The Shadow Land....

There are few men that can walk down the feminine product aisle without keeping eyes straight forward.  I've heard stories of my dad being a proud "feminine product buyer." I didn't inherit this gene. I avoid it because there is never a reason for me to go down there. Its the shadowy land that Mufasa warned Simba to never go near. If I happen to end up in that aisle, I got lost looking for Cheetos. 

As a new dad, your time will come. Saddled with baby at the boob 23/7, mom gives orders and you execute, like the goal oriented soldier that you are. " I'm leaking through my shirt. Can you get me nipple pads." What the hell are nipple pads? I learned that they are like Depends for boobs. My plight begins. I must go to the shadow land. Mufasa is no longer here and I must rule all of the kingdom. 

In my brain, woman+leaking =feminine product. I trudge over to CVS, after having told myself to "man up,"   I stride directly to the back of the store full of courage and pride. I scan the multitude of products. ( how many different products do women need to do the job?)  The more I scan the more I sweat. My pride begins to fade and vision blurs as I am bombarded with "feminine product overload." I hear Whoopie Goldberg's hyena laugh in the distance. Knees weak, afraid a woman would ask me a question and I wouldn't be able to ask for "nipple pads" while keeping a straight face, I power through. After, what seemed like an hour of self imposed scrutiny, I realize that nipple pads aren't there. Quickly I escape and it hits me that they maybe be in the baby aisle. Thank God!!! Mission accomplished. 

Are you playing dead?

By now we have discovered that baby is a sleep wrecker, but soon enough, dad's instincts kick in. The same instincts that allow you to block out a conversation in which information is being repeated, the instinct that allows you to watch the game despite the recitation of the daily log, that amazing filter we have that can turn words into whomp, whomp, whomp.....becomes effective eventually and we are actually able to sleep. We become immune to the whimpering and mild moans to feed and we enjoy a peaceful rest. The next morning we hear mommy complain of being up, him being fussy, changing diapers, and breast feeding and we are stunned and greatful because that filter allowed us to miss it all.

Mommy, seeing our peaceful sleep, will at some point become the sleep wrecker. It's almost like she says, if I'm up,  you're up. You'll be jolted out of la la land by a muted scream, "babe!!!" "Oh, no you didn't....are you really waking me up? Don't you know how hard I've worked to tune my filter to baby and now you blatantly wake me up on purpose?" These are my inner thoughts as I lay there and play possum not wanting to turn over. I know what's coming? When I realize I can't ignore mommy because a mommy scream at 4 am, in the dead of silence, as you are asleep, sounds like a freight train, I turn over trying to hide being annoyed. "Do you want to hold him?" Ummmm...no. I want to sleep but I can't really say that so, I'm up with a wide awake baby. It's now my job as a mummy to put a bright eyed baby back to bed.

The 2 hour dance and singing show begins. Baby is crying because you are crying on the inside. All you want him to do is be quiet and close his eyes and all he wants to do is go to the disco and dance and sing like he's pooped a molly and he sweating. I sing and dance and cry. He sings and dances and farts. We tango for two hours until the Molly effect has worn off and he has finally bent him to your will, not really, he just wore himself out, but you'll take he victory anyway you can. Now that baby is asleep, you go back into the room and whisper to mommy to prep the swaddle. Mommy is unresponsive. You are holding baby, who probably hasn't fallen into too deep a sleep so you can't return the muted scream that jolted you. You whisper more intensely, "babe....babe....pssst"...nothing. I know you hear me, "babe...babe...are you playing possum?" I know that trick, get up. No, mommy has taken playing possum to another level, mommy is playing dead. You are on your own dad.

Tag, you're it!!!

First, let me say, those women who have to raise kids alone, I commend and sing your praises, no, literally I can sing your operatic praises. Being the sole one responsible for the antics of an infant is like entering a strong man competition weighing 140lbs.

Thankfully we are 2, which of course makes things, relatively easier but only relative to doing it alone. One of the benefits of being two is that my favorite game as a kid, "Tag," becomes an every day enjoyment. As a kid you chase your friends through the street and look for the slowest of the bunch so that you can run them down like you are a cheeta hunting a turtle. In the adult, parent version, you are running to meet the needs of an infant. I have noticed with single parents, whenever they are around a group they trust, they want so badly to "tag" someone. Never will they scream "tag" but the hints are subtle, "do you want to hold him?" The relief that falls over them is almost tangible.  They aren't "it"  for a second and its heaven. 

