First off, all of you are amazing. A baby is born every seven seconds, and to have so many of you take the time to share our particular moment has been very thick frosting on an already-fabulous angel food cake. We’re printing out the comments and emails to be enshrined in her baby book for time immemorial.
I’ve always been very conscious of “how I was being received,” so conscious, in fact, that after a few years of writing the Wednesday’s Child column at UNC, I stopped putting what year in school I was, just so the freshmen would still listen. I’d like to make a similar caveat here: I didn’t want this to become a Look At My Baby Blog. That’s great for Dooce (who does it well) and many others, but those kinds of diaries always used to bum me out after a while. I still need to appeal to my East Village Hipster demographic, god dammit!
HOWEVER: it is damn well nigh impossible to think of much else right now. The rigors of a newborn baby are predictably intense, and although I always wanted to have a family (due to some latent Mormonism in my DNA), I don’t think I ever actually thought it could happen. So I’m discovering things in miles per second squared, and if I don’t put it on here, in some ways, I’m afraid I’ll forget.
God, I was so full of shit. I used to believe the following:
– any girl that used the phrase “my boyfriend” was a pathetic affirmation vulture
– wedding rings were nothing but ownership chains used by insecure couples to taunt single people
– golf was for incontinent 80-year-olds with poop running out of their kilts.
I have now transgressed all of those, and one more: back in my twenties, I used to glaze over with abject boredom the second anyone started talking about their babies. So trust me when I say this – if you come on here and think I’m doing nothing but blabber “BABY BABY blah blah BABY BABY squirt BABY” then I feel your pain.
But that’s just too fucking bad. I may not have one single original thought on the subject, but I promise to try and still be entertaining. I will adhere to the following rules:
1. poop is funny once, but boring and slightly sickening the fifteenth time
2. all babies kind of look the same. I mean, really. (except for mine)
3. I am not going to be Wacky Dad like Dave Barry, Soulful Dad like Paul Reiser or Moses Dad like Bill Cosby
4. I know how to put on a diaper and have since I was five, when I used to change my little sister. So no “bumbling dad” diaper jokes (see rule 1)
5. I will Photoshop out any of T’s boobs that happen to spill into the picture
6. I will not refer to my baby’s weight as a sign of my virility (yes, people do that)
7. a pacifier is a pacifier, not a “binky.” A blanket is a fucking blanket. WORDS MEAN THINGS.
8. I will not dress Lucy in a onesie with a bitchin’ ’75 Camaro on the front and a hat that says “Kid Vicious” and then take a picture.
Well, actually, I probably will do that.