I should probably back up a bit. I mean, how can you start telling a story with hitting a kid for some silly little thing? That might make me look like I don't love, him, though I probably don't, not really, or my wife, at least the woman who was my wife then, and his mother as well. It's not like I ever wanted to have him, or any kid. I wanted the sex, sure. Who doesn't? But the kid? A kid? No, that I didn't want.
But we had him and because of that we had to get married, otherwise she was going to cut off the sex, maybe make me move out and find a job of my own. Then I'd have to track down some other woman, or not track down, but hook up with some other woman, so as to get some action. I don't much like not having some warm flesh to sleep with, but I also don't like some squalling kid getting between use either. I think that maybe I'm not the marrying or parenting type, but I ended up as both.
And that's probably why it wasn't all that hard to hit him, especially after the first time. It's not like I wanted him. I don't even know if she wanted him, but there he was, and I was having to bathe the little bugger, clean the shit out of his crack, the dried piss off his crotch. How anyone could think something so unclean was a blessing was, and still is, beyond me, but that's what everyone told us, what a blessing he was. A curse is what kids are, a curse. Forget the blessing crap.
So I knocked her up and we got married and not quite nine months later, her he comes. The wedding was nothing to speak of because it was thrown together pretty quick. It was a justice of the peace thing down at city hall. We got her brother to be a witness, and my mother, and that's it. We didn't invite anyone to see us get married, we didn't throw a party afterword, though we did go to the Red Robin for dinner, by ourselves. But after that, we went home and in the morning the two of us were off to work, me at the car lot where I worked on the lot, washing cars, fetching cars, driving customers to work when they dropped their car off for service. She went to her job at the college where she worked in the cafeteria, overseeing the student workers.
If not for her job, we would have been in some real trouble with the kid. She had insurance, and I didn't. Without the insurance I probably would have pushed harder for her to get an abortion. But she was having none of that, though I don't know why. It's not like she couldn't get pregnant some other time, with someone else if I wasn't around. But she was going through with it, all the way. That's what really fucked up the good time we had been having up to that point. Having an abortion would have had her off her feet for a few days, maybe a week, and we would have been right back at it like the dogs we were. But she changed, changed all the way around. But not me. I didn't change, still haven't changed. Why should I, just because I knock up my girl and then we get married and have the kid? What reason for change is that?
Our families and some of our friends, some friends they were and are, thought my being their when he was born would make me change, or want to change. Hell, I don't know how. It was one of the most boring and then disgusting things I'd ever seen. I don't know who came up with that bullshit about the miracle of childbirth, but it happens every day, in the best and worst places, the cleanest and dirtiest places, the most unsanitary places, and it keeps happening. If that don't make it among the most common place of events, I don't know what would. Miracle my ass.
And all the blood, and the bitching, and the nurses and a doctor or two. Jesus, most of them were just sitting around and standing around in some room that was costing what would cover a week in Mexico for a night or two. You should have heard her scream and bitch when she asked for the epidural. The doctor who was giving her the shot just about got his dick bit off she yelled so loud, and all he was doing was giving her a poke in the spine to show where the needle would be going in. I'm just glad I'm not the son-of-a-bitch that had to do that. I would have been cut off for days, weeks even. She could be that way.
She had to hold and squeeze my hand through the whole thing, and she about crushed the bones in my hand while she was squeezing and grimacing. I told her to fucking let up a bit, but the nurse who was measuring her dilation shot me the dirtiest look I'd ever had. I kept most of my thoughts to myself after that. When he finally came out, like I said, he was covered in blood and I don't know what. I felt like puking it was so disgusting. Then they held him up, with his umbilical cord still attached and handed me some scissors so I could cut it. That was another disgusting bit about the whole thing.
It was like this thin rope of blood and flesh, and they wanted me to cut it with these scissors. What the fuck were these people thinking? All I could think of was I was cutting off my dick with those things, maybe because it was about as big around as his tiny little prick. And covered in blood. Jesus Christ, the blood. It almost made me want to give up having sex, with her anyway, seeing all that disgusting shit coming out after he came out. How could anything so disgusting be a miracle, I ask you? Makes me want to puke just thinking about it now.
But all of that is why I don't mind giving the kid a smack when he needs it. I heard somewhere once that foster and step parents are more likely to hit their kids because they don't have a biological connection to them. Well I have the biological connection, at least as far as I know. Hell, maybe I don't. Maybe she's been slutting around on me, fucking anyone who'll stick his dick in her. It's not like I haven't done it, so why shouldn't she? Maybe it isn't my kid, and maybe that's why I don't mind giving him a smack, because he's pretending, or she's pretending he is mine, my DNA, my contribution to the gene pool. That bitch. If she's been fucking around on me, I'll kick her ass as well as his.