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Wow, you say.

Holy fuck, I said.

And then I went to the ICU, the one that exists in my head.

Where was Maury Povich, the man who has made his living off of figuring out who’s the babydaddy, when I needed him? (By the way, “babydaddy” is an expression as juvenile as those who use the word. If you use the word you shouldn’t be allowed to have a child, or even babysit.)

I had no idea a woman would even think of doing something like this. Seriously, I didn’t. Do the words “young and stupid” mean anything to you?

This was all pre-Oprah and Dr. Phil, of course. Until they showed up, I labored under the delusion that the middle class was insulated from this kind of nonsense. How would I have even heard about incest if it weren’t for these two? Who knew there was so much of it? What the fuck is the matter with us?

“But you’re avoiding the subject, Lewis. Give us the details of your sad story.”

Why should I? Aren’t the simple bare-naked facts enough?

Enough is never enough in this culture. There always has to be more. It’s why we’re spiritually thin and physically fat. It wasn’t enough that Kate and Jon Gosselin were a reality show. When it went off the air and the world heaved a collective sigh of relief, we still needed them to become news because there has to be more. It’s why we slow down to see the smashed car at the side of the road. “Were they organ donors?” we might think as we crane our necks to gaze at the wreckage. “Where’s the blood? What do you suppose their blood types were?”

And speaking of blood, that’s how I found out the apple of my eye was without any of my seeds. I thought we should find out who the biological father was if we could. It seemed like the responsible thing to do, since I wasn’t going to take my wife’s word for it. This was before DNA testing, so the chances of discovering who the father was were slim at best—a 29 percent chance, as a matter of fact. You could only figure it out from the blood types.

There we all were. Alleged dad 1 (me), alleged dad 2 (the mime), mom, and son, waiting in the doctor’s office together for the nurse to take our blood. The kid was screaming. I don’t think it was just about the nurse drawing his blood.

The kid was always screaming. Always. He had colic. So did I when I was a kid. I used to think that maybe it was genetic, but in this instance obviously that wasn’t the case. Wasn’t it enough that he wasn’t my kid? Did he really need to have colic, too?

Now that I think about it, maybe he knew we didn’t share any genetic markers and that’s why he was screaming. Perhaps he was screaming at me: “Get out before it’s too late! I’m not yours—get out now!”

Boy, that kid could wail. I used to spend eight hours a day with him by myself, as my then-wife had a job in the afternoons and the evenings and I was working in the mornings, writing a play—with kids, for other kids. I spent all morning with kids and then came home to a baby I thought was my little boy.

Before I go any further, I have to say this: Parents, especially moms, who spend most of their day with an infant have my undying respect. It can be a lonely, completely brutal experience, as you make every attempt to stop the baby’s tears and every single thing that you try FAILS! Gently rocking the bed, swinging them in their little swing, holding them close, driving them around in the car, or singing a lullaby has no effect on them. It only seems to feed their need to scream louder. Vainly I’d scream back at him. The shrieks and the cries crush your fragile ego’s need to help and eventually you just can’t take it anymore as the crying and the fussing grind on day after day after day. Bundle of joy, my ass! Being the parent of a newborn is fucking hard work.

I am now going to say something horrible. I know it’s horrible because you’re not supposed to say it. I know it, and so will you. I know I shouldn’t say it, and you know I shouldn’t say it. It upsets people, because they will completely misconstrue your intention