Oh Poo...

“Hi, nice to meet you.” 

Shaking hands with one of the hot shots at work this morning, I suddenly remembered the hunk of poo on my index finger just hours ago. I still don't know what happened, the details are blurry. My son had a surprise waiting for me.  A surprise that was bursting at the seams. Hours upon turning 38 years old, I was screaming like a girl for my wife to come and help me with a very messy situation. Then I looked at my finger. Uh oh. You know that part in Home Alone, when the kid sets the spider on the bad guy’s face? That was my reaction. 

But that's how the day began. The morning was a whirl of tasks all pertaining to the 20lb ball of chub whose ear rattling shriek prevented me from oversleeping on the couch. Yes, the couch, on my birthday. I know, poor, poor, pitiful me… 

I was on the couch because our son was a beast last night. He’s teething, (or growing horns out of his head), and he won the battle of wills once again. We let him in the bed and between mother and baby, Dad became the odd man out. I tried the guest room, but couldn’t get comfortable. Somehow I ended up on the couch. I’m such a drama queen… But I’m not complaining. I can't complain. Our baby is well, and we are healthy. A bit tired but healthy.

Anyway, the important man released my hand and I waited for him to curl his lip or wrinkle his nose. But all was clear. Maybe that Bath and Body Works warm vanilla sugar soap works after all. That or the kerosene. Later, when I look in the mirror to find that I had forgotten to brush my hair, I saw the dribbles of white crust just under my collar. The little dude urped on me when I wasn’t looking. But at least this explains why people were clinging to the walls in passing and giving me that polite, but please don't kill me smile in the cafeteria.  And it explains why I have this nagging compulsion to wash my hands, again...

Where to, Son?

I often think about the places I want to take my son, and all of the things I want teach him.  But it hadn’t occurred to me where he may take me and what I may learn from him. 

He has already significantly expanded my comfort zone, and this is only the beginning.  Two months ago I had never held a baby for longer than it takes to snap a picture, these days it's the most natural thing I know.  Every morning I hold him against my chest, lifting my head so he can nuzzle his head under my neck just the way he likes. 

As a father, I have as much to learn from this growing ball of boy as I have to teach.  Every day, he’s letting me know what I’m doing wrong, and I’ve learned by trial and error what makes him tick.  So what else will he teach me?  Just this morning I learned a new color upon opening up my son's diaper. Not sure I'll be seeing that one in a Crayola box anytime soon.  

So where to today? Or tomorrow?  I have a feeling that he will have me doing things I never thought possible. For instance, a few days after he was born I felt weird carrying a breast pump machine through the halls of the hospital.  If I only knew what was coming.

Watching him smile and wiggle and grow I know that this part of the journey that I thought would be so long and arduous is actually happening all too fast.  Today I’m holding his tiny little bottom in my arms and tomorrow I’ll be helping him learn the alphabet.  And then Spanish homework, or basketball practice, maybe I’ll even coach, who knows?

Right now, I still can’t believe that he’s here, and that I helped create him. It all seems too amazing. 

The Reliever

According to Wikipedia--only the most trusted source of information in the world, a relief pitcher enters the game after the starting pitcher is removed due to injury or ineffectiveness, fatigue, or other strategic reasons. 

I wonder if lack of breast milk falls under the vast scope of strategic reasons.  For all I know it could be a banned substance.

Barry Bonds admits to drinking breast milk during record breaking season!!! 

It wouldn’t surprise me. 

And I shouldn't have been surprised when I came home from work and walked into the buzz saw that was my house. Our son was on nap strike, refusing to budge and voicing his displeasure with shrieks that had the dogs running for cover.

None of our tricks were working (having been a parent for 5 weeks, our bag of tricks is a bit sparse), and it seemed we were in for a long night.  I couldn't help but laugh as we sat down to eat dinner at the table, where my wife ate her dinner with one hand while feeding our baby with the other.  This is exactly what I envisioned on our first date when we sipped adult beverages and ate dinner at a human pace. 

At seven he was crying, by 9 he was still going strong, by 11 he was doing the Harlem Shake.  As our starting pitcher, my wife was fatigued.  Phone the bullpen, it’s time for some relief.

As a rookie, I was a little nervous getting the call. Blissfully asleep on my side of the bed, I usually come in and sleepwalk through a diaper change a few times during the night.  But my wife informed me that after 18 hours, she needed a break.  She had nursed and burped, she had done all she could.  Chalk it up to fatigue, I began warming up.

