Achievement

Part of what made the Cosby show funny was that the parents were so successful and the kids were such slackers. And not to imply that Julie and I are the ambition-equivalent of a doctor or lawyer, but certainly in our own ways we have made our careers a priority.

I hope we don't become overbearing parents, always calling teachers for grade clarifications and enrolling our child in every activity imaginable. If she does happen to possess talent in a sport or the arts, I hope it doesn't become about being the best, because I don't want to be one of those fathers who screams at referees. I don't want to volunteer in the ticket office just so my kid gets the lead in the play.

I probably will, though. But what if we have a Cosby kid? What if our daughter becomes a Theo, full of schemes and ideas but no follow-through, a lovable headache of a child? It's pretty much inevitable, isn't it? And I suppose that's okay.

My sister emailed me today. Clearly her sense of humor is similar to mine:

"By the way, she can learn to read by 10 months if you pay only $129.95 now. Seriously, I saw an amazing infomercial for it. Of course, she'll be reading trashy romance novels by age 5 and totally bored in kindergarten, a complete outcast, etc., but at least she will be able to read a flashcard that says KANGAROO."

I laughed aloud when I read it, but then I must admit that for a split second I thought, "Seriously?" And by thinking "Seriously?" I was considering whether it was possible for my daughter, too. The unborn carry such promise that it's easy to get swept away with the notion that within Julie's two-story bungalow of a womb might dwell greatness.

But entertaining that fantasy for more than a second or two seems greedy. It comes from wanting the best for your child, but there's an element of wanting the pride of having created a genius, and that's straight-up vanity in perhaps its grossest form. We just watched a documentary called "My Kid Could Paint That," which is about a toddler who paints like a prodigy and whose paintings have sold for six-figure prices. The film provides some compelling evidence that the girl's father might have had more than a little influence on her canvases, though he patently denies it.

Even if the paintings are legit, let's remember that the girl's parents decided to sell them.

I guess part of me hopes our daughter is a lovable slacker, perhaps a Denise or a Vanessa, maybe a Rudy; it would make things a lot simpler.