Will this Nickname Stick?

Tyson has a nickname. He is the “Budster.”

Here’s how I know: the other day, when 28-month-old Sydney was talking about him, instead of using her normal “baby Tyson” to address him, she called him Budster.

When a 2-year-old picks up on your nickname, it is a sign you may be branded with it for life.

  

I can’t tell you precisely how he got it. I think I probably was calling him “buddy,” but because of his weight issues, he is too tiny to qualify as a full-size “buddy.” He’s more of a little buddy, or a Budster.

I’ve been calling him that since his August operation. Somehow, it has stuck. Unlike Sydney, who had a million nicknames, Tyson has really only had one. And, unlike Sydney, where none of the nicknames stuck, this one seems to be sticking.

It is not as manly as the coolest of all nicknames, The Boss, but I like it better than Puff Daddy or Snoop Dog.

It is better than Shit-for-Brains. I think my dad may have called me that a time or two. And it is better than his uncle, Little Dick.

Although, I do feel a little like that guy on Saturday Night Live making copies every time I use the name Budster. It really does sound like one of the nicknames he would toss around.

Is this something that can be carried on into adulthood? I wonder if at some point in his young life, he will turn to me with a look of disgust and declare that he no longer wants to be known as the Budster. It will probably be during some moment of pre-teen angst where he is trying to be cool and develop a rapper persona like Iron Tyson or Ice T or the T Kettle.

No worries. I can change with the times. I’m as fluid as his breast milk. I won’t call him Budster in front of his friends. I won’t make him wear “Budster” on the back of his T-ball shirt. I won’t introduce him to his junior high teachers as Budster Gregg.

But, in my mind, I’m always going to remember my little buddy who struggled so hard in his first few months to even eat, making every meal a marathon. I’m always going to picture that tiny body that emerged from open-heart surgery so battered I wasn’t even sure he would make it, despite the doctor’s assurances. I’m always going to recall all the nights his mother and I held him tight, wishing that love alone would help him heal and become whole.

To me, he’s always going to be my little Budster.

Life Knocks You on Your Ass

My son won’t have a normal start to life.

Minutes after leaving the womb, he’ll be whisked away to a waiting ambulance that will transport his tiny, fragile body several blocks away to one of the best children’s hospitals in the world. A spot in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit will be waiting.

There is a 70 percent chance he will need surgery immediately. There is a 100 percent chance he will need a second surgery within months.

And that is the best we can hope for.

I still am not to the point where I can say or write this without tears welling up.

I won’t glaze your eyes with the medical jargon that even I don’t understand. He is among the one percent of children who are born with heart defects. In fact, the odds are much smaller than one percent on some his defects: hole in his heart, two valves coming from the same spot and performing the same function, and narrowed arteries in two places.

My son is broken.

I ache for him to be fixed.

Doctors say it is possible. The surgery that is likely upon the day he arrives in this world can fix the narrowed artery at the top of his heart. The second surgery, which will definitely take place, will fix the hole and the two valves.

The other narrowing, which they are monitoring, may not be fixable. Brooke and I heard different things from the doctor. We were both so stunned at the news, I’m not sure either of us heard anything completely right. Brooke thinks it is fixable. This is one argument I hope she wins.

What I know for certain is he will spend many days in the hospital and undergo at least one open-heart surgery. More days in the hospital to recover, and possible follow-up surgeries. Then he will spend the rest of his life being monitored by a cardiologist.

But, if everything goes right, if the fixes take and the other narrowed artery heals, he could be a fairly normal kid.

I’ll take it. I’d love if he is able to play competitive sports and run freely, without a care, with his dog and neighborhood friends.

But mostly, I want him to be alive and healthy enough to have a decent quality of life.

I was angry when we got the news. I’ve spent many days since telling myself what a good life I have.

I grew up poor, but loved. And being poor was a positive. It sharpened me, made me a fighter. I would not be the person I am, or achieved what I have, without that foundation.

