All in all, I’m pretty happy with the procedure. What they don’t tell you is that it’s basically having a kid, even though the kid is you. They all make it out to be a “perfect genetic copy,” they get all lathered about “genomic imprinting.” Yeah, but it’s a DNA snapshot of me in a sagging diaper. Me with a relentless stream of snot coagulating around my nostrils. Me at two years old. The terrible twos. With all due respect, I’m cute, but not that useful at this age. So far, the only “bioethics” issue has been whether I should spank me or not.
If I’d stopped to think about it, it would have made sense. Did I expect a mid-level manager in an oxford to jump out of the test tube? Now, of course, I realize I can’t even use the little guy as an organ donor. His tiny liver couldn’t handle a single four-day weekend in my body. God knows, his kidneys and bladder work beautifully—too beautifully for my worn-out valves and distended sphincters and whatnot.
There are many aspects of childhood that I am not keen to relive. It is irritating to have people mistake me for a girl again. I will not put one of those pink bows on my bald head just to appease the gender-obsessed. Strained beets have, in the mists of time, lost whatever appeal they once held for me. I am thankful that I will not have to re-endure Barry Goldwater; but that’s cold comfort with chicken pox and mumps to look forward to again.
The other day, I stretched the rules of “bring your son to work day” a little bit. It was a mistake. Jennifer in accounting said I did not look like me. “He must take after his mother,” she said. “That must be where he got those pretty blue eyes. Or maybe it was the milkman!” she tittered. I did not point out that my toddler’s corneas would be a perfect match for mine, if it came down to that.
My friend Ted says I indulge the boy. Well, duh. He’s not my son, he’s not my brother. He’s me! Imagine my delight at getting to stay up as late as I want the second time around. Imagine the unvarnished joy I get riding in my own lap, getting to steer the Camry on designated residential streets. True, I have caved and bought myself a car seat and a bike helmet, but this is just to keep the neighbors off my back. “This is not actually my child,” is an argument I’ve found to be problematic.
There are many advantages and efficiencies. When my younger self starts school, for example, there will be no need for school pictures. They would just be redundant. I’m sure I have most grades tucked away in a shoe box somewhere. While I didn’t have the foresight to hold on to all my baby clothes, I have started to stockpile my old double-vented suits and wingtips.
One might think not having a unique identity would be a problem, but look at it this way: The little guy will never need to apply for a social security number or a driver’s license. On the other hand, I don’t suppose I can claim myself as a dependent.
As a single working father of a clone, I find that people are sympathetic. The ladies at my daycare think it’s cute the way I speak to myself. “Time to change my diaper!” always brings a smile. “Boy, I’m smelling a little ripe!” And they think it’s charming that we have the same name—though of course he’s “the second.”
If I had it to do over again, well, I guess I’d do it again and again and again. In a sense, no matter how many times I replicate my DNA, I’ll still be an only child, and that’s pretty cool. I’d hate to be a burden to my family. As I get older, I intend to take care of myself. An army of one.
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