Brian with an I

This is not the kind of blowout I'm talking about.

1) I can’t believe someone used to wipe my ass. Each diaper I change–not so hard once you develop a technique that allows you to avoid getting pissed on–I think, “Someone once did this for me.” Someone once willingly whisked their hand over my baby butt folds with extra attention paid to the junk area because no one wants shitty balls (kind of like schweddy balls, only without Alec Baldwin’s wry peddling). At least, I hope they did.

Of all the elements of fatherhood, diaper changing is the most intimate (It would be different if I could breastfeed, but that’s not biologically possible and would be pretty weird (See #3).), though I prefer to think about wiping Sonny’s butt as paying it forward rather than some kind of father-son moment. Someday, when I’m grey, crotchety and senile, he may have to wipe mine, and I hope I have enough of my wits still to say, “Gotcha,” when he’s wrist deep in my wrinkly, old man nethers.

2) Not all diapers are made equally. I learned this when I felt something wet on my hands and realized Sonny not only pooped through his diaper (In the baby-raising biz, we call this “a blowout,” which has absolutely nothing to do with the guido hairstyle of the same name, other than the fact that both look like shit.), but through his onesie, too, the one with the football embroidered on the bottom, and onto my clothes and hands. We will buy different diapers next time.

3) Before the baby was born, the idea of breastfeeding irked me. My only encounter with it had been at Ikea, in one of the showrooms, a living room that had a couch I wanted to sit on, where I found a woman, boob completely out, feeding her baby on said couch. We made eye contact, not me and the woman, but me and the baby, and then I saw her nipple, felt my deeply engrained Catholicism bubble within me like acid reflux, and decided the couch wasn’t worth my modesty.

I wasn’t disgusted–just uncomfortable with the thought of breasts being used for something other than sex (Who knew?). Not being breastfed as a baby meant I only knew boobs as fun and not food, though now that I see the pure satisfaction on Sonny’s face when he pops off the nipple, full and happy, I get it. I still don’t think anyone should openly breastfeed in an Ikea showroom though. Save it for the food court.

Sorry, Sonny.

“I’m just trying to save you $18,000!” was what I first heard after gathering a package of ground coffee and heading back to base camp, our shopping cart, with the baby stuffed in the car seat and a moat of groceries piled around him, parked at the head of the aisle.

It came from an older woman, a mom, possibly a grandma, I could tell by the tone of her voice, pleasant enough but authoritative, and the twinkle in her eye looking at Sonny, one of a woman who knew what it really took to bring something this precious into the world. She was pointing at the pacifier in his mouth, the baby, quiet and content, who no one would notice if not for the Death Star-looking car seat rocking in the shopping cart. She went on about her son, or her grandson, someone’s son, snaggletoothed and lock-jawed, a bizillion surgeries, mouth gear that looked like torture devices, all of it caused by suckling on the plastic teat.

Then, she said it again, “I’m just trying to save you $18,000.”

Part of me wanted to give this woman the back story. We hadn’t originally planned to give Sonny a pacifier. My mother, probably from the same generation as this woman, swore I owed her thanks for the straightness of my teeth because she never shoved what she called a “noonie” (Maybe you call it a “binky” or a “ninny.”) in my mouth. Jaime had one, but didn’t remember it at all, so we were in agreement when we first had “the pacifier talk” (Parenthood is essentially one “talk” after the other, starting with the birth plan, circumcision (Well, hopefully, not if you’re having a girl!), breastfeeding and pacifiers and graduating up to whether or not Santa is real, cursing, and ultimately, sex.). We’d see if we could do without one. But being a good parent means you need to be flexible (Five weeks in, I can say that with confidence.), and after a visit with a lactation consultation, we learned that Sonny was nursing so much he’d be a shoo-in for the Nathan’s hot dog eating contest for newborns.

Joey Chestnut, my kid is coming for you.

