Once a boss of mine extolled the virtues of cloning.
“Just think,” he said. “You could raise yourself as your own child.” Mr. Boss’s eyes danced and his whole body looked as happy as one of my grandchildren on his birthday. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful.”
“That would be horrible,” I said. “I would never want to raise myself. Why would I do that to myself?” The words burst out of me. Maybe I revealed more of me than was wise.
A dull, quizzical look replaced the excitement written all over Mr. Boss.
“But you would know what the child needed. What was best for him.”
“I’m pretty sure the grown up version of me, would have a hard time convincing the child version of me, I knew more than she did.”
“You were obedient,” she said. “Very obedient. You never sneaked around, you never lied.”
“You just had to know why for everything.” Mom’s eyes clouded over, exhausted by the memory. “You wouldn’t rest until you understood the reason for every. little. thing. Sometimes you were bull-headed. Sometimes you took a lot of energy.”
A clone of me raised by me? I don’t think so. That would be a lifetime in purgatory. Not quite the high flames of hell, but certainly 18+ years on the simmer plate.
When I was a little girl, I feared a rat biting my toes or nose while I slept because my room looked like a pig sty. That was Mom’s way of motivating me to clean. I slept covered up, with just a slit to breathe through. Sometimes, I lay awake. I imagined a mind-reading man, whose mind I could read, hid in my closet at night. He knew I knew he was there, because he could read my mind. I knew he knew I knew, because I could read his mind. He knew I could read his mind, I knew he could read mine. My thoughts spiraled on like that until, at last, I fell asleep, never really afraid of the stranger hiding in my closet; unwilling to be the first to break the cycle of mind reading.
Yeah. I have a hard enough time being myself. I’ll take a pass on raising me.
On the other hand, it’d be great to have someone around who loves the tilt-a-whirl as much as I do. Imagine, me and mini-me: tears running down our cheeks, laughing, as the world spins by in a blur.
What do you think? Ethics aside, would you want to raise a clone of yourself? Tell me why, please. I still prefer to understand every. little. thing.