This god, this one word: “I.”

I don’t have kids. And I probably will never [way past 30 and still not feeling the urgent need to reproduce, a desire to dress a boy in a bow-tie nor beads on a girl’s pig tails. Oh and I am still horrified at the sight of a swollen belly. Still see the devil they can grow into when I see children’s “innocent” faces. Still think it odd, for a woman to look so proud at having lain on her back and let a man – well – “masturbate” in her. Not my words!].

So motherhood may not be my call. However, I know and have lived through the miracle of a child birth, or atleast the joy of looking at a wee-one, in its various forms:

How? my, curious, readers would ask:

Why.. the first time I read my name in print on “The Monitor” some 10/12 years ago!
When I saw my nick name, and a translated version of my blog post, on Addis Neger back when that newspaper mattered!
Every time I sign into my Huffingtonpost account and see my 63 fans; that mostly follow me because of the funny comments I make!

I walk around with my chin in the air, my chest stuck out, telling myself [and the world] that it was me.. yeah.. EYE built that!

New “father-to-be”s, I’m sure, would know what I’m talking about. Oh I’m sure a more Darwinian reason would be provided for you were you to ask a man why he looks so perky at the rather costly [and MisGan Yelesh] prospect of inviting “a puking, pooping, eating, screaming, incoherent stranger” into his life. That it’s the reassurance of the continuing of his name, his love for children, her glow! But, deep down, I think it’s the knowledge that he’s “tapped that” that gives him a new purpose in life. That one of his little fellas has swam through the gene pool and won the race; scoring one for the home team. That he has actually accomplished something, “knocked up” a woman in a way that leaves a mark, an evidence, something you can actually see – and feel. What makes it less of an accomplishment, ewnetun lemenager, to getting a degree, owning a business, winning a lottery?! Isn’t the young African man sitting under [somebody else’s] orange tree deriving the same kind of pleasure to that other [European?!] young man who went through the toils of planting the orange tree, transporting the oranges and making money?! You look at your woman, you look at her belly, and you know that was you.. yeah.. YOU, son of a gun, who did that! It even makes pregnant women attractive, if craigslist’s “casual encounters” section can be any guide [which it can: it’s practically a She-hiker’s guide to men’s true nature, their perverted desires and deep psychosis].

“I built that” is the break-through banner heroes tear out of. It’s the spring most things noble and all things un-noble issue forth from. Thrill-seekers are born of it. Dictators slip-through it. Serial killers keep relics because of it, and return to crime scenes to sacrifice [sometimes themselves] for its greedy.. lustful.. unappeasable gods. It’s what built the world, and what’s tearing it apart, bit by bit. It’s what made Ayn Rand’s books a favorite among tea-partiers, and Obama’s “You didn’t build that” too expensive a gaff that almost costed him the vote of small business owners. It is, more importantly, what made Jack build the house:

[[with]..the farmer sowing his corn,
That kept the cock that crowed in the morn,
That waked the priest all shaven and shorn,
That married the man all tattered and torn,
That kissed the maiden all forlorn,
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,
That tossed the dog,
That worried the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built].

It’s toxic. It’s wonderful. It gives life its meaning and can be topped by only one thing: seeing your name on the cover of a booker prize nominee hard-cover someday. [Insh Allah]

So.. what have you built lately?