“I don’t normally recommend pacifiers,” prefaced the consultant before suggesting we look into one. Apparently, the little man really likes the boob (And who could blame him?) and will work it until he pukes (Like father, like…), gets gassier than baked beans and beer night at the frat house and becomes extra fussy. When all you want is to put a baby down so you can eat your first meal before dinnertime, a pacifier is basically a napkin soaked in chloroform, minus a Casey Anthony-stye murder trial, for Sonny. He’s full, content, and, most importantly, quiet, except for the rhythmic sucking and adorable baby coos. Not even the chitter-chatter of shoppers, like our friend, the Pacifier Hater, and blinding fluorescent lights at the grocery store can harsh Sonny’s mellow.

Another part of me wanted to tell this woman the truth–shit changes. When she was a new mom, the pacifier propaganda would have you believe that your child would be some buck-toothed horse after one suckle on the fake nip, but in 2012, pacifiers are designed differently–and some are orthodontist-approved–and have been found to reduce the risk of SIDS, not to mention the sometimes unexplainable fussiness that can leave many parents nonplussed, or worse, up all night and exhausted all day. What our parents and our parents’ parents did, like only letting babies sleep on their stomachs or putting whiskey on teething gums, is sometimes inadvisable, or possibly deadly, today, which doesn’t mean you shouldn’t take any advice (My mother-in-law wouldn’t have that!), just maybe not unwanted advice from random people at the grocery store.

Then, another part of me wanted to say, “Just because you raised a kid doesn’t mean you can tell me how to raise mine.” And, maybe also, “Mind your business, lady” but I’m trying not to be an asshole–at least, not around the baby!–so instead, I began pushing the grocery cart along, though I did offer my own back-handed “advice”–”Maybe you can save us $18,000, but you won’t save us a lecture from a nosy person at the grocery store.”

New Dad 1; Old Mom 0, although I think I should get bonus points for not cursing her out. Maybe you just had to be there…

Thanks, Al!

“Expect excellence; accept failure.”

This is written across the whiteboard on the door of my office at Hugo House, a quote attributed to Albert Einstein. It’s been on the whiteboard for two months now. Occasionally, someone will leave me a message, draw a picture or write something in a slanted mess of handwriting that I can’t decipher, but no one has yet to write “BULLSHIT,” which is what I had hoped.

Albert Einstein never said, “Expect excellence; accept failure.” I did, but I attributed the quote to him in an effort to fool myself into believing that this simple directive came from someone beyond me, someone with far more knowledge and understanding of how the world works, someone who experimented, who tried and failed and tried and failed until he became, well, Albert Fucking Einstein. (Maybe you’ve heard of him…?)

I first wrote the quote on my whiteboard in early November, the week I turned 30, almost exactly a month before Sonny’s due date and towards the end of a year I can only describe as a wind tunnel, me, the airplane, maintaining as the propulsion of change–a promotion, a pregnancy, buying a house, losing a severe amount of weight, re-building a self, myself–wound around me.

With a month to go, getting below 200 lbs. by Dec. 6 was my goal, but I knew then I wouldn’t reach it. The quote was my way of preparing myself for the inevitable. I’d have to see it everyday, live with it, breathe its clinical scent of marker on whiteboard, the same way I’d have to see my own failure every time I looked in the mirror,  stepped on the scale, every time I ate something, whether it was a protein bar or a bowl of Haagen Dazs. Putting Einstein’s name on the quote made accepting failure realer oddly, turning my words into someone else’s, into bulletin board material, motivation to strive without reaching one’s goals, to succeed in the face of failure, to accept defeat more like Ghandi than Iron Mike.

On the morning of December 6 when I weighed myself, I was 208 lbs., down more than 50 lbs. from where I was a year ago, giving me a total weight loss of 68 lbs., my second go-round at a “Biggest Loser”-level of extreme weight loss.

