You Are the Father

In the annals of great parents, I’m fairly certain you’ll never find the names Gosselin, Suleman, Crawford, or…Hatchett.

Careful ladies. I know it’s tough, but try to control yourself.

What, you ask, could Tennessee dad Desmond Hatchett possibly have done to be mentioned in the same breath as Octomom, the poster woman for bad fertility choices? First let me ask you this: Do you remember Maury Povich’s show? The show women dragged their deadbeat boyfriends onto, demanding that they take paternity tests? Maury would hold the results in his hand, acting like he didn’t know full well that the dude was the father—the dude was always the father—and then he’d say those four magical words: “You are the father.”

So, what does this have to do with Desmond Hatchett? Well, if Desi Boy had been hauled onto Maury’s show, and been given paternity tests on behalf of all his baby mamas, he most definitely would’ve heard those words.

THIRTY times. 

Yep, you read that right. Hatchett has recently made headlines for siring 30 kids. By 11 different women. And nine of those children have come in the last three years—while he’s been in prison. Obviously, he’s made good use of those conjugal visits.

Classy, right?

Not surprisingly, the 33-year-old father is having trouble making his child support payments. It stands to reason that when you have a minimum wage job and enough kids to field almost three football teams, you’re going to have problems; which is why, according to various media outlets, he’s recently petitioned the court to relieve him of his child support duties. Considering that some of his kids are currently receiving as little as $1.49 a month, I can’t say that it would make much difference financially.

But that’s not the point.

The point is, he made his bed and now he must lie in it. (Pun not necessarily intended, but certainly appropriate.)

I mean, what happened to personal responsibility? By baby number 7, 16, or 25, it really can’t be a surprise anymore, can it? I would think you’d be pretty aware of how that story was going to end. And when you have a minimum wage job and thirty kids, it certainly doesn’t end with, “and they lived happily ever after.”

And, to my next point, what in the world were these women thinking? I don’t care how charming a guy is, if he has more children than I have years of age (or, *cough*, the same), that’s a deal breaker. What do you think his pick-up line was for baby mama number 11, or God-forbid, 12 or 13? “Hey, baby, wanna go home and make it a baker’s dozen?”

Clearly, these women are far from blameless. It’s been widely reported that his extreme fertility was no secret to them; they knew exactly what they were getting and they wanted him anyway. So gross. Talk about being around the block a time—or thirty. And, truly, if he’s going to have this many kids, the least he could do is take a page out of the Sister Wives handbook and marry their mothers.

One thing’s for sure, though: With Father’s Day fast approaching, the prison that Mr. Hatchett currently calls home better start preparing for the influx of cards and gifts—from his many, many children—that are sure to come pouring in; homemade cards thanking him for being such a wonderful father and such a good man.

Or, on second thought, maybe not.