Kids, eh?
Who'd have 'em?

Well, despite all my initial thoughts, me. I'm one of the unfortunate souls who can be considered a 'national statistic' in teenage parenthood, as my son was born when I was seventeen. His mother, an mildly unhinged individual who might have cropped up in the former 'Stalked' QOTW had she been but a touch more off the wall, had decided 'Hey, a baby sounds like a fabulous idea!'.

Now, I'd have been content to sit her down, discuss the thing and weigh up the pros and cons, and give a very fair 'NO' to the whole deal, but instead it was decided apparently that I wasn't needed for input in the matter.

Not verbally, anyways. After getting an odd phone call one morning, hung over and feeling not unlike I'd been skull-fucked by John Holmes on Viagra and Coke, I managed to stumble my still-drunken person into her place of work to be handed one of those horrible little things you women-folk get to find out if you're indeed about to procreate.

Now, hung-over, holding a pissy stick in one hand, my head in the other and wanting the earth to swallow me whole, I tried to come to terms with just exactly what I was being told, and eternally curious as to just HOW she'd gotten pregnant with the magic of birth control pills to assist in the prevention.

"Oh, they must have just not worked...Isn't it great though!?"

Now, I'm a firm believer that abortion isn't an option to be considered lightly, and that there's only a handful of circumstances in which it'd be fair to consider, and as such I braced myself for the upcoming nine months.

The screaming little mouth that emerged, I'll admit, was enough to make me think that perhaps it'd not be absolute hell, and that her sanity might renew itself over time. Of course, by then the 'broody' stage had passed, so Downie jr (No, not Robert) often stayed with me at my place. Thankfully that lasted less than a few months, and things progressed relatively normally for a year, though I eventually decided that we might not be altogether suited for one another.

Yes, I'm now classed as a 'deadbeat' by that delightful organisation called the CSA, who despite the fact I've contributed the vast majority of my expendable income towards my son decide I owe THEM money for the luxury as well. Of course, having not worked a day since he was born (five years ago), means that his mother is a sponger and as such, refuses to have HER benefits cut.

The icing on the cake? Around a year and a half ago, it was clearly revealed that her 'fluke' pregnancy wasn't flukey in the slightest, and that she'd conveniently decided to forget her birth control until she got what she was wanting.

Cunt.

Still, despite all this, I actually quite like kids. My son is growing up to be more like me than his mother (a good thing if ever there was one), and above all else, I'm now prepared for when I have kids in the future and can breeze through, fully trained in the efforts of poo-under-the-fingernail and 3am crying-handling.

Length? 8 months, 1 week and 3 days, if I remember rightly.
(HomeWithTheDownies A towering inferno of penisy pleasure, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 19:45, Reply)