Chicago wasn’t originally in the travel plans. But as plans changed, so did expected experiences. Part of the appeal of this trip was to rough it out, to stay in grimy hostels on couches that have helped conceive far more children than Genghis Khan himself.

Anyways, I’m staying at a family friend/distant relative’s house. It’s beautiful, it’s like four stories, with a pool and playground and two young boys age 7 and 10. As with any lovely home, I graced the estate on a Saturday evening, decked out in what’s become my US Uniform - a green bomber jacket and sweatshirt, unwashed jeans and a pickled sweat that hadn’t been adequately rinsed off in three days.

Of course, plans changing and all, this means that I arrive appropriately dressed for a dinner party. I was initially embarrassed, but as with any dinner party that involves children, it also meant that I tasked myself with hanging out with the kids. Of course, the adult way to be included is to take a glass or two of wine and murmur strong condemnations of the current political atmosphere and discuss the mysterious nature of children. And so while this could be the story of how I got drunk and babysat 6 children watching Boss Baby, I’m going to direct the effort of storytelling to maybe solidify my thoughts on fatherhood. No one quote this on me 10 years from now. If I have the same exact thoughts on this, y’all better slap me.

I have, on occasion, imagined a scenario where I became a single father. Maybe adopted or a relationship that didn’t pan out. But there is a sort of idealistic dream where I am fully responsible and care for a child. It’s not unlike becoming a teacher, which is also on the bucket list.

Now, I think it’s pretty clear to me that my faults and behaviors would leave me far better suited to being an uncle that babysat every so often. I’m not attentive towards myself, much less others. I can very clearly see myself dropping responsibility on my significant other, looking for chances to escape the stress of the everyday. These issues just exacerbate the dream of being the single dad. When I’m alone and responsible, there are no ways I can avoid responsibility. I have to work through my faults, because my child’s wellbeing is on the line. It also neatly divorces the necessity of a romantic relationship for raising a child. It’s not like I’ve had awful failures in my romantic life - they’ve all actually been genuinely beautiful experiences with extraordinarily wonderful people - but they have been representative of significant faults and needs that feel largely unrelated to the interest I have in taking care of a child. I don’t truly expect a child to be able to level with me about existential dissatisfaction, among other related vulnerabilities that are largely limited to only the closest friends. In a lot of ways, the dream of a child feels similar to the fantasies of a perfect wedding the way girls seem to have with a faceless Prince Charming.

It’s hard having these thoughts without thinking about the agency and development of the child themselves. But I suppose fantasies are just that, necessarily objectifying. They aren’t real and so fundamentally they cater only to my fears and desires and nothing else.

All I’ve ever properly done is very lightly babysat. Where does a man get the practice and ability to test his dreams in the real world? Why do I even want a kid? There’s nothing that feels more immature than my innate instinctual desire to become a dad, and it’s pretty clear to me that in spite of the time I love spending with children that this desire is easily the most childlike one I have.