So my son decided to show up at my birthday party in disguise. He hit on at least five women before his scam was uncovered. It was only after he took the liberty of making inappropriate comments such as “milk jugs” and “boobs con leche” that his sinister plot was uncovered. He was immediately sent to take a nap, when this mugshot was snapped.
I went to get a haircut at the greatest barbershop of all time, Andy’s on Hollywood Boulevard. My brother lets this dude cut his hair, but ever since he nearly snipped off my ear lobe, and demonstrated on multiple occasions that he may be nearly blind, I keep clear. He’s a good man, though, and so is my bro. He gets a not-so-great haircut from Manuel, every time, but since he doesn’t really give a damn what his hair looks like, and he will always take the side of the little guy, he steps up and lets the old guy at it. This time, he joked that he thinks that Danny and Todd (my rockabilly barber, seen in background – sorta looks like John Waters) may have limited him to using clippers only. No more scissors. This is one of the great things about my brother. He’s consistently kind.
I had no idea my brother was in there. I was talking to Todd for at least a minute before Tommy decided to note that he was sitting in the next chair. I thought he was getting a cut before showing up at my birthday party later that afternoon; wrong – he was getting it cut before heading out to the desert for Burning Man.
It’s been three weeks of paternal bliss. I love my baby, and my baby and a few weeks of fatherhood have taught me some valuable lessons:
- When books for fathers mention diaper contents of breastmilk fed babies looking like “dijon mustard,” what they really mean is “dijon mustard that has been processed through the guts of a homeless man drunk on sterno.” The good news is, it really doesn’t stink. It’s the one time in your life you can say “my shit don’t stink,” except you can’t speak yet. Which is a real damn shame.
- Crying is much less annoying than you think it’s going to be. In fact, sometimes you look at the screaming baby in your arms and his face is so wound up, and his expression so intense, and you know it’s ONLY because right then and there, there is NOTHING in the ENTIRE WORLD he wants more than to be sucking on your wife’s breast, that it just makes you laugh out loud. Yes, it’s sad, but true; I laugh in the face of my hungry, crying baby. I just can’t help it.
- Another warning from baby books to truly heed: do NOT say anything in the baby’s nursery that you do NOT want heard by the entire house over the Fisher-Price baby monitor. This should be printed on pamphlets and handed out as a courtesy to guests, because when you hear your guy friends in the nursery with their wives while your wife is showing them the baby, and you’re doing your duty by cracking open a couple of beers in the kitchen, you will hear your friend oohing and gurgling and cooing over your child on the baby monitor, and you will want to puke.
- Get a video camera. You will want to document the expression on the baby’s face just moments before the eruptive sound of him blowing a major load into his diaper. Then you should create a looping movie and burn it to DVD. Place it in the baby’s memento book and never ever forget you have it. Then, when he is 15 and acting like a total a-hole after effing up your car, you can pull out said DVD and play for his girlfriend. Remember, you need a long-term parenting strategy.
- You will have dreams like you’ve been taking acid. Like the baby will suddenly get the magic power to walk and eat even though he’s only a couple of weeks old. Then suddenly you find yourself nude in the Beverly Center chasing a newborn who is running faster than you can run, through the food court, past the twin Swedish models who are working at the Hot Dog on a Stick, and you want to stop and talk to them, because they’re cute and they have hot dogs which smell so so yummy, and show them your baby and how cute he is and they think you’re an adorable Dad, but you’re nude and have a freakish baby that talks who is running towards certain doom at the Williams-Sonoma which now sells only knives, rat poison, and smoking hot waffle irons. Then you wake up, and immediately go check on the baby to make sure he doesn’t have some injury that has manifested itself through your dreamscape. Repeat three times per night.
So really, that’s most of what I’ve learned so far. Oh, and one more thing: be very, very nice to your wife, especially since she’s probably reading your blog every morning while she’s home on maternity leave. And tell you love her. A lot.