I had more fun in my 20s and 30s than the law should permit. In my 40s, I met and married a beautiful woman with a heart so tender saints move aside for her. Seventeen months ago, I was blessed with the best thing to ever happen to me, a beautiful daughter who is smarter than her age and as fun-loving as they come.

No one I have ever been close to has been murdered or died tragically young.  I’ve lost grandparents to debilitating diseases, but only after they’d lived long lives and showered me with love. I lost my dad to leukemia, but I had him with me into his 60s.

As a poker player, I understand skill is trumped by luck. Sometimes the odds are against you. This is simply my time for bad luck. I’ve had my good streak; now I have a challenge to overcome.

Or it could be karma. Lord knows I have done enough bad things and hurt more than a few people in my life.

But what about my wife, a special education teacher who takes care of the world’s most vulnerable? A selfless woman who lifts up everyone around her?

She doesn’t deserve this bullshit.

Neither does my innocent little son, who will be only minutes into this world when faced with life-or-death situations.

Fuck you, karma.

I don’t know if I am a good dad. I try my best, but without my wife to prop me up, I’d probably be lost. I’m better than my dad, but I am nowhere near the super dads I know, like my brother or a stay-at-home friend, Rory Glynn.  

But I know I am a LOVING dad. If love were water, a titanic swell would swallow Sydney daily.

If love can get us through, that little boy has a really good chance.

I’m glad Sydney is not old enough to know what is going on. A time that should be joyous and full of anticipation has turned to depression and nervousness.

I’m not an optimist or a pessimist. I am a realist. That means I study the situation, understand the odds and outcomes, hope for the best and prepare for the worst.

We all know what the worst is here. I’ll be prepared.

My wife is another story. Being prepared is cheating on the notion that our little boy will be anything but fine. Mothers don’t cheat their kids.

I’m worried about her. Her heart will break when they whisk that boy blocks away to Cincinnati Children’s Hospital Medical Center. She has to stay behind for three days, recovering from a C-section. She won’t be there for that first surgery, if needed. Normal breast feeding and bonding will be difficult.

There will be two people in this family with broken hearts.

No, make that three.

To Bar or Not To Bar? That is the Question

Brooke and I have recently faced that question that torments every new parent: should I take my baby to a bar or not?

Ok, maybe not every parent. But certainly some. The fun ones.

I wanted to watch March Madness a week ago. Brooke had a friend in town. I proposed a sports bar for dinner and basketball before they did their thing. They agreed.

But what to do with Sydney? I’m no prude by any means. But even I had to stop at the thought of taking a 7-month-old to a bar on a Saturday night. What would people think? What stares might we get? What drunken sloppiness might Sydney encounter?

I think the key here was the kind of bar and the time of night. This was a BW-3s, which is known as much for its food as its beer. It also has become very kid-friendly over the years. Visit on a Friday night and you’ll find more 8 year olds there than at the corner day care.

It was also early. We left by 9 p.m. Granted, there have been many, many Saturdays when I and my buddies have been completely plastered and obnoxious by 9 p.m., but the chances of us encountering Courtney Love on a bender are less likely before midnight.

I grew up in bars. My dad, who was not a drinker, liked to play cards or just talk with his buddies at the local tavern. He came from a family of heavy drinkers who spent many a day and night on a barstool. One of his brothers prescribes to the work-8-hours, sleep-8-hours, drink-8-hours lifestyle. Another brother works as a bartender and has owned bars. He was manning the bar the night I saw my first ever knock out. I was about 12 and playing pinball when two guys got into an argument. With one punch, one of the guys dropped to the floor and was out cold. My uncle called an ambulance and yelled at the other guy to get the hell out of there before the cops came. I stared, wide-eyed and mouth agape, innocence lost.

Yes, bar life runs deep on that side of my family. My dad’s sister loves to party and doesn’t pass up the chance to hit a tavern on a Friday or Saturday. His dad died of cirrhosis of the liver. I believe they still have a stool with grandpa’s name engraved on it at his favorite hometown establishment.