Eight years ago, I had the same exact goal, getting below 200 lbs., and I didn’t reach it either. I plateaued at 201 for a few months before my weight loss obsession reached bunny-boiling levels and I began doing crazy shit, like not eating anything that makes life worth living and smearing hemorrhoid cream somewhere other than a butthole. Then I hurt my back working-out, “taking it to the next level,” I told myself, and ballooned up 75 lbs, gaining back more than half of what I originally lost. The fear of failure didn’t motivate me; it destroyed me. Then, depression made me hate myself, looking in the mirror and knowing all my hard work had gone to waste. Just another fat fuck…again.

This is what failure looks like.

This time, accepting failure is different. I’m not angry at myself. I haven’t started doing crazy work-outs, shooting coconut water intravenously or sniffing chia seeds. Failure has become sort of like a frenemy, someone I know and don’t like–maybe he’s a douchbag, or a Red Sox fan or a Republican–but we’ve known each other for awhile so it seems like we should be friendly. I still won’t invite failure over for a barbecue and let him berate me with stories of my ineptitude. I’ll say hello before moving on to something better, a welcoming pat on the back, maybe a firm grasp of the shoulder, the way men do, but a hard one, so failure knows I’m stronger than before, that I won’t put up with his bullshit. Not today. Not anymore.

When I saw 208, I didn’t see the 9 pounds I should have lost. I saw the 54 I did lose. I also saw the life ahead of me, Jaime, Sonny, the little world I’ve carved out for myself in Seattle, everything I’m thankful for–success, health and the two fireplaces in the new house. (That’s my “Juicy” moment. Biggie had Moet and Alize; I have two fireplaces.) I’m… happy, content with the man I am, one at peace with his imperfections, which makes failure easier to cope with and finding the motivation to continue on towards excellence easier, too.

Something Albert Einstein did say, “There are two ways to live: you can live as if nothing is a miracle; you can live as if everything is a miracle.” Sometimes it’s hard to have that kind of faith, especially if, like me, you don’t believe in a higher power (I suppose football doesn’t count.), but now even on my worst days, each morning feels like a small miracle and each night a victory, no matter what the scales reads.

Pizza might be the one thing that smells better than baby

Today, Sonny is officially a month old, and while I wouldn’t say I’m an expert on fatherhood, although I am quickly becoming an Iron Chef of getting peed on, I have made several key observations from baby daddy land:

1. Fatherhood has always seemed to be very much a position of pride. Your child says or does something amazing, and dad sits back, arms crossed, beaming, as if to say, “Yeah, that one’s mine. What once started as a twinkle in my vas deferens is now graduating college.” (Or your child does something shitty, and you point at your spouse and say, “He gets that from your side of the family.”) Only one month in, Sonny hasn’t quite discovered the cure for cancer or recorded a hit record, yet I’ve had little trouble finding moments of pride: his first tummy time; the way he wakes up, balls his fists and stretches his neck and arms like he’s warming up for a cage match; and, perhaps best of all, hearing him rip rush-week-worthy farts that cause Jaime and me to say to each other, “That was you, right?”
2. I wish I had as much glee for nipples as babies do. Also, whenever I cried, I wish someone would stick a nipple in my face.
3. Newborns are basically puppies with thumbs.
4. You can not crate a newborn.
5. Whenever Sonny does anything, it immediately becomes the cutest thing in the world. (See 1.) His latest trick is slapboxing, which is how he woke me up this morning, repeatedly tapping my face with his soft, pudgy hand. Yesterday, it was sitting up on the couch and watching the season premiere of “Jersey Shore” while Jaime and I told him, “This is where STDs come from….” In these days of Mary Kay Letourneau, HPV vaccines and pregnancy pacts, it’s never too early for a little sex-ed.
6. Baby should be a kind of incense. When clean, there’s no better smell in the entire world. (Well, maybe pizza?)
7. Can someone please remix “Wheels on the Bus” with a little bit more bass? Maybe get Lil’ Wayne to drop a few, kid-friendly rhymes? That song is wearing on me.

