(Voice Over, Australian accent)
Last we left our weary adventurer, he was hacking his way through the jungles of New Fatherdom, stopping to wipe his brow ever so often and peer through the thick foliage. In the distance, a pair of keenly alert eyes lock his gaze and size up their prey. Our adventurer looks away quickly, if only to possibly avoid conflict. But nay, says the Beast. Conflict is upon you and I am the Bringer. Make no mistake, this is a beast’s beast; keenly aware of newly-minted father’s weaknesses and uniquely armed to the teeth to disarm even the most practiced of soothing techniques or diverse diaper bag…
Okayest Wife: Are you writing this about our son?!?
I can hear Okayest Wife’s likely disapproval of just about everything regarding the opening of this article. Her most ardent objection will likely be to the donning our son with the moniker Beast. (Maybe Okayest Beast?) In my defense, it fits the narrative and plays well to the National Geographic crowd. Okayest Baby is not an actual beast, mind you. In all fairness and with a touch of new-father-pride, he’s likely a skosh better than just the Okayest Baby; he fusses a less-than-average amount of fuss when he’s hungry or has a wet / dookie diaper, sleeps four to five hours a night and is already a fountain of milk bubbles, smiles and happiness.
He’s also two months old today so…Happy Two Month Birthday, O.B.! Okay, truth time. His actual two month birthday was a few days ago but he’s a baby and doesn’t understand concepts like “belated” so…We good?
The past month has been a continued Rubik’s Cube of new-baby/new-parents-stuff mixed in with the familiar flavor of regular life stuff. Okayest Mom slays dirty diaper monsters with ease, anticipates potential nuclear baby-mood meltdowns and has cooed more than her fair share of restless O.B. to sleep in her arms made of what seem to be baby-soothing-pillow-material. I can wrangle a bottle in pretty short order, lasso burp clothes and am confused by my recent penchant for western analogies. In short, life with O.B. continues to defy expectations and redefine normalcy, but only in the most heart-warming ways.
In an effort to cover the remainder of the spread, here’s a few snippets of notably activity and observations from the past thirty-some-odd calendar days:
- Onsies with a billion buttons, instead of one simple zipper, were not designed with Dads in mind. (Even if they say: D is For Daddy. That is a bold-faced lie. D is actually for diabolical.)
- I do not like being called “Daddy”. It has been decided that I shall further be referred to as Pops by others.
- My father, O.B.s grandfather, recently visited us (from out of town) and got a kick out of the dirty innuendos of being called Daddy. At breakfast. In public.
- I tried sarsaparilla for the first time, attempting to expand my horizons and understanding of cowboy culture. It is a super-sugary root beer.
- I really dislike root beer.
- I do not like sarsaparilla.
For the most part, Okayest Mom and I are finding our semi-routine-pattern-thingy and are starting to develop, dare I say, a rhythm to the madness. Both of us are showered and clean at regular intervals (including O.B.). All of us are well fed and we’re even able to carve out some quality after bathtime-but-before-bedtime-reading of classics like The Ninjabread Man. Even on the days when the routines and rhythms are more choppy than not, Okayest Baby reminds us that life is messy by nature, and that’s Okay.
Life goes on and tomorrow is a new day for new adventures.