And his mom, my grandma, loved her beer. As she got older and retired, my main memories of her revolve around her waking up about 7 a.m., camping at the kitchen table to watch television, a pack of smokes at one side and a can of beer at the other.

She lived in California with my aunt for awhile. I and a buddy drove cross country to the West Coast to see if we could land jobs and live on the beach. We would stay at my aunt’s until we got on our feet. I remember my first night in Burbank. We get into town about 3 p.m. after our long trip and decide to go to dinner and have drinks to celebrate our arrival. This turns in to an adventure that lasts until 2 a.m. in the morning. (Ahh, to be a college student again.)

We are sleeping on the living room floor – it was a small apartment and that was our only option – when my grandma wakes  at 7 a.m. and you hear the unmistakable popping of a beer tab. She no sooner takes her first gulp before she starts in on us. “You boys better get up and go find yourself jobs. You aren’t going to be freeloading here. You need to find jobs and get to work.” This goes on for a couple of hours.

We didn’t last a week with grandma. We were living in our car and washing ourselves in a rest stop bathroom within three days. Try fitting your head under a rest stop sink so you can wash your hair. But anything was better than the wrath of grandma.

So anyway, my dad used to take me to bars when I was a wee lad. He’d throw me some quarters and let me shoot pool or play pinball while he hung with his buddies. I got to be very proficient at pool. When I was 12, he bought me my own custom five-piece pool cue, complete with case and all. I was a FREAKING STUD. I used that cue to win the Boy’s Club pool championship.

Dad loved to challenge his friends to a game against me. He’d bet $20 that they couldn’t beat his 13-year-old son. They always took the bet. Sometimes I won, sometimes I didn’t. If I lost, he made me walk home. No, just kidding.

My mom’s side has some drinkers, too, but not as many colorful stories.

I don’t drink that often anymore. I don’t have beer at the house and can go a couple months without touching one. But I can also get together with my buddies and down a couple of cases in a weekend. Depends on the time and situation.

My point is, I do not necessarily feel it is evil for a child to be in a bar. It did not turn me into an alcoholic or set me on a path to prison. But I am very cognizant of what I want my child to learn and see and how that will affect her. At seven months, there is more of a concern of what people will think of ME than there is of the affect on her, but I’m thinking more about the foundation I am laying.

Ultimately, I guess there is a time and place for everything. I will probably stick to the same thinking I had during March Madness: if the bar is also a restaurant and it is not late, we are good to go. We will not hit up Lenny’s Liquor Palace at midnight.

Isn’t it more about what you teach your kids, anyway? If you teach them right from wrong and how to act, they will get it, right? I sure hope so.

While I was at BW-3, I saw a 13-year-old boy and girl sitting in a booth across from a woman who appeared to be the mother of one of them. Not sure if it was the boy’s mom or the girl’s mom. But the two teens were glued together and sloppily making out while the woman watched the game. It was a pretty disgusting display of teenage lust.

Nevertheless, I was glad to see it. This meant that everyone’s eyes were on this booth and not the one with the 7-month-old rocking in her car seat. I was no longer the worst parent in the bar.

Losing the Battle, but Winning the War?

                                                             Comfortable Sydney


Well, it’s official. My daughter prefers my wife over me.

Sometimes it is subtle. She’ll sit and play with daddy, but she’s always stealing sideways glances at mommy to make sure she is still there. Other times, it is more obvious. The second mommy places her in daddy’s arms, the lower lip protrudes and the crocodile tears start flowing.

Ouch.

I guess I am just not the nurturing type. Who would have thought it?

As heartbreaking as it is to me to lose this contest with my wife, I am not the kind of guy to hold a grudge or seek revenge. I won’t punish my wife or my daughter for my failures. I am the kind of guy who rolls with the baby punches.

So, I penned the following email to my wife this week. I will let you know how it goes.

Honey,

It has become clear to me our daughter prefers your company over mine. This is heartbreaking to me, but I must accept the truth. You are number one in the race for her heart. I am chopped liver; you are scrumptious baby formula.

