LAUGHING AT MY NIGHTMARE

I plan on having kids someday.

It is completely appropriate for you to be uneasy about that statement. You might have some questions. Shane is going to have kids? How would that work? With who? Can he have sex? Would his children be mutants? SMA didn’t make his penis fall off? I thought he had the body of a goat from the waist down?

On a purely physical level, I am perfectly capable of having sex. I get boners and my boners shoot sperm, so having kids is a real option.

(Hi mom and dad and rest of the family! Aren’t you guys glad you read my blog?)

I asked my friends for their immediate reactions to my declaration about having kids. Many of them responded with jokes, but all of their minds went straight to the sexual aspect of the matter. (Side note: Pat replied, “No. We don’t need any more people taking up the handicap parking spaces in this world.” Side note 2: Unless my baby momma is also a carrier of the SMA gene, my kids will not have the disease.)

Anyway, all of my friends basically asked, “How is the sex part going to happen?”

I can’t blame them, but when I think about possibly making new humans someday, I don’t give much thought to the logistics of putting the cookies in the oven, if you will. Rather, I believe the biggest obstacle standing between fatherhood and me is the responsibility of being a parent. How will I take care of my child? How will I hold it? How will I change its diapers? How will I feed it? Teach it things? Protect it? Nurture it?

One can logically assume that the mother will have to take on more responsibility for the child, but what if she is also the one that has to take care of me? With all the physical assistance I need, I’m really nothing more than a large, intelligent baby (that gets boners). What kind of girl wants the pressure of keeping me and another baby alive? These are serious questions that I still do not have the answers to. Someday I will have to answer them. However, since I’m only 20 years old, I have time to think them over. In the meantime, here is a hypothetical exploration of how I might handle taking care of my first child. For the sake of comedy, let’s assume that I am the only one caring for the baby.

To start, I should probably give this kid a name, because I might throw up if I have to refer to it indirectly this entire time. Besides, choosing a child’s name is one of the most important decisions parents have to make. Your name stays with you for life, and if the ideas in my head are any indication, this kid is going to have a pretty shitty upbringing, so I need to pick a good name that isn’t going to bring it more shit down the road from douche bags on the playground.

Oracle. Little baby Oracle Burcaw.

I chose Oracle because it’s gender neutral, and I didn’t want to risk half of you unfollowing me for choosing not your gender, but also because no one fucks with a kid named Oracle. That would just be asking for trouble. (I will refer to Oracle as a “she” though. It’s just easier. Feel free to imagine my hypothetical baby as whatever gender pleases your heart.)

Ok, baby Oracle. You ready?

I’m assuming Oracle is going to need food at some point throughout her childhood. Babies start off by breastfeeding for a while, so I need to figure out a way to get nutrients into Oracle, because last time I checked, sucking my nipples does not produce milk.

But Shane, lots of parents don’t breast feed. All you need to do is give her formula in a bottle. That’s true, but the whole idea of warm formula kind of grosses me out, so I’m going to go ahead and not do that. Plus, if I’m the one holding the bottle to her mouth, Oracle will end up wearing more formula than she drinks.

Luckily, over the past year I’ve become highly adept at the art of nasal feeding tube insertion. I jam a yellow tube up my nose every fucking night. A majority of my daily nutrition is pumped into my stomach while I sleep; I don’t see any reason why I can’t do the same with Oracle.  It will be great. Whenever Oracle starts to hunger cry, I’ll slip the tube up her nose and she’ll be full in no time! I’m guessing this method will also cut down on the number of times I’ll have to feed her, because I can’t imagine that she is going to enjoy the feeding tube very much. It will be like a Pavlov experiment. Crying equals painful tube up the nose. She’ll quickly learn to only cry when she’s legitimately hungry.

After she’s done feeding, I will have to burp her. I already see several problems arising. First of all, I can produce about as much force as a gentle breeze with my chicken finger arms, so I won’t be able to smack the burps out of her like normal parents do. Second, I refuse to put myself in any situation where there is even a slight possibility of getting baby vomit on myself.

I think the best way to handle this situation will be to burp Oracle the same way I crack my brother’s back: with the wheels of my wheelchair. Whenever Andrew needs his back cracked or massaged, he lays on his side on the floor, usually face first against a wall. Then, using the 400 pounds of force produced by my wheelchair, I “massage” my front wheels into different spots on his back. I will burp Oracle the same way. When she starts to look a little bloated, I’ll just drop her on the floor (gently!), wait until she crawls near a wall, then wheel-smash away. Don’t worry; I have great control over my wheels. As long as Oracle is smart enough to let me know when she’s in pain, pushing my wheelchair into her back will be just as safe as normal burping techniques.

Babies inevitably throw up, regardless of the burping methods they are submitted to, and since a puke-covered infant is not something I want in my house, I will have to find a way to safely give Oracle a bath. I won’t be able to hold her in the sink. I can barely lift my iPhone; forget lifting a baby. I suppose I could let her crawl outside with the lawn sprinklers on, but something tells me I will have a difficult time getting her back inside. Also, using lawn sprinklers for baby baths is a waste of water. When push comes to shove, I’d rather have a smelly Oracle than a ridiculous water bill. Probably my best bet will be to fill up a kiddie pool in my living room and give Oracle the freedom to bathe as often as she wishes. It will teach independence, responsibility, and water safety (as I’m sure it will take her a few days to learn that she can’t breathe underwater).

Shit, how will I change her diapers?

Simple. I just won’t change them. Ever. Problem solved.

These are just the first few parenting responsibilities that came to mind, but as you can see, I’m clearly a professional problem solver, so I doubt that I’ll have trouble coming up with solutions for additional dilemmas that I’m likely to face. Life won’t be easy for Oracle. She’s going to be born into an—admittedly cruel—environment with all the cards stacked against her. But I firmly believe she’ll make it out just fine, perhaps better than her other baby peers. If nothing else, Oracle will learn a very valuable lesson; nothing that is good in life is easy. You have to work hard and earn what you deserve, even if that means living in incredible filth while constantly fearing that your father is trying to wheelchair-burp you.