raise my son. I thought of a thousand metaphors for what I was feeling, involving shattered windows and lonely hallways, but they all sounded like a bad Celine Dion lyrics. Mostly, I just felt inadequate and foolish. For better or worse, I took this as a sign that I wasn't ready for parenthood. I would have to find some other meaning in my life, I decided. Maybe a goldfish, or small dog–surely they can be that hard to steal. I made a half-hearted hobble though the pet food aisle, but it was precariously close to the Pampers and Baby Wipes, and I wasn't ready to face that yet. Dejected, I crossed my arms a little tighter across my chest, and went in search of snack food.