To kick the coke all Paris needs is some nipple

Seeing the sunrise was one of my goals during my seven-week leave from work, though when I originally made that pledge I expected to be holding a Pacifico and a remote–not a pacifier over a crying baby while rocking him to sleep.

Three weeks into fatherhood I can officially confirm the cliche: my life has forever changed, and I notice it most in my perception of time. Morning, which used to begin with a shower, stretching and a cup of coffee around 6 a.m., now starts around 11, only instead of a warm stream of bath water slapping me awake, it’s a body temp blast of baby piss and the ear-stabbing cries of a boy who definitely does not want his junk exposed, or cleaned with a wipe–even if that wipe has been sitting in a warmer. (Yes, we own a baby wipe warmer purchased after I said to Jaime, “If someone held a cold cloth on my dick, I might cry like I was dying, too.”)

The baby-time conundrum was discovered within our first few days of parenthood when we were waiting on line at Starbucks for Jaime’s first and my second cup of the day at 4:30 p.m., just showered and ready to start our afternoon–errr… evening–of running errands and hoping to stop somewhere for lunch, if the baby cooperated.

R. Kelly: Not My Baby Daddy

Unfortunately, babies cooperate like celebutantes–only when there’s something in it for them. In Paris Hilton’s case, it’s expensive purses and cocaine. In my son’s, it’s something just as powerful, at least in his eyes: the nipple. Keep him fed, and he’s happy, yet feeding him is just a part of the guesswork that goes into interpreting what a baby wants, so he’ll stop crying and go the fuck to sleep (Now I understand why that book is so popular!), permitting Jaime and me to do adult things, like showering and eating lunch closer to noon than midnight. Is his diaper dirty? Does he need a burping? What about the pacifier? Maybe he’s cold–where’s his hat? The answers aren’t hard to find–it’s just figuring out which one without upsetting the baby further in the process.

And we still haven’t even strapped him into the car seat! Or changed into clothing not accessorized with spit-up!

After three weeks of infrequent showering, irregular meals and getting pissed on so often I’ve thought this isn’t my son it’s R. Kelly’s, the hardest part about parenthood is adjusting to a new schedule–usually one that begins and ends with a pile of poop–and shifting expectations of myself. Each day bleeds into the next, and priorities are tethered to whether or not a 10 lb. blob of cuteness is relaxed or irritated by sitting in a vibrating seat playing “Wheels on the Bus” for the billionth time. What took five minutes can now take five hours, or five days, (I knew there was a reason why my new bathroom mirror has been leaning against the bathroom wall–instead of  hanging from it–for almost a week now.) and for someone like myself who thrives on structure and results (Or “getting shit done,” as I like to call it), having a baby means I’m no longer in control, a feeling I’ve spent the last ten years of my life trying to shoo. Bloody nipples and Haagen Dazs can’t stop me, but a little baby runs my fucking life right now.

At the very least, I can rely on the sun to rise each day, although I hesitate to call it morning since it might actually be my lunchtime.

"So how's it feel to be a shitty parent?"

I have never liked babies. When I’d see them in grocery stores or at the mall, their heads in a lopsided twist with eyes vacantly staring into the distance, I’ve often wondered why would someone have one when all they do is cry and poop and eventually end up on Dr. Phil listing the ways their parents wronged them. Since Jaime became pregnant, my feelings never softened–in fact, the more I learned about pregnancy–and the frighteningly gross process of having a baby–the stronger I felt, grilling up these little vagina-ruiners like they’re wearing colors of a gang not welcomed in these parts.

I expressed these feelings to a few people, hoping that, of all the advice everyone was willing to offer about names, parenting styles and circumcision, someone would have a nugget of wisdom about my baby dislike, but, except for one mom who said, “It’ll all change when you see that baby,” no one had anything to offer, instead changing the subject to why we should never name our kid Justin (Sorry, all you Justin-named readers!) or how disposable diapers killed the spotted owl, the ozone layer and the rain forest.