For the sake of our daughter’s future, we have to make her as comfortable as possible as often as possible. It will impede her development to force her to spend time at her most uncomfortable moments with anyone other than the person who absolutely soothes her best.

We must always make her feel as safe and secure as possible. As you know, I often worry about screwing up and raising a serial killer or a strung-out drug addict. I refuse to let this happen because of my selfishness. I will not force her to be with me at her most vulnerable times, the times when she really needs the person whom she prefers to comfort her.

Therefore, I propose we split the baby-rearing duties along the lines of “Duties Where Sydney is Uncomfortable” – those would be yours – and “Duties Where Sydney is Comfortable” – I will humbly accept these less-important tasks.

Clearly, Sydney is most uncomfortable when she has gone to the bathroom and needs her diaper changed. How embarrassing and shameful for her when daddy must answer this call. She is completely vulnerable at this time and absolutely must have the person with whom she feels most comfortable come to her aid. As much as it hurts, I cede this duty to you.

She’s also very uncomfortable during those 2 a.m. wake ups where she needs a bottle and a hug. Think about how scary it must be to wake up in the middle of the night to total darkness, the only sound being her mama snoring in the nearby room. I picture her little mind thinking, “Where is my mama? Where is the one person in the world I am most comfortable with?” I know I have come to adore these early-morning moments with her, but, for her sake, I will allow you to be in charge at these times. I promise to not get in the way and will force myself to sleep through them.

Her recent bout of double ear infection made me realize how uncomfortable sickness can be for a baby. She cried long and loud. My eardrums hurt more than her’s. I clearly did a horrible job soothing her. It is times like this when a young lass needs her mama. Again, as much as it pains me, I will stay out of your way. Maybe I will spend these nights in the spare bedroom with earplugs so as not to intrude on your mother-daughter time.

I only ask that you are as accommodating when it comes to my time with her.  She clearly has a great deal of comfort when she is playing, whether it be in her Jumperoo or with one of her many toys. Because this is a “safe” time for her, I will take on these duties. This is a time when she will be more likely to accept someone she is less comfortable with.

She also seems pretty comfortable when she is watching TV. She loves those colorful cartoons. I’ll take this duty. This requires someone who can sit with her for long periods of time and remain quiet, so as not to bother her. It won’t be easy, but I think I am the man for the job.

Nap time is also a very secure time for her. She even smiles sometimes when she sleeps. Clearly, she is happy and clearly this is a time when she would accept being watched over by #2 instead of #1. You can count on me.

I can see this method of operation working long into the future. You can take on the duties where she’ll most need you, such as potty training, menstruation and learning to drive. I will take on the less important tasks of reading bedtime stories, teaching how to hit the softball and chastity during the dating years.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. For now, let’s see how we adjust to the here and now. As I thought about how we might split these duties up, I realized that not all of the parenting duties can be listed. There are many moments not easily captured in a paragraph.

So I think we need a fallback. It is obvious to me that anytime Sydney is crying, she is uncomfortable and needs the loving arms of her mother. I propose that in those instances, I step aside. You feel free to do the same anytime she is giggling and smiling, as this is obviously a very comfortable time for her.

I hate losing, but I am not the kind of guy who doesn’t shake hands after a defeat. You seem to have won her heart. Let’s roll with it and make sure she develops in the most positive way possible. I think this is the blueprint for success when it comes to raising a healthy, happy daughter.

Love you!

The Night I Screwed Up

Ok, I did something this week that I had hoped I would never do as a dad. I seriously screwed up.

First, let me tell you that your emotions seem to grow when you are a dad. You feel things more deeply. When my little girl smiles at me, it melts my heart. I can’t wait to get home from work each day to see that smile.

Other emotions are more intensified, too. Particularly, the feeling of pain. If she hurts, I hurt. Believe me, when I tell a teenage Sydney “This hurts me more than it hurts you” as I punish her, she will scoff and call me a Mo-Fo under her breath, but it will be true.