Now at home with two people the game is played all day. I can tell when mommy needs to "tag." When you walk in the door and every thing is half done; vacuum in the middle of the floor, clean clothes spread out as if a grenade hit the laundry room, there's  a full plate of food with one bite eaten, her hair is standing straight up, they have a glossed over gaze and a screaming baby in their lap, it's time to tag. Or when you notice mommy pacing unusually close to you bouncing baby and not saying anything, it a cue, she wants a tag. For dad, you can instantly tell. It's time for a "tag" when baby is laying on his blanket screaming and dad is sitting there staring as if baby is possessed. His mouth and eyes wide open, brow furrowed as if he's waiting for baby to morph into something other worldly. Mommy, rescue him.

Babe, do this. Babe, do that.....

As I was driving around running errands and doing the odd jobs of the day, an overwhelming sense of exhaustion came over me. Now that mommy is with baby, my load is double and the pressure mounting. Grocery shopping, batting my eye lashes at the car maintenance staff to get the extra perks, cooking, driving, getting the remote, cutting up meat so mom can eat one handed while baby eats, going back and forth to the kitchen for the things you forgot for yourself and the things you forgot for her, crawling out of the warm bed to turn off a light she left on, and your share of baby duty, all are now your responsibility. Things I could have said no to before, I can't say no to now. I could get away with, "no babe, I'm watching the game right now," or "come on babe, it's 3 feet from you," or even, "I really don't feel like it right now," that last one didn't happen too often. But in the height of all the pressure and the multiplication of tasks that are now mine, the moment I want to begin to complain, I hear an echo in my head of my wife's voice saying," I GAVE BIRTH." What can a man say to that? It's the "win all" answer to every gripe. We can't, nor do I think we ever want to experience that pain.

It ain't gonna happen dad....

One of the biggest things I'm learning about babies is that every thing is about transitions. The journey from the family jewels to the cushioned jewelry box is the first major transition. The whole growth process of the baby in the womb is broken down into stages or trimesters, if you will. Every trimester is a transition in growth and ability of the baby until he is ready for the ultimate transition of birth. The eviction from the penthouse to this cold, cold  world. Unlike an animal in the wild, who has to make that transition fast or be eaten alive by a lazy lion who likes an easy spoil, or a freshman on a college campus, parents have to manage these transitions. 

 We figure out that if he falls asleep in your, arms we have to slowly transition him to the bed or you are in for another " I'm sleepy but don't want to sleep" fight. The transition to being strapped in the car seat is another doozy until the rev of the engine puts him to sleep. From warm bath to cold air, our bed to his crib, sleeping to not sleeping,....the list is long and will get longer. Our newest transition is one no man wants to give up. It may be worst than being evicted from the womb, boob to bottle. Mom has to go to work soon and dad will be left to do the feeding. My first attempt was like a scene from Color Purple. He threw that bottle back like he was Suge Avery. It was like trying to force feed a lion a spear of broccoli. He wanted flesh, and armed with only a plastic nipple, I was defenseless. He had this look in his eyes like, whatever you are trying to do dad, it ain't gonna happen. Give me boob or Give me death. Let's hope this transition gets better.

"Turn down for what?"

"You want me to do what?....Really?" My level of leadership in this house just took another blow. I was relegated to chauffeur last night, not to my wife, but to a 10lb Tasmanian baby....

As we drove home from our weekly visit with Grandma, all was well and peaceful. (I love seeing him curled up on my mom's lap. You can see the baby effect radiating through her eyes.) The first sign of trouble was when I was ordered by Momma to change the radio station from my "turn down for what" song to NPR, classical. Now, I'm an opera singer so I can deal, but.....I wanted to ask, literally, turn down for what? But the dad senses kicked in.   All is well as we continue the tedious drive in rush hour traffic to the calming sounds of  NPR. Then, out of no where....this bellowing siren begins. I look around for an emergency vehicle but no....it was my Tasmanian baby. I know that cry very well; a cry that every father hates hearing because it's a cry that we can't do anything about...it was time to hit the bar, the milk-bar that is. I turn into Jeff Gordon. I was ready to switch lanes and be the most aggressive driver on the road, futile in DC.

