The "Incredible Hulk" baby...

It's been a little over 2 months and my world has changed. Being a parent is a full time job on top of a full time job. As a dad one of my main concerns is making sure we have all we need, food, shelter, clothing....Clothing....clothing....clothing....

Rewind 3 months ago, we were fortunate enough to have 5 baby showers, we got so much stuff that I was evicted from my office to a corner in the laundry room, so that we could have space for this little dude and all his STUFF.  I can't say I was excited but its not like I could reason with someone who wasn't here yet, who would take a few years to learn to speak, or a ferocious nester...I have learned to sacrifice and pick my battles.... Every person whom had ever had a baby was so excited to gift/ save a trip to Goodwill. You could sell an expecting mom a painted rock as long as it said top rated and baby on it. Needless to say, we have clothes galore and we're greatful. In my minds eye, and based on my jealously as I looked into my old office from my new office/laundry room desk, I wouldn't have to buy clothes for 10 years.

Well, it happened, last week was the moment that we had to retire a whole series of clothing. This kid is growing like the Incredible Hulk at the DMV. Half of the clothes he had, we can no longer use and he has never even pooped in them, the tags are still on. My favorite Daddy and Baby Polar Bear onesie fits him like Luluemon stretch pants on Aunt Bertha. I notice parents always say, "I wish he would stay this size." I always thought it was a, "oh, he's so cute" factor. I'm beginning to see its a, "if he continues to grow at this rate, he will eat us of out of house and home" factor. 

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.