In the summer of 2005, I became the closest thing to a father I will ever be, because I loved a woman with a child
A man who chases a woman with a child is like a dog that chases a car and wins. How many times since then have I stared at the boy in dumb wonder and muttered: "Son, if your momma had just been homely, think how much easier my life would have been." The idea of having a boy had always nibbled at me. I could imagine us in a boat in the deep blue, casting into lucky water, talking about life. But the idea of a boy is one thing, while the reality is you spend your last spry years at the Sonic, stabbing at a big red button, then watching him baste the interior of your truck in root beer and barbecue sauce as he squeals, whines, pouts, and punches every button on the radio till all you can get is static and satanic howls.
But I would tolerate the little boy, for the woman. I believed I was catching him at a good age. He was house-trained, past diapering but still too young to borrow my car or ask me questions on sex, about which, of course, I would be forced to lie. I did not expect much. All I wanted was a brave, clean boy who would take out the trash, be kind to his mother, and occasionally bathe the big dog, which also came with the marriage and smelled as if it had already died. It would be nice if the boy was coordinated, had good oral hygiene, could catch a football, did his homework, and did not run buck naked in the house. I should have lowered my expectations a little, to "house-trained." He refused to hold his fork right, transforming me from what I always believed to be a real man into an etiquette-quoting popinjay. I watched him, amazed, as he chased a single green pea across a plate and dumped a mountain of mashed potatoes on the white tablecloth, all of which he would have scooped up and eaten if I had not threatened him with charm school. He showered as if he were running through a waterfall, barely getting damp before shouting to his beleaguered mother, "Where's my pants?" If she did not respond, he would run naked after all. She had to inspect him after every bath because he would not use soap or wash his hair, or else wash only the front or back part of his head, hoping that would be the part she chose to inspect. I was a boy once too, but I did not look greasy after a bath, or festoon the backseat in used tissues, or sprinkle the floor mats with takeout biscuit crumbs as if I needed them to find my way home again.
"Enjoy it," said the woman who bore this troglodyte, "because that little boy will disappear before your eyes."
"When?" I asked, hopeful.
I almost ran the first time I saw him eat pancakes. He covered a table—and his upper body—with syrup, and then spread it like plague across a new day.
In one restaurant, he managed to get a gob of spaghetti sauce on his underarm. "You got some…" I said, pointing.
He licked it off. I did not think it humanly possible.
A man who chases a woman with a child is like a dog that chases a car and wins. How many times since then have I stared at the boy in dumb wonder and muttered: "Son, if your momma had just been homely, think how much easier my life would have been." The idea of having a boy had always nibbled at me. I could imagine us in a boat in the deep blue, casting into lucky water, talking about life. But the idea of a boy is one thing, while the reality is you spend your last spry years at the Sonic, stabbing at a big red button, then watching him baste the interior of your truck in root beer and barbecue sauce as he squeals, whines, pouts, and punches every button on the radio till all you can get is static and satanic howls. 