Well, that one mom was right.

I may not like babies, but I sure do love this one.

On 3:58 p.m. last Saturday, after 24 hours of labor, Baby Sonny was welcomed into this world, and the moment I could get a good look at him, I fell instantly in love with this little boy who, as I used to tell Jaime’s stomach before he was born, started in my balls. From his big dark eyes, to his chubby cheeks to the widow’s peak at the forefront of his full head of hair, I was smitten, and despite being told by my wife around hour 22 that we’ll never have sex again and witnessing something in that delivery room far worse than the most awful videos on 4Chan, I have no regrets, though admittedly I did tell Jaime, after almost stepping in placenta, “Next time let’s adopt.” It’s the only thing I said in my awestruck stupor minutes after the delivery besides “Is he a Ginger?” (to the doctor) and “I love you.” (to Jaime).

That night while Jaime rested in the hospital, I held Sonny, a bundle of deep sleep in my arms, staring at that face and into those eyes when they briefly opened before he nodded out again, and didn’t see the vacancy I’d seen in all those other children–I saw myself, an 8 lb. 11 oz. Brian (All he needed was a beard and a Yankee hat.). My eyes welled up with tears as I wondered how my father could walk away from something so innocent, precious and beautiful, so in need of love and of snuggling from the two people who gave him life.

Leaving Sonny would be like leaving myself, and after spending the last decade tearing myself down and building myself back up through losing, gaining and then losing so much weight, I actually care about myself now, to the point where I want to live, want to grow old and want to be happy. Part of that happiness is living this life I never thought I’d live, a life, for a long time, I never thought I deserved–married with a career, a house, two dogs, a fat cat that won’t let me go an afternoon without feeding her, and a son, who’ll always have his father in his life.

I don’t know what the fuck my father was thinking when he left me and my mother and never came back, but when the door closes behind me, I can’t wait to return, to be back with Jaime, to look down at that baby and see a new me, Sonny, who’ll know he deserves everything he has.

Mary J. Blige ain't the only one who knows what the 411 is.

When I answered the phone, I knew why Jaime was calling before she even said a word. Her pain came in short gusts of breath through the receiver.

“Is it time?” I blurted, but she wasn’t sure. It felt like contractions, more intense than the Braxton-Hicks ones she had been experiencing.

We went through what we learned in the baby classes: Jaime’s water hadn’t broken, and the contractions weren’t 4-1-1, four minutes apart, lasting for a minute and for at least one hour or more.

“Maybe you just have to poop?” I suggested nervously, hoping she wouldn’t respond “I know the fucking difference between shooting a baby out of my vagina and taking a shit.” (Jaime’s never said this to me, but she would.)

Instead, she said, “I don’t think so,” forcing it out between the spears piercing her uterus. She didn’t want me to come home yet, but wanted me to know she wasn’t feeling well and maybe tonight was the night.

Sad elephant

After ending the call, I stared into my computer screen, the numbers in the monthly cash flow budget I was working on (Being program director at a writing center isn’t all fun and games–or cheap wine.) melting into a fuzzy glare of black and white. Then, I cried, not like a mourning elephant but like a slow-leaking faucet that annoys you awake at night. The tears, though few, were uncontrollable. I didn’t feel them coming on, that burn in the chest and nose proceeding the usual waterworks, and, at first, I didn’t notice the first couple strolling down my cheeks until one thought hit me: I am going to be a dad. I snapped back into reality, quickly wiped the tears away and took a deep breath.

“You are going to be a dad,” I said to myself like a coach telling a benchwarmer he was in, giving him a chance to prove himself, my inner Coach Flowers piping up. I closed my office door and pounded through my numbers for 2012, the calculator, whose buttons are too small for my gummy fingertips, shaking in my hand.

