He was asleep, I was bored, and he was hanging out in my arms. Perfect time for a camera shot, right, because what spells “fatherhood” better than trying to juggle your infant child in one hand, and attempting to turn on, maneuver and focus the camera with the other? Fortunately, I failed to kill my kid.
Or, so I thought.
I was going through the photos afterward when I discovered that Auggy was already a goner. The undead. (Not, say, the undead as in black tux, sweeping cape, pointy teeth and an aversion to drinking… wine undead. The other kind. Duh.) See?
At first I wasn’t sure. I mean, cute kid (looks like me), red hair’s still there, and so far no teeth–not even rotted ones. But, I have to admit, the the eyes concerned me and, well… most non-zombie kids don’t have such creepy speech balloons.
“Oh, c’mon, Skippy, you added that in!”
No, I didn’t. Honest. Zombies are mysterious and powerful like that. Or, is that wizards? (Did Dumbledore ever eat anyone? Are you sure? How could you ever truly know?)
So, now the question on my mind* is whether I can love a zombie child and give him a nourishing, happy childhood. Happy, maybe; nourishing, possibly. After all, if we invite over all his friends for a sleepover, CRUNCH!, nourishing. And he”ll probably even be happy that night. But what about the next morning? Sure, sure, he can eat the other kids’ parents when they come over to pick up little Johnny and Sally Three Course, and that’ll help delay the police being notified for a little bit, but I don’t want him to overeat because, well, I want an active, athletic kid. If he gets chubby, all he’ll do is sit on the couch and munch on the dogs. You can only grab so many strays from the pound before the SPCA starts getting suspicious (they’re worse than the cops).
Plus, what about adolescence? He hits 13 and all of a sudden it’s “Brains! Braaaaains! Braaaains–waaaa! All I ever eat is brains! How come we can’t get a bucket of kidneys? Or a small intestine? Have you seen one of those things? It’s just. Like. Spaghetti.” The ungrateful wretch.
Will he fit in with high school? Will he eat his first girlfriend? (Stop that.) Will he get into college, or will he have to take night classes? Oh, oh, and there’s such a bias against zombies. Have you seen the movies? They’re all so… negative. Frankly, that bastard George Romero owes my son an apology and maybe a nice, fat settlement.
Well, I’ll try. Love you, kiddo. Now, go play with the cat. He’s old. No one will miss him.