Alligators Are Not Suitable Babysitters (I'm Pretty Sure)

But the references checked out...

I had a dream a few nights ago where I was in charge of looking after a baby’s well-being. I don’t have any children currently, and have only physically held a baby a few times in my life. They’re nice and all, but, you know. They smell and stuff. Anyway, in this dream somebody gave me a baby to look after.   So, then I was tasked with finding a sitter, so my wife and I could enjoy an evening out.

I ran into a guy who attempted to convince me that you can train a wild alligator to look after a baby while you’re away. Now, I don’t mean an alligator that has human traits, like the ability to speak, self-reflect, stand upright, change a diaper, or read The Hungry Caterpillar while rocking one of those cradle things with the hanging thing above that is supposed to do whatever the hell it does.

I’m talking about a good old-fashioned swamp-dwelling alligator. Like the kind you saw Steve Irwin wrestling. They’re mean. In fact, one of the most dangerous mammals to man.   Am I right?   I’m right.

And, I’ll tell you, at first I said, “No, you absolutely cannot leave an alligator in charge of a baby. This will not end well.” But then, whoever was trying to convince me said a second time that alligators are good with babies, and I was like, “Well, he said it twice. It MUST be true.” And off I went with my wife to dinner.

So, did the alligator eat the baby?   I’m not sure, as the dream than morphed to us eating dinner at a rib joint.   Not like a regular barbeque house, though.   This restaurant was unique in that everybody in the restaurant was a transvestite.   The servers, the patrons, even the wine steward.   All transvestites.   I was the only man not wearing women’s clothing.   My wife thought this place totally fine.   Didn’t bother her at all.   I was uncomfortable.   Then, at the end of the meal, I realized I didn’t have my wallet.   The staff suggested I could work off my debt   in the kitchen.   No, not in that way.   Washing dishes.

The good news is, my dreams rarely match up with my reality.   Even my most repeated dreams don’t seem to ever happen in real life.   I don’t have a problem with my teeth falling out, and I’m really not unprepared for a college exam because I missed class all semester.   Lastly, I never had to go receive communion in front of a congregation with a boner.   In fact, I’m not even Catholic.   That was a weird one.   Really.

Not even sure what to make about the transvestites.   Probably best to not think about that.

But still, I wonder.   Do I actually fear making really bad decisions for a child that I will   have in the future?   Probably.   That’s normal, I would guess.   That’s why Dr. Spock wrote books on child-rearing.   So did Jenny McCarthy.   I’ll read both.