I recently took her to the doctor’s for her monthly shots. I had to look away. I hate shots anyway, but this tiny girl barely has enough skin for a needle prick. I had to fight back the tears as they used her as a pin cushion.

Of course, Sydney did not. They heard her cries three blocks away. She has lungs like Bette Midler and the pain tolerance of Barry Manilow.

Have you ever really thought about the crying thing? I can understand crying from pain. But how do they learn that crying will get them fed or held? How do they know to cry those crocodile tears, the kind that pull at your heart strings and cause you to pick them up, which somehow miraculously ends the crying?  Do child care centers teach babies courses on parent manipulation?

My daughter is to crying as Herman Cain is to sexual harassment. A master. She will melt your heart when she sticks out her lower lip and turns on the emotion. She might be trying to manipulate, but daddy falls for it every time. When Sydney hurts, daddy wants to rush to the rescue.

Which makes what I did all that much worse.

Brooke was having one of those days. She deserves to have one of those days. When it comes to parenting, she pulls 85 percent of the weight around here. Part of it is my incompetence, part of it is my laziness. All of it is Brooke not trusting me to know what I am doing.

So it was one of those days. I was late coming home from work, so she had Sydney and dog duty to herself. She’d had some issues at work. She had more work to do from home. The house was a mess. (By the way, why didn’t anyone ever tell me that, along with a child, parenthood brings a house that perpetually looks like a tornado touched down inside?)

So when I do get home, she is starving. She puts a pizza in the over. As she is pulling it out to cool, the dogs surround her, bump her and she drops it on the floor. Pizza ruined.

For five minutes, Brooke becomes the Tazmanian Devil. I mean, she loses it. Not in an angry way, but in an I’m-so-frustrated-I-could-cry way.

That’s when hubby came to the rescue. I quickly seize my chance to be Superman for a change. First, I calmed her down. Second, I got dinner. Third, I offered to take Sydney upstairs with me for the night so she could finish her work and get a break. Reluctantly, she agrees.

So, I head upstairs and set Sydney up on the bed, propped against a pillow. I need to pay some bills, so I figure she can hang out next to me and watch television. For some reason, my daughter is fascinated with TV. I know…big surprise. But who would think TV watching would be an inherited trait? More likely, it is the vivid colors.

So I am sitting on one side of the bed paying bills. She is beside me. I get a little too interested in the bills and suddenly hear a PLOP.

Holy shit!!! My daughter has rolled off the bed!

Now, I generally move with the speed of a sleepy sloth, but I can tell you I would have passed Jamaican world record sprinter Usain Bolt if we had been racing to Sydney. I was there quicker than a Kardashian marriage and had her scooped up in about a tenth of a second.

But, this was too late. My wife had heard the thud and the immediate cries of her daughter, and she was standing in the bedroom yelling at me before I could get out the words “She’s OK.” She grabbed Sydney from me and rushed downstairs so she could comfort her away from my negative influence.

Now, the child was indeed ok. Thank God, she happened to land on a dog bed that is about four inches thick. It probably startled her more than it hurt her.

But I felt like the Jerry Sandusky of fathers. I had hurt my child! Like I said, your emotions are much stronger. I spent the next few hours mentally flogging myself.

Brooke made sure to rub it in. She claimed that Sydney’s inability to sleep that night was probably due to internal injuries. She made sure I felt like the Grinch who stole Christmas from Sydney Lou Who.

Side note: the night before, Brooke had cut Sydney while clipping her nails. The baby cried more from that then she did nose-diving off the bed. Did I make a big deal out of that? Well…yeah. But not as much!

She couldn’t make me feel worse than I already did anyway. This is one of the things I never wanted to do as a father. I know it won’t be the last time I screw up, but you never forget your first.

I hope she forgives me.

Say It Ain't So: My Life Has Become a Vacation Movie

My buddy, Joe Jones, once told me a man should be able to throw everything he owns into a duffle bag and hit the road at a moment’s notice.

I wish I could say it ain’t so, Joe, but those days are long gone for me.

