Ramblings of a New Dad: Four Months and a Wake Up

I have now been a father for four, count 'em FOUR months, and there is one thing I can confirm, unequivocally, beyond any shadow of a doubt, with all certainty: When you have a baby, you have baby shit. Everywhere. EV-ERY-WHERE.

 

(Diaper issues?)

 

Well, that too, but I'm referring to the aforementioned-in-this-blog paraphernalia that accompanies the creation of another human being. There is nary a room in our house that doesn't contain something baby-related now. I am not exaggerating, either. Kitchen. Living room. Dining room. Family room. Bedroom. Bathrooms. Man Cave. Even the Attic. I'm pretty sure there's some swaddling wraps in the shed.

 

Baby. Stuff. EVERYWHERE.

 

Remember way back when I talked about registering, and how our friends and family advised us on what to get, what not to get, what you really need, etc.? That's all we have; pretty much just the essentials. And it still covers approximately 1,773 square feet of our modest home… and the dog takes occupies  the other two square feet. She curls up.

 

Okay, full disclosure… I lied. I don't think there is anything in the second bathroom. But in our main bathroom there is baby bath stuff all over the place, and I've already been displaced from my towel bar as it now holds two pink, hooded towels.

 

(Are you sure they're not you—)

 

THEY'RE NOT MINE, DAMMIT.

 

(Okay, okay, geez…)

 

In all honestly, I like it. Hell, I love it. I absolutely love the fact that Everywhere I go there is evidence of our child. Now, ask me if I still love it when she gets older and there are toys all over the place and I find that one missing Lego by stepping on it in the dark, and sure, you'll get a different response. One that I'm fairly certain will include one or more expletives, granted, but right now….

 

*grins uncontrollably*

 

Something else that people don't tell you about – As a parent of an infant, you will make up an inordinate number of songs about burping and pooping.

 

(HAHAHA… wait, what?)

 

It's true. When your child is fussy or won't burp after a feeding or is gassy and won't poop you will do anything in your power to get the child to burp or poop. That means rocking the child, patting her on the back, bouncing her, trying tummy time, reading The Farmer's Almanac, praying, lighting candles, and consulting an Ouija board. [WRITER'S NOTE on that last part: When asked how I can get my child to poop, Roger, who apparently died in 1917 of small pox, basically told me to bugger off and that I was on my own.]

 

[WRITER'S SECOND NOTE: That son-of-a-bitch Roger keeps flicking the lights on and off at 2:00 in the morning now, and knocking stuff off my dresser. Cut. The. Shit. Roger.]

 

Of course, while doing all of this, you want to be communicating with your child, which communication quickly devolves into remastering various pop songs into burp and poop melodies in an effort to sooth your child into expelling that which is to be expelled. For instance, there's the classic If I Had a Million Poopies, the Bob Marley mainstay Three Little Burps, and the ever popular take on the Kit Kat song, Gimma a Burp, Gimme a Burp, Gimme a Burp and Release that Gas.

 

(You've officially lost it.)

 

Okay, let's be honest, I *officially* lost it long before this. This, this is parenting. And any parent that tells you they don't make up songs to sing to their children to induce baby bodily functions is a liar liar pants on fire liar.

 

Yes, you do some strange, silly things when it comes to your child. I have made silly faces, emitted strange noises, and raspberried chubby cheeks and tiny toes. I've worried about opening second floor windows too much in the fear that I might trip and fling the baby out the window. I've wiped drool, been drooled on, gotten more drool in my mouth, and even tolerated her wearing a New England Patriots onesie. Mostly because it fit and I was too tired to change her outfit. See? Strange, silly things.

 

(Okay, we caught the window thing… are you really that paranoid?)