Becoming a dad shouldn’t be a surprise. (This isn’t Maury, people.) I’ve known about it since April and have been mentally–and physically–preparing myself for less sleep, more student loans (Do you know how much college will cost in 2029?) and a lifetime of joy and worry. But one thing I haven’t prepared for is “the call.” It could come at any moment, and it might not even be a call. We could be sleeping, and Jaime will wake me up and say, “I think it’s time.” Maybe I’ll be running and come home to find her working through a contraction and counting time on her iPhone. (Yeah, they make an app for that, too.) Neither of us have any control over when Baby Mac will arrive. He’ll come whenever he’s ready, and we’ll just have to accept it, but that doesn’t make it any easier for two perfectionist planners.

On the way home, I called Jaime, and after showering, having a snack and laying down, she felt better, and the contractions had subsided.

“No poop?” I asked.

“No, no poop.”

I just wanted to see if I was right.

When you're 30 and a parent, making it rain isn't what it used to be.

Lately, I’ve felt very lonely, but it’s not a loneliness of solitude. I have many people in my life–my wife, friends, so many colleagues (I hate that word, but “homies” doesn’t seem quite appropriate.)–and most days my only time alone is spent in the bathroom, moments I savor more than you may even know. We live in a world of connectivity. You may be reading this because you saw that I posted about feeling lonely on Facebook, and you care enough that you want to know why and want me to feel better. Having nobody around is a welcome rarity, usually spent writing or listening to rap music at a volume that would make moms upset.

Part of this feeling of loneliness is because next week I am turning thirty, and as much as I’ve said to myself–and so many others–that I’m excited about it, the combination of becoming a parent and officially becoming “an adult” (For everyone who says thirty is the new twenty, I think my days of snorting prescription pills until sunrise while writing a term paper and then getting drunk after turning it in are long over.) makes me feel old–no, not just “old,” mortal. Some day my kid won’t have me around to dole out sage wisdom (“Snitches get stitches” and “Mo’ money, mo’ problems” are two axioms I intend on introducing to Baby Mac early in his life.), offer him relationship advice or let him cry on my shoulder, and although that’s a long time from now, especially if I keep on running, my own mortality becomes realer when I realize I’m no longer living for myself. Soon there will be a crying bomb of love Baby Bjorned to my chest depending on me and his mama to keep his belly full and butt clean, and keeping him alive, happy and on a path that doesn’t end in a facial tattoo are goals I must keep in mind when making any life decisions.

I don't care what you say: His parents fucked up.

Preparing to have a child is kind of like preparing to go camping for the rest of your life: you go through a process to gather everything and inevitably you’ll forget something (and you’ll smell like smoke and have to shit in the woods), but it won’t matter, you’ll make do, and really if you don’t get eaten by a bear, it’ll all be okay. That’s basically what it’s like having a kid. Mistakes will happen. Jaime and I won’t have or know everything we should. But if that kid doesn’t die because of our negligence or have more mugshots than yearbook pictures–doesn’t get metaphorically, or literally, eaten by a bear–we’ve had a good camping trip. It’s my number goal as a parent. (Number two being raising my son to be ambidextrous. I am so serious.)

