The Kids I Never Had or The Kids Are Alright or Boohoo

My kids were taken away from me tonight. I showed up an hour late for the 6th consecutive time and that was when they were taken.

My ring of the doorbell was greeted by one completely naked except for his glasses with his hair dripping wet surrounded by the notebook he had torn apart and scattered; the other already outfitted in his cold day pjs, begging me to help with his rainbow Baby Einstein manifesto. Both were yelling and looked like they could have used some supervision.

I think they could sense that the end for me was near. Each was vying for my attention like they knew it would be the last viewing of The Goddamn Bee Movie together. The last meandering, non-sensical rabbit fairy tale I told. The last goldfish cracker I stole from their snack bowl. And the last blind eye they turned at this sign of my poor, desperate existence.

I came into the situation unexpectedly, not wanting kids, not even really knowing kids (less my nephew that trumps all children, less his yet to be born brother). I left the situation, unexpectedly, still not wanting kids, but still attached and touched like I had seen my pet bunnies eaten by a large tortoise.

My daily conversations have been peppered with R&A anecdotes since I took on my role. Some nights I would only make it through a shift by picturing the kids as wild running dollar bills that I would have to chase down and tackle to earn some sweet, sweet easy money. Overall, however, it is one of the random situations I have found myself in that has made my soul a little more pillowy. In the beginning, they would jump on me and hug me goodnight and I would receive them like a swimming pool ladder hanging from my shoulders. But slowly after awhile, I would tuck them in and give them a kiss and hug like a normal substitute mother.

The experience was everyday fodder for examining issues of child rearing, economics, race, recycling, my own identity, toxicity levels of crayons if inserted inside one’s anus and much, much more.

At the end of the night, they started to cry over the news that their actual parents would be leaving for a few days, so I left without having the chance to hug them goodbye and goodnight. I walked out of their apartment discombobulated, a little sad and nostalgic knowing that a chapter of my life was ending. Until I realized that that was not my life, it was another strange social experiment scenario I had put myself in and was less like a chapter and more like a full-page color JC Penny ad. I did realize how I did take these toddler parables for granted and should have documented them. But like Jesus, I don’t write. The ovaries of my biological clock have yet to ring, but I think I will make a great uncle.

So goodnight, I guess.