I was surprisingly serviceable.  After a shaky start, I warmed up and after some fussing, I was able to get the little guy to finally drift off, giving my wife an hour and a half of well deserved rest.

Getting the call, I was happy to step up and be of some use.  Well not happy, but glad to come in and help.

Daddysitting

Having only been a father for weeks, there are quite a few things that I've yet to experience.  Sure, I've got a grasp on the basics.  Changing diapers?  Check.  Losing Sleep?  Check.  Staring at baby and wondering just how in the world I had anything to do with something so amazing?  Check plus.

  

But when my wife told me she needed to get out of the house before she lost her mind, a tinge of panic ran through my body.

We’re going to be alone, just him and me?

Things suddenly got real. It hadn't dawned on me that at some point during the coming years we would be alone together. 

Nonetheless, my wife kissed us goodbye as if she were departing for a seasonal tour of Europe.  She waived as she ventured past the mailbox and into the car for a quick trip to the grocery store, wiping a tear from her eye as she drove up the road. 

I looked at my son,

“Well, no adults, what do you want to do?”

He looked up at me, his eyes wide and determined, as if to say:

“Entertain me or pay dearly.  Go.”

I began by introducing my son to stand up comedy, something clean of course.  We settled on Jim Gaffigan on Netflix--we're not quite ready for Eddie Murphy's Raw. Mr. Simon was awake and alert, having just been fed and changed; we sat down to enjoy our show when there was an explosion on my leg.  Ooops, back to the changing table...

We got all cleaned up and changed (again) with minimal crying. I was feeling pretty good about myself at that point, fifteen minutes in and no meltdown.  I got this.

It helped that we’re both very ADD.  Well I am, he’s a baby whose motor skills are still under development, so we make a pretty good pair. I made faces, sang silly songs, and kept him occupied with the ceiling fan until he was ready for a change of scenery.

I stood, rocked, shook (lightly, no need to become the basis for a lifetime movie), and bounced, shifting gears before either of us got too comfortable.  And after that, I sang, danced, baby talked, and pleaded. I did things I never imagined I would do, but it needed to be done.

As time wore on, my biggest concern was hunger, my son is a chow hound and at some point he was bound get hungry and start rooting around for a breast, at which time I would become useless because my nipples aren’t lactating. We were almost an hour in, and I was getting nervous.

But he was content.  Between the fan and some superb singing/rapping, he had plenty to keep him interested, and flat out amazed.  Approximately 58 minutes later, my wife pulled into the driveway. I smiled proudly, the baby resting safely in my arms.  She walked briskly towards the house, and just before she got to the door my son sold me down the river, screaming as though I was burning his toes and pinching his sides. 

She rescued him from the clutches of big bad daddy, playing unfair with her soft voice and nourishing breasts.  Mom and baby sat down for lunch, while I explained the great time we had together, the singing, the fan, the....forget it.  I'll continue to wait, until he's four or five and wants to do boy stuff.  We'll see who he likes better then.

Pooped

In my first two weeks as a father, I'm quickly discovering that men and women react quite differently upon hearing the news that I'm a new dad.  Women want to see pictures, oohing and ahhing over the baby while asking how mom is recovering.  Men usually just start handing out advice.  And by advice I mean telling a good poop story.

Dads of all ages will tell a poop anecdote as if it were an epic adventure, leaving nothing to question when it comes to details.  With a twinkle in the eye, they fondly relive their baby days, swelling with pride as they recall their son's stream of pee hitting them in the face or how they went to work wearing a poop stained shirt. 

The stories may vary, but almost always included is the color, texture, and size of what they found in a diaper.   

A poop story brings fathers together like little else.  We may not like the same sports teams or agree politically, but we all have a go to poop joke. 

"So there I was, fresh out of diapers with nothing but a tube sock and some duct tape."

“Oh, that’s nothing, one time junior got into some leftover Mexican food, it peeled the paint right off the hood of the car..."

“Did I ever tell you about the time little Cindi puked in my mouth?”

“We had to hose Aiden down in the backyard; you’ve never smelled anything like it in your entire life!”

"Somebody called the fire department, they wouldn't come near it!"

Maybe it's just how we communicate.  A poop story is a father's way of saying, I was there at three in the morning, or I wiped that kid's butt and now he's in college.  The time flies I'm told, so as I complain about the rigors of my new job I should keep in mind the looks on those father's faces as they laugh and reminisce about late night diaper changes, crying babies, and of course, poop.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a diaper to go change...