We try every soothing maneuver we can but the back of the truck in now an amphitheater, magnifying this heart wrenching cry. There is only one thing that will calm this, the boob. But in my head, we'll wait it out and he'll get an extra round at home. Then, I hear these words...."pull over." I said, "pull over for what, " in my Lil Jon voice. We literally pulled out of rush hour traffic to the side of the road so this dude can get drunk at the milk bar. I sat watching cars speed by and the Jeff Gordon in me wanted to join the race but I was sidelined by a baby and a boob. This was as good as a time as any to get a power nap in. 

Be aware of dogs....

As an owner of two crazy, amazing dogs, Stella and my blind sidekick Oliver ( lovingly called Smols), I would classify myself, an animal lover. They truly are man's best friend. I've grown up with a dog in the house all my life. When I was younger though, dogs were "dogs." They weren't purse accessories, or considered members of the family necessarily. We loved them, but they had their place. My grandpa loved his dog, Scotty, probably more than most people, but Scotty was never licking his butt on grandpa'side of the bed. Welp, those days are over and dogs are really considered an extension of our family bloodline. We shop for them like they aren't wild animals. Their food costs more than ours damned near. We pamper, bathe, trim, manicure, cook for...we are actually picking up poop. 

I realize another line had been crossed...When we moved to our new complex, we met a couple who had a beautiful new little girl. They were glowing parents but you could tell they had been in the "dungeon of new baby" and wanted to connect with the outside world. Megan and I were that connection. They had us over for a great dinner and told stories of parenthood. Since we weren't parents yet, we countered with stories of our dogs. They told stories of baby cries. We told stories of puppy barking. They told stories of baby feeding. We told stories of figuring out what food was best for a puppy. They told stories of changing diapers. We told stories of having to steam clean carpet and crate training. They told stories of birth. We told stories of going to the animal shelter. They hadn't been out in months so the comparison of their beautiful child to our scruffy dog didn't seem to bother them. As we left, I felt like an asshole.  It seemed insensitive to me but...that's all we had. 

Well, it happened to me. My little prince, the future of my bloodline, the shining glimmer of my Family Jewels, was compared to a tail chasing, butt sniffing, rabbit-poop eating, ball licking, dog and I couldn't even get mad because I was guilty of the comparison. Pet owners, Be aware of dogs.

So...you're saying, I don't need shoes?

We've all heard the stories of our grandparents having to go without "luxuries" and having to make do with what they had, which wasn't much. We hear the stories of the depression era and how hard things were. Stories of having to walk miles to go to school, or sharing clothes with siblings, or sleeping 20 deep on a twin bed, were staples of a generation's lore. I never really understood the moral of the, "I didn't have shoes story." You know the familiar one old people tell about wrapping newspaper around their feet, or sharing shoes with a sibling. "Are you telling me I don't need shoes, grandpa?" I later figured out that these stories were about appreciating what we do have and understanding sacrifice. Thinking of grandpa with no shoes still didn't make me want to give up mine but I got the point.

As I sit here and order an entire wardrobe with the click of a button, not even a button, a picture of a button, I wonder what stories of the "make do" times I will have to get my point of sacrifice across to Jayden. My extent of sacrifice as a kid was getting John Madden 92 in 93 ( women ask your husbands for an explination), or wearing Bugle Boy jeans instead of Guess, Pro-wings instead of Nike, Cross Colour Jeans but not the matching shirt, eating a home cooked meal instead of McDonalds, wearing a $10 tee shirt from Hecht's instead of a $50 tee shirt from Up Against the Wall. Now, I'm not saying I was spoiled, but we grew up in a time when the economy was booming. My mom was smart enough to not live beyond her means but...when compared to grandpa, I was living it up.  I realize, my stories of "having to make do," won't  help my case of instilling the moral lessons that meant so much to my grandpa and to a whole generation, but....Jayden won't know that. So, I will continue the legacy of having worn newspaper shoes and having shared clothes with my 5 sisters (I have to add a few to up the stakes).  I will tell the story with the pain of a generation not my own with flare.

Oh, you're a boy...

