Let’s begin this with the Father’s creed:
“I have been transformed and am no longer a person. I’m a changing facility. I’m a feeding station. I am destined to lose my hearing to constant exposure to audio explosions averaging 100 decibels, praise the Lord. My education consists of puppets living on a street named after a seed. I hate seeds. The only reason I disliked cartoons as an adult was because I was not intellectually advanced enough to appreciate them. I despise sleep.”
Being a new dad isn’t too easy. Originally I thought a maid robot similar to the one featured in “The Jetsons” would just show up and take care of things for me. After seeing “I, Robot” I’m a little wary about that kind of arrangement.
At the supermarket I noticed my self-checkout pace increasing with my lil ones fussy noises. The louder she became, the faster I moved just hoping she wouldn’t have a meltdown and force me to leave my raspberry lemonade and tortilla chips at the register to run her back to the car while awkwardly trying to gently swing her in her car seat to calm her while sprinting through the parking lot. God help me. I would have looked like Quasimodo on methamphetamines.
Her mother can more than relate I’m sure, since she has her a majority of the time since I’m working 10+ hours a day six days a week.
I was at the bank this morning and realized I was swaying my hips back and forth as I stood in line, apparently holding my invisible daughter. Sentimentally ‘shhhhhh’ing’ the banker as she spoke to me at the window also made for an awkward moment.
She burped formula all over my shirt today. I’m thinking about owning it and posturing myself as a man-fashionista ahead of my time. Instead of having bleached and stressed jeans let us now rock dried and crunchy ‘burp aftermath’ on our apparel.
And yet I still can’t help but smile every time I look at her Winston Churchill cheeks.