Who is Tim Tebow?

I don’t know who Kim Kardashian is dating, whether Alec Baldwin has torn someone a new one lately or if Charlie Sheen is still WINNING.

I don’t know if the Miami Heat are on track to give Lebron his first championship (I hope not), whether the Massillon Tigers will be a playoff contender next high school football season (I hope so) or if Tim Tebow has ever had premarital sex (With the ladies he can pull, if he has not, he is indeed God on earth).

I am a parent of a 4-month-old. I know spit up, Enfamil and onesies. I know 4 a.m. wake ups, jumperoos and binkies.

I am daddy. Hear me roar.

My nights used to be leisurely. Stroll home about 6 p.m., kiss the wife, have some dinner, spend a couple of hours surfing the Web for interesting tidbits, watch a little television, hit the sack. I don’t even want to tell you what my life was like when I was just a single dude in a loose mood. Let’s just say doing what you want, when you want, never gets old.

Now, I hustle home as fast as I can to relieve my beleaguered wife, wolf down dinner during my daughter’s evening nap and spend the rest of the night alternating between the jumperoo, the activity floor mat and making funny noises to keep my daughter entertained.

Time for fun? I am the master of playing Words with Friends in one hand while feeding my daughter a bottle with the other.

(Speaking of Words with Friends, how about some of the losers on there? I am a former newspaper writer. I have a better vocabulary than 80 percent of the people I know. But somehow I end up playing people who can play a dozen words I have never heard uttered. The other day, a guy plays "ohed" and "hm" on me. Seriously? You are either cheating or a competitive Scrabble player who should be ashamed of yourself for stooping to play Words with Friends.)

Back to my new life. I haven’t read Deadspin.com in four months. Great site for crazy sports stories. They broke the story about Brett Favre texting a picture of his schlong to a co-worker while with the New York Jets. Who the hell does this stuff? Listen guys, if at any time you feel the need to take a picture of your schlong and text it, you are 1) really, really confident and 2) a COMPLETE IDIOT.

Anyway, I never read deadspin without laughing. I love to laugh. Yet, I have not visited the site since about September. I love to keep up on happenings in the journalism world, but I rarely visit Poynter’s media gossip site anymore and I haven’t even seen Jim Romenesko’s new site.

ESPN.com? Yes, still a daily must. But reading my hometown newspaper, the Massillon Independent, has gone by the wayside. I no longer know when some of my high school classmates get divorced, foreclosed on or busted for drug possession or drunk driving, depriving me of my right to feel superior to all those kids who thought they were cooler than me 30 years ago.

I do read the Cincinnati Enquirer still, but that is because it is a must for my job and I can get away with reading online at work. But I don’t have time to read my buddy Paul’s blog and see if his kids are still scoring soccer goals with Pele-like precision.

I do catch a little news every now and then. I know Rick Santorum is bat-shit conservative, Newt Gingrich is full of bull-shit for thinking African Americans make up the majority of people on food stamps, and that the working man is going ape-shit over Mitt Romney’s 15-percent tax rate.

I also know some chicken-shit Italian cruise captain abandoned ship early.

But now I get my info from the first 20 minutes of the Today Show while stuffing a morning bottle in my daughter’s mouth. No in-depth analysis for me. I haven’t studied enough to vote for American Idol, let alone a Republican presidential candidate.

What else am I not doing enough of?

Going for drinks with friends. People stare at you funny when you bring a baby to a bar.

Cleaning my house. When I have a few precious seconds of down time, I refuse to spend it with a vacuum in my hand. If Children’s Services wants to take my kid away for a dirty house, they’ll have to fight through a mountain of dirty clothes and dishes to get to her.

Making love to my wife. I’m 45 years old. I have a choice between five hours of sleep a night or four hours and fifty minutes. That extra ten minutes of sleep means a lot.

The understatement of the day would be to say my life is different. Even with my wife doing the bulk of the work, parenting is time-consuming. You don’t ever want to start anything new because you never know when you are going to hear the words, “How about Daddy takes over and plays with you for awhile?”

You don’t ever want to get too engrossed in a television show, because the next thing you know she is plopping off the couch and landing on her head.

You don’t ever want to use BOTH hands to play Words with Friends because the second that bottle drops from her lips, the blood-curdling screams start.

You get the picture. 

The other day I worked on staff evaluations all day on a Sunday. Talk about feeling guilty. My wife looked like Nick Nolte’s mug shot by the time I got home.

This parenting thing is a sacrifice. I accept it. I love my daughter. For the next few years, I am prepared to miss Kim Kardashian’s next marriage, Lebron James next failure and Lady Gaga’s next Madonna rip off.

But please, if Tim Tebow finally does get laid, somebody email me a picture of the chick.