Before I knew the sex of my future child, my mental state was a muted excitment with a tinge of fear. I knew that I was having a kid of some sorts, so the normal pressures of parenthood were there, food, shelter, protection, love. Those were the base expectations I had for myself as a father. In my heart I thought it was a girl. I dreamed of "Daddy's Little Princess." The little girl was going to be the most spoiled person on the planet and I was prepared to be wrapped, until nothing but my big toe dangled, around her little finger. I would hug her and kiss her and take a trip to the gun store the moment I dropped her and mommy off at home for the first time. My expectation of myself for her, was to destroy any thing that would try to destroy her peace in any way. 

 Milliseconds after I found out we would be having a boy, my mental state totally changed. I was so pensive for a few days because my expectations went from protecting a princess to raising a responsible Man. Not that my daughter wouldn't have become a responsible woman, but the responsibility of raising a man punched me in the gut. I totally skipped his infantile, toddler, preteen, puberty, wet behind the ears years. I saw the end result. I was preparing to raise a leader, a father, a husband, a responsible man. I was prepping for war. I was in the gym, vowing to be up to the challenge; pushing myself so I could push him. One of the funniest moments that stuck in my head thinking about his future is that I really want him to be that guy that when he shows up on prom-night, all pimple-faced and awkwardly tall, the parents of that princess will have peace of mind.

You're just speaking baby....

Oh the irony we men face when raising an infant. One of the biggest gripes women have with us is our lack of communication, well I can't speak for all men, but I know it was one of my biggest faults before I reached communication puberty about 5 years ago. Having a conversation about anything other than facts, sports, or opera caused my communication system to overload. That never stopped me from having relationships but it did cause some issues. Every conversation seemed to be about emotions and I was  stuck on stupid. The extent of my communication about emotions were happy, sad, horny. Inevitably it blew up to screaming because "horny" was never the answer to "I love you."  Screaming and crying were always my tipping point. I couldn't do it. I shut down and could not  hear anything that was being said. (See where I'm going with this?) 

We (men) have avoided screaming and crying because it was always wrapped up in what we think of as negative emotions and a trip to the sofa for the night. How ironic is it that the only way an infant can communicate is screaming and crying? The post traumatic stress of every screaming match hits me when I hear Jayden screaming and crying. I have to stop myself from grabbing the too short blanket and flat, flimsy pillow and sulking to the sofa with my tail between my legs. I had to realize he has no words, doesn't even know his ABC's....he's  just speaking baby. Needless to say, I have become bilingual and a certified interpreter of Baby Talk. I will be adding it to my résumé .

Mona Lisa Smile.....

Being pregnant creates an energy in the atmosphere and it becomes infectious. No one seems to get more excited than people who have experienced the joy of parenthood. The nostalgia of a baby takes them back to when they raised their now 30 year old and you can see the glow in their eyes. The fond memories play across their eyes like a flip book. The stories of the cuteness, rainbows, bunnies and unicorns flow from their mouths like a Shakespeare monologue. Every trip down memory lane ends with them being so happy for you as a new parent and the streamers and confetti fall from the sky because you are about to experience that joy. At the baby showers everyone sits around and plays games, laughs, jokes, eats, hugs, rubs the belly, tell you how amazing you look for being a pregnant woman ( is that a compliment?), and the gifts roll in. This little cherub has everything he needs for months to come. Never did I notice in all of these encounters, that little smirk; that smirk of "oh boy, you are in for a ride," that smirk of "welcome to the terror dome," that Mona Lisa Smile.  They know some thing that you don't yet and they aren't going to let you in on the secret. It's like an unspoken right of passage that every parent must go through. You will know you are inducted into the club when you see them for the first time post-eviction and the first question they ask is, Are you getting any sleep? that smirk becomes a chuckle as they see the glazed look in your eyes indicating that you are a shell and your brain has left the building. The next baby shower I attend I will not be gifting baby clothes, I will be bringing the parents the best Bourbon I can find and a bottle of red wine.

Well played nature....well played....