A trip to see my family for Thanksgiving turned into one of those “Vacation” movies with Chevy Chase where everything that could go wrong did.

Let’s start with packing. Before Sydney, traveling was fairly easy. I pack my bag. Brooke packs here three. I pack some food for the dogs, put their beds in the back of the SUV and off we go. The dogs are in the back, the luggage in the back seat, Brooke and I captaining the ship up front.

After Sydney, life gets a little more difficult. Now, I pack a bag. Brooke packs ONE bag. Then she packs THREE bags for Sydney. Then she packs a breast pump. Then I pack a Pack and Play. Then I pack a stroller. Then I pack her bathtub. Then I pack food for the dogs. Then I pack the dogs’ beds. Then we pack Sydney herself.

What does the car look like now? Well, the dogs are still kings. They are lying in the back by themselves. Sydney is in her car seat. Brook is now in the backseat with her. We stuff a couple of Sydney’s smaller bags on the floor of the back seat. This leaves the passenger’s seat for our bags, Sydney’s stroller, Sydney’s tub, Sydney’s other bag, the Pack and Play and the bathtub. When it is all said and done, I can’t see the side view mirror over there and we have to rearrange everything just to be able to pull out of the driveway.

We hit the road by 2 p.m. Wednesday. I know this is the biggest travel day of the year, but I figure we are leaving early enough to make the 3 ½-hour trip in 4 hours. I am allotting a half hour for bad traffic in Columbus.

The first hour is uneventful. But as we approach Columbus, I can see the cars lined up, bumper to bumper, like they’re waiting for the start of the Indianapolis 500. Interstate 71 has become a parking lot.

Now, those who know me know I am not a patient person. If we go to a restaurant on a Friday night and there is a wait, chances are I am moving on. I absolutely won’t wait more than 30 minutes. It is not just that I hate to wait, it actually makes me angry. I will start to notice open tables and wonder why the restaurant has not hired or scheduled enough workers to open up the WHOLE restaurant. After all, that is there business, right? Friday night crowd catch you by surprise? Were you expecting around the same numbers you have on Wednesday mornings?

Talk about letting money go to waste. Can you imagine the Bengals or Reds telling fans they can’t come in because those 20,000 seats over there are being left open?

But I digress.

So, we are sitting in traffic for about 30 minutes before I proclaim that every Wednesday before Thanksgiving for the rest of my life will be a vacation day for me. I will NOT travel on this day again.

I get the idea to call one of my Columbus buddies to see what my options are on getting through Columbus on a route other than 71. He refers me to 315 and that looks like it is moving fairly well, so I hop on. And for about five minutes, things are going smoothly. Then I hit another parking lot. Have you ever been caught in traffic after a concert? Where you crawl inch by inch toward the exit for about a half hour? That was my situation.

To cut the suspense, we were in bumper-to-bumper traffic for about two hours. We then were in slow-moving traffic for another hour. But that is not the interesting part of the story. Remember, I am traveling with a BABY.

Babies mostly sleep when they are traveling. But when a 3 ½-hour trip turns into a 6-hour trip, babies wake up. And they get antsy. And they get hungry. And they have to go to the bathroom. If all of this happens while you are angry about sitting in traffic and your two dogs are going crazy because they are cooped up in a small space….well, things can get a little tense.

Here, in no particular order, are the things that happened during our two hours of moving about 10 miles.

·        Brooke realized we were going to be in the car much longer than she had planned. She’s a breastfeeder. I don’t know the exact science behind it, but apparently you have to either feed or pump at certain times or you start leaking like the plumbing in a Section 8 rental property. She decides she needs to pump, because she doesn’t want to wake Sydney, and Sydney must remain in her car seat for safety’s sake. The problem is, we are sitting nearly still in traffic. It is bad enough she has to pump in a car, but nosy truck drivers can get a good show as they zoom by at 3 miles per hour.

·        Sydney woke up and screamed for food. Brooke gives her a bottle. She doesn’t want to drink a bottle. Sydney has a serious case of nipple confