Where Do Babies Come From?

“Daddy?” My child asks me, his eyes goggling up from behind thick, black framed glasses. I grimace down at him and then, slush some beer into my mouth. I call him my son, but I’m not exactly sure of it. His mother, whatever she is, definitely cheated on me, coming home with her make-up smeared and the knees of her jeans grass-stained and covered in red clay.

“What?” I ask him after swallowing my first mouthful and taking a second.

“Where do babies come from?” He asks me. I grunt in disgust and finish off the beer. I reach down for another, but my hand only finds the cardboard bottom of the box.

“I should still have some beers in the kitchen. Bring them to me and I’ll tell you all about it.” I tell him. He frowns at me and doesn’t move. I remember that my daddy would pop me in the mouth if I hesitated to do something he told me to do. I wasn’t that type of man and my daddy was dead, so he wasn’t around to disapprove of my parenting style.

“Now, what?” I ask him. He frowns at me.

“Do you have to keep drinking?” He asks me.

 

“Shut up.” I tell him and then gesture to the kitchen. He leaves and takes his time coming back with the new 6-pack. I twist the top off of one and drink deep.

“So…” He asks.

“So what?” I ask.

“So, where do babies come from?” I grunt in disgust, again and then take another swig of beer.

“Where do babies come from: Well…ah… when a man loves a woman… or likes her…hell, sometimes he can hate her… well, when two people get together, they sometimes get together, you know what I mean?” I tell him, intertwining my fingers.

“No.” He says. I grunt in disgust.

“Don’t you, kids, have the Internet for this? Listen, you got something in your pants and girls got something in theirs. Way off in the future… or statistically, in about five years, you’re going to make those to things connect, but she ain’t going to want you to. You’re going to buy her a bunch of crap and spend a whole bunch of time with her and still, she ain’t going to want to. Then, she’s going to screw some asshole from Tucson and tell you, ‘Oh! I’m a human woman with needs and you’re emotionally distant.’” I say, trying my best to match his mother’s shrill voice. I take a swig of beer.

 “Well, she finally lets you do what you wanted to do, but it’s really just a scam. You see, that asshole in Tucson knocked her up and she just wants there to be some confusion as to who the daddy is. You see, you’ll have a job, breaking your back in construction while that asshole in Tucson is just running around with his shirt off. Well, nine months later, a baby shows up and asks a bunch of questions while you’re trying to relax.”

“So, babies come from Mom?” He asks.

 “Yeah, your mother and some asshole in Tucson.” I tell him.