I had a small post-birthday celebratory day yesterday. Katie made me a delicious maple cake, and people came over and played Halo and Rock Band (3 and 2, to be precise). I also bought a beginner’s acoustic guitar, then promptly proceeded to snap the first string by tuning it too tightly. Sigh. All in all, a good day.
Since about high school, I’ve always thought that if nothing else, I’d make a good father. I know, pretty arrogant, right? It’s because I love the idea of babies and of children and of being one of very few people that another human being trusts and learns from so completely. Also, I like to think I’m kind and caring and patient and all that generic good stuff.
That is, I thought I’d be a good dad until we got cats. You’re supposed to clean the litter box for cats every day and it’s sometimes hard to believe just how much a cat can excrete. I don’t clean it every day. Perhaps when we first got cats, we did so daily for a few weeks. Now, in Sims terms, I only clean it out when it starts affecting my environment – not, ideally, when it’s affecting our cats’ hygiene.
Translated into baby terms, this means that I’d let a baby sit in a stinky diaper for several days before changing it because the smell actually started to bother me. Now I know what you’re saying: “Babies and cats aren’t the same!” To which I reply: yes! You’re right! Babies are even harder to take care of!
I have no doubt that if and when I have a child, I will love it more than I love our cats. Still, there’s a nagging doubt that perhaps my behavior toward our cats is a harbinger. I can only imagine a scene where we have two kids: a big fat one that licks everything and a small crazy one that sprints around the house for no good reason. And we just sit there, taking pictures of them and chuckling.