Ollie, My Beautiful Future Son

Written on 2/10/09

I've recently been warming up to the concept, but having children of my own is not something I would consider very seriously. It just doesn’t register on my totem pole of things to get done. And yet, I am aware that there might be certain benefits to having a child around. Perhaps in the future.

A few years ago I was lounging next to my friend, Mike, on his sofa. We were watching the Eagles/Giants game and getting pretty into it when he suddenly set his empty beer bottle on the coffee table and turned to look at me expectantly. We both knew where this was going, but I guess Mike just sort of figured Fuck it, I’ll give it a try. And when I refused to get up and serve Mike another cold beer, he looked at me again. This time, Mike smirked and he said this: “I wish I had a son.”

I stared at Mike hard, as if he’d just told me he keeps a little leprechaun and a pot of gold hidden in his closet.

“Yeah,” he said, reading my very obvious confusion. “You know. So I could be like, ‘SON! Go get me another beer.’ I could just sit here and get the kid to do things for me.”

“That’s terrible,” I said. But secretly, I knew he was right. A child would make an excellent slave. Assuming of course that the child was well taken care of, provided for and loved. This child would then be brought up to value hard work, and there is nothing wrong with that.

This is exactly why it would be irresponsible of me to have a child.

But still. Sometimes I wonder what it might be like to have my own son. I already know what I would name him: Ollie.

My son would be my maid, butler, errand-runner, and when he was old enough to drive, chauffeur. And, really, I have no wisdom to impart other than things like how to make sure my iced coffee is made correctly and how to carry it to me without spilling any. My son would get a very rich education in these sorts of things.

Of course, at some point my son would rebel. I would be powerless to stop it. “Get up off your ass and make your own damn iced coffee,” seventeen-year-old Ollie might say, grabbing his skateboard and giving me the finger as he walked out the front door. And there I would be, left sitting on the sofa wondering how it ever came to this.

“The boy used to be so helpful,” I would say through streams of tears. “What happened? Where have I gone wrong?”