 

Yes. Okay, no. Sort of. Maybe. Look, you know I'm an anxious person to begin with. By and large I think I've been pretty good at keeping that anxiety in check with this whole being-responsible-for-the-life-of-another thing, but I still have my moments. For instance, we're nearing the time when we'll have to transition her from her bassinet in our room to the crib in the nursery. She's four months old. She can flip over. What happens if she's in the crib and flips and can't get back over and suffocates and…and…and…

 

And… breathe. I know. All parents worry about some of this stuff. I've said this before and will most likely continue to repeat it from time to time: it's different when it's your kid. Thankfully my fiancée shares some of my concerns, but not my full neurosis. Case in point: at the four-month checkup, we asked the pediatrician about travelling with the baby with part of the Jeep's  hard-top removed, and if she should wear earplugs or something due to the wind noise.

 

Doctor's reaction: *blink blink* No one has ever asked me that before!

 

First, I find it hard to believe that no one with a Jeep has every asked that question before. And if you have a Jeep and didn't ask the question before subjecting your infant to the wonderousness of open-air Jeeping, shame on you.

 

All in all, we're doing okay. We even got out for a date night whilst my sister sacrificed a Saturday night to hang with the babe. Big shout out to sis on that one. Yes, we're starting to get into a rhythm, back to some sense of normalcy. The baby is starting to sleep longer. We're finally getting some rest!

 

[Narrator: they were not getting rest.]

 

*sigh* Well, she was starting to sleep longer.  Then day care happened. As thankful as I am to have a trustworthy care facility for my child, day care is and always will be a wretched hive of germs and villainy.

 

(Villainy??)

 

Yes, villainy. Mostly germs, but also villainy. Toddlers are little kleptomaniacs. One tried to claim the baby's car seat and climb in it while she was still in it, and another tried to abscond with her binky… but I digress. The point is that less than two weeks into day care and she came home with her very first cold. It was heartbreaking to see her so stuffy and coughing and miserable and unable to understand what was happening to her. Thankfully it passed relatively quickly, but she certainly wasn't sleeping well before the cold broke. Then yay! Six hours of sleep! Then BOO! Gets her four-month shots and is all out of sorts for three days again. Parenting!!

 

Through it all, she's growing so fast and changing so much already. This kid is going to be crawling in no time. She's already got the Army belly crawl in effect. It's only a matter of time, and little time at that, before she's mobile. Then….

 

Fuuuuuuuudge. Only I didn't say fudge.

 

Now, being the overly cautious dad that I am, I've already purchased electrical outlet covers, cabinet locks, and have located the wall mounting hardware for our shelves, etc. I also have plans to mount the TV on the wall this weekend, which is going to involve some drywall work. And power tools. Double Yay!

 

Wait… crap. Honey, if you're reading this, don't read that last part.

 

(I think she already read it.)

 

Well, hopefully she'll ignore it and still revel in what was, by her account, a wonderful first Mother's Day last weekend. There were flowers. And jewelry. Oooo shiny!

 

First Mother's Day. And next month, my first Father's Day. So many upcoming firsts. First crawl, first word, first tooth, first, first, first. I will count them all. And I will love them all. Because, you know, she's our first. Our daughter. Our little warrior who, incidentally, once again rocked getting her shots and cried all but briefly and then watched Sports Center. True story. After her pediatrician appointment we went to get a bite to eat and caught her staring up at the TV on the wall above our table which was, as you can guess, tuned to Sports Center. She made a face when baseball highlights came on. That's my girl.

 

Anywhoos, I guess I'm rambling now. Yeah, my daughter is four months old. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go figure out how to make a burp and poop song out of Rick Astley's Nev—

 

(DON'T YOU DO IT.)

 

Fine. But just know, I'm never gonna give you up.

 

(I hate you right now now.)

 

If you need to blame someone, blame my friend Val. She Rick-rolled me the other day and it's been lingering in the back of my subconscious since.

 

(Dammit Val!)

 

*snicker*

 

Four months down. A lifetime of parenting to go.

 

*grins again*

 

 

 

 

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