I’ve been writing this article for weeks…
Let’s try that again. I’ve been thinking about writing this article for weeks. It’s been hard to find the time.
(Cue raucous laughter as the reality of not finding time for something before the baby is born is ridiculous…even to my own ears.)
Okay, Hard truths time: I could have written this article a hundred times over but every time I tried (thought about it), I was like, “meh, let’s shoot some aliens in this super-cool video game over here nowhere near the blog article I should be writing.”
Bottom line: We have a lot to catch up on.
We are fifty-six days away from D-Day, friends. (D-Day, in case you’re new here and didn’t get the memo, is how I refer to the day when our little miracle baby is going to jump kick his way into this world like Patrick Swayze in Road House.) Take a wild guess, given that context, at the one maddening question which keeps getting screamed in my face by obtusely smiling already-parents?
Are you ready to be a Dad?
Come on, guys? Really? Am I ready to be a Dad?
No. No, I’m not. This is all so totally fucked. I sure hope I can rewind the clock on this soon-to-be-disaster.
The real answer though, is still no. A strong, resounding no. I’m not ready to be a Dad. That’s like asking a sixteen-year-old if they’re ready to drive. Most states say they are because they permit license sixteen-year-old assholes to drive but that’s doesn’t mean they are functionally capable on Day One to pilot a two-thousand-pound death machine. The only difference between me and the sixteen year old, is that I’m old enough to hesitate before blindly rushing into a potential disaster. (In case you’re tracking analogies, the two-thousand-pound death machine AND potential disaster referenced above are both the baby-to-be. Or baby-now-but-not-quite-here-yet. I don’t know. Whatever. You know what I mean. Fuck this is hard.)
I think becoming parents is kind of like Taco Tuesday; a glorious event that you look forward to but have no real idea what you’re getting into. All you really know about Taco Tuesday, is what you’ve heard from others; the salsa and queso, the sizzling platters and the warm tortillas. You’ve seen everyone else enjoy and partake in the festivities and thus want to enjoy it too. What you haven’t seen, apparently, is the next calendar event: Explosive Shits Wednesday.
Just like a box-office Daniel Day Lewis film: There Will Be Poop.
Apparently poop is the thing when it comes to having babies. I haven’t met a parent yet who has been able to greet me with a fair share amount of soon-to-be-parent excitement without providing me grotesque details about how I’m going to get shit on every day, every way.
It’s like parents who have been there, done that and been shit on are excited to share in the collective poop misery. I’d like to submit for the record that I am ardently opposed to have dookie on my bodily person. However, if and when the time comes to jump in front of that turd bullet, it’s not the end of the world. (Unless it gets in my mouth, and then it actually is the end of the world.)
Dear weathered and war-torn parents: *ahem* Could you relax the poop-laden fear mongering to every other conversation? Could you wipe that smirking twinkle of happiness out of your eye when you forecast days of explosive diarrhea and up-the-back-blown-out-shit-diapers? We get it. You’ve been in the trenches and suffered…Well done and I guess I’ll be there shortly? See you there, pal? I don’t know what to say to that…I feel like we may have taken a tiny detour, but let’s bring this full circle…
Am I ready to be a Dad? Ask me again. Go ahead, ask.
In my heart, I’m absolutely ready to be a Dad. In every other functional way, not a chance. And you know what? I’m okay with that, because that’s the way it’s supposed to be.