Dawn of the Dad

Dawn of the Dad

“Doesn’t he look adorable holding that car seat?”

It’s a boy! Wife and I are thrilled to announce the arrival of a brand new addition to our family: a beautiful, 200-pound father. He has blond hair, blue eyes, and has already had his wisdom teeth removed, which seemed to both baffle and delight the labor and delivery staff. It may sound cliche, but having a father really is as amazing as everyone says it is. Food tastes better. Lawnmowers sound better. Bad jokes seem funnier. Sure, fathers get very, very fussy if they haven’t eaten in a few seconds, but I’ve found that all it takes to calm them down is a bowl of pork sausage and a nap. Another thing that makes fathers super upset is pooping their pants. I think the most exciting thing about having a father is watching them grow up. Well, actually, they don’t grow up as much as they grow sideways (especially after a few weeks of quiche, macaroni and cheese, and lasagna dinners delivered by friends and family), but it’s growth nonetheless. What’s that? You don’t want to hear about our new father–you want to hear about the baby I’m holding? Ah. Well, it’s a girl, and she’s perfect. Happy now?

The Pajama Shame

"I'm just waiting for my change."

“I’m just waiting for my change.”

This isn’t what it looks like. I know, I know–a grown(ish) man, in his pajamas, eagerly awaiting the drive-thru window to flap open and a large vanilla milkshake to be conveyed into his idling sport utility vehicle does not look “good.” But what if I told you that the milkshake is not for me? What if I told you that the milkshake is for Wife, my pregnant wife? Would that make the cool kids, who just pulled up in their cool kids car looking like a cross between an American Eagle and American Spirit commerical, think I was NOT teetering on the brink of a late-twenties melt-down? Eh, who cares? Truth be told, I’m kind of enjoying this devil-may-go-on-pajama-milkshake-runs attitude. Besides, it’s not like I’m browsing the Metaphysics section at Barnes & Noble. I’m in a drive-thru: the penalty box of the food industry. Why a penalty box? Because you’re enclosed in glass and metal, feeling shame, until the guy in the box next to you gives you your change. Maybe next time I should roll up in my hockey gear for Maximum Analogy Impact. The point is, when you have a pregnant wife waiting on the other end of your errand, you can wear pretty much whatever you want without being scrutinized by strangers. Heck, I could be wearing a tuxedo and not feel embarrassed. Actually, wearing a tuxedo in a drive-thru, alone, would be much, much worse than wearing pajamas. That just screams “Prom Ended Early” or “The Spy Agency Wasn’t Hiring.”