In the master plan of the universe, it had to have been well thought out and well planned. I'm not a anthropologist, but from what I do know, this fact crosses all species. We all have a natural reaction to babies. We instantly coo, and awwww, and get mushy at the sight.   A baby of any species has the cutest cute level of whatever it's parents look like. Now, I've heard some people, who aren't afraid to be rude, comment on an "ugly baby" ( Seinfeld fans) but that baby represents the cutest cuteness of that family, trust me. Also trust me that this is no mistake. Only from babies, and only from something that cute can we accept the things that we do from them. I mean really....first you shut down the playground for 6-8 weeks after you arrive, you puke on me, you pee on me, my walls and my favorite shirt, you poop in my arms and fling it on me as you kick uncontrollably as I'm trying to change you, you literally scream in my face as I make silly sounds like I'm a clown, and I hate clowns, but I'm trying to soothe you, you interrupt my sleep multiple times a night because you want to visit the " milk bar," you kick me out of my office/man cave so you can have room for a bunch of stuff you have no clue what to do with. You literally come in and start running my life and you can't even say my name. You actually order me around by SCREAMING at me. Now, if this were the Post Office, I would be really worried for the safety of all parties. "Going Postal" might actually be a legitimate response. But.... babies,  man...they have this NATURAL DEFENSE SYSYTEM...Cuteness. They get a away with it all and we love them for it.

I've been duped....

The excitement of months of anticipation, worrying and planning at some point comes to an end and the moment of truth is upon you. That water breaks and game is on. You rush to the hospital and eventually the deed is done and you have your "bundle of joy," or so you think. We made it through the high intensity of labor and the rush of cutting the cord and we (men) are wiping our brows because we have bobbed and weaved the death threats and that look that could bear a hole into your soul, because WE are the source of labor pains. Now, the euphoria of being In a room with wife and kid to relax after such a battle, is bliss. Nurses are coming in to check on you, wife is sleeping, food is brought in. Outside of your wife being whipped and having not taken a shower in two days, this is great. Baby sleeps for 23  1/2 of 24 hours, Perfect!!!! It's gonna be a breeze when we get home. This kid is a "natural born sleeper." Be warned, you are being duped. When you get home, baby transforms. He is no longer the "natural born sleeper." It's like the perfect girlfriend that flips the script the moment you say, "I do." That first 23 1/2 hours of sleep, you better relish every millisecond of it and store up because that "natural born sleeper" will become your sleep wrecker. Consider it, his or her warming up to challenge your every nerve of patience, you better sleep so you can come into the game fresh because that 7 lbs 8ounces will be ready to run you over.

You birthed an alien....

What did you do with my baby boy? I watched her give birth and he has only left my sight for 5 mins in the last 12 hours. Nurse, you've got a 6'5, problem on your hand....this was my reaction to my boys first "poo," if you can call it that. If you haven't read any books, like myself, on infants, this one fact will have you questioning what your wife just gave birth to. As someone who rather enjoys phone game time and word puzzles on the porcelain throne,  I'm no stranger to this bodily function. I was a stranger to this, Meconium. It sounds like a word your friend plays on Words with Friends that will have you calling Webster himself.  From common knowledge, I know that babies eat what mom eats. They yank on that cord and ring in the orders. As the man who had to run and get those orders, I know what my wife ate. The erratic cravings had her in tears and me with a fridge of an abundance of food that I thought covered the craving basis but turned her stomach once she had her fill. (I had to eat the rest. Chicken noodle soup for days.) Needless to say, the assortment of her diet was colorful and rich; bright greens, deep reds, rich browns, lustful oranges. Knowing this, I could not explain what the hell came out of my son for the first time. He had to be an alien. It looked like my wife had a diet of black bean everything; black bean soup, black bean casserole, black bean omelets, black bean shakes, black bean pancakes. Be prepared men, be prepared...

Life as I knew it was over...

Dec 5, 2014 at 2:43 am, my life changed for ever. I knew the day was coming, as my wife had been walking around pregnant for months, but for me it wasn't real until this moment. I didn't have to deal with the pregnancy gripes; pains, morning sickness, crazy appetite, weight gain, swollen feet, raging hormones, the waddle...you get my point. So, for me life didn't really change outside of having to be considerate of my wife while she grew this stranger in her belly.  Before that moment on December 5, I was a bystander. I even told myself that I didn't want to watch the actual "nitty gritty" of the birth process. However, the moment I got a peripheral peek of the crown of his head,  I knew I was done for. I was all in. I became the biggest cheerleader with my eyes going back and forth from his head to her grimace. It was like I was at a tennis match, watching the ball go back and forth, wanting both people to win. And win we did. My journey as a New Dad had began when Jayden John Kellogg was evicted from what has to be the most comfy place to live in the world.