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:
- 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?”
- 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.
- Newborns are basically puppies with thumbs.
- You can not crate a newborn.
- 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.
- Baby should be a kind of incense. When clean, there’s no better smell in the entire world. (Well, maybe pizza?)
- 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.