When I was 12, I told my friends that I didn’t intend to have kids. “Yeah right,” they said. “You’re totally the type.”
After long negotiations held during a Wiffle Ball game, we settled on a two-stage wager: If I’m childless by 30, they owe me $5,000. At 50, it’s $30,000. Each.
Today, the warm feeling I get looking into the soft dark eyes of the fussy baby girl in my lap is surpassed only by the relief of handing her back to her mother. Kids are interesting, but I don’t need to own one any more than I do a Rototiller. In both cases, I can always borrow one. If I want to blend in at a Pixar or teen vampire movie, consider me a free babysitter for a few hours. And when it’s time to turn the garden soil, I’ll trade you a case of beer for the loan of your machine. If it’s busted, just send over your kid with a shovel. Work builds character.