After a little over one week of fatherhood, it will come as no surprise that I have few pieces of iron-clad, take-it-to-the-bank fathering advice. In fact, I have just one:
Do not eat a gas-station sandwich on the eve of your wife’s c-section.
If you do, you risk a bout of food poisoning complete with a 100-degree fever. I was fortunate to have my fever break at 2:30 on the morning of. All I could think was that, due to the appeal of a warmed-over chicken parm ciabatta, I was going to miss seeing my daughter born. For goodness sake, heed my warning.
Other than that particular piece of wisdom, I have nothing to offer. Nothing can prepare you for the reality of having a child. Then again, between movies, TV shows, and novels, I’ve been pseudo-prepped for while now. In many ways, the actual experience of childbirth—the sights and the sounds—filled me with vague sense of déjà vu. It was the emotions that full-on blindsided me. Few moments in life are as emotionally profound as holding your child for the first time. As I write this, I realize that words truly cannot do the experience justice. It is a moment of pure, unadulterated wonder.
While I have little fathering knowledge to lay on all of you, I do have a couple of suggestions. Firstly, it is my contention that the Boppy people need to make a model for plus-size mommies and beefy dads. I was feeding Evie last night and—while the Boppy helped—I felt like I was trying to wrap my girth with a bifurcated bagel. Also, I wonder why no one has invented a pacifier with a strap that would help keep it in place. (Now that I think about it, that would look disturbingly like a ball gag. Never mind.)
These are the things I think about when rocking Evie to sleep at 3:00 AM while Ron Popeil is trying to sell me a Pocket Fisherman.
Oh, and one more thing. Baby Momma and I were just at Babies R Us where I laid eyes upon a small toothbrush kit. Naturally I asked when we had to start brushing Evie’s teeth. Baby Momma patiently looks at me and says, “When she has some.”