Officially becoming an adult, on the other hand, has been more challenging. I’ve spent most of my 20s surprising people when I show up at events, meetings or readings in my Yankee hat and Nike hoody looking like a high school student. At 30, I will no longer be the “whiz kid” as The Stranger called me a couple of years ago. I’m just another thirty-something trying to make it in the world–with a kid, a wife, two dogs and a mortgage to pay, things I like to call #grownfolksproblems. As my position at work and in the writing community changes, so do the expectations, whether they’re my own or others’. When you’re 24 and curating the best reading series in the city, people think you’re a “whiz,” but when you’re 30, you’re just doing what you’re supposed to do–being an adult making your way in the world. Adults don’t get their hands held or deserve trophies for working their asses off, grinding to put food on the table and turning a passion into a career. You just do it, sometimes alone and sometimes with the support of loved ones who threaten to punch fictional characters in the dick, and the only one you can blame for not doing what you want to do is yourself. I was telling all of this to a friend in his 30s who, if you live in Seattle, I’m sure you probably know of, and his advice was simple, yet hit me right where it needed to: “There’s no shame in doing what you’re supposed to be doing, and if you do it long enough and well enough, you build a meaningful career, which is way more impressive than a single achievement.” Whenever I think about the young bucks in the writing community who’ll go on to be the new twenty-something-Brians, I block out the thoughts of being old–and of being one of the old folks who told me I was too young to do whatever I was trying to do (Youngings, you won’t hear that from me!)–and remember this advice. If becoming a parent is like camping, becoming a successful adult is like childbirth, you just have to keep pushing until you get there, even if getting “there” is a little painful and covered in amniotic goo.

We haven't spoken in years, but she's still my mom.

But my strongest feelings of loneliness come up when I think about what little family my son will have once he’s born. My grandparents played a big role in my upbringing. My mother was a single-mother and relied heavily on them to take care of me when I was a kid. From Grandma, I learned to love, to always be on time, to dominate in board games, and from Grandpa, I learned old school virtues of manhood, like taking care of the women in my life, turning my shortcomings into my best weapons and always kicking ass. It makes me sad to think my son won’t have any grandfathers in his life and will only have one grandma unless my mother GPS’s her heart and decides to be part of my life again. Of course, people have raised children with far less, though when thinking about my own mortality, I’m a worst-case scenario kind of guy (Remember I’m training to fight a goat, people!) and worry who will be there for my son should I lose that goat battle royale and help him avenge my death, like Inigo Montoya in “The Princess Bride.”

Ultimately, this loneliness is really a fear of the unknown, of taking on the responsibilities of adulthood, transitioning from cheap-wine swilling poet boy to sportscoat-wearing program director to dad–and mere mortal–without a parent in my life to be there for me, to listen to my fears, to be proud of me. No matter how old you are everyone always wants their parents’ approval, and when you don’t have that, the world is more cavernous, a place where you feel less protected, like anything could happen and you won’t be ready and all you want is your mom or dad to say, “It’s all going to be okay.”

It’s something my son will hear whenever he needs us.

Now imagine this was fueled by boogers.

Snot rockets are inevitable when you run. The wind, whether it’s warm or chilly, hits the nasal cavity and combined with the increased blood flow causes the downpour of mucous, which can only come out in two ways, through the mouth or the nose.

Ever since I began running, I have prided myself on being a discreet snot rocketer. I wouldn’t be one of those runners defiantly snotting on street corners as if cool people don’t plank there. If I had too much snot, I would dispose of it privately with a quick wipe while batting the sweat from my brow or by firing a short burst of snot while running down a side street.

But Seattle’s fall weather, as beautiful as the natives think it is (I’m tired of all you Northwesterners telling me fall is your favorite season.), is not kind to runners. I don’t care what you tell me about how beautiful the leaves are (Just a slip-and-fall in the making) or how crisp the air is (Believe me–I know!). The change in seasons has turned my nose into a snot grotto (Snotto, anyone?), but I’m not hiding it anymore. After getting covered in forty five minutes’ worth of pouring rain and almost eating it nasty running downhill in the mud, a booger bazooka (I’m trying to expand the horizons of mucous puns.) in broad daylight on a busy street isn’t so bad.

But the extra snot isn’t the only drawback. The fall chill makes my face fucking burn! So bad some days I swear I’m Darkman. That’s why my beard has been more Zach Galifianakis than George Clooney recently. The fur is a face warmer. It isn’t just the weather though: the fall has meant more traffic on the streets, more ice on the concrete in the early morning and after work, and more school-aged kids in my way.

Just wait until winter, I keep telling myself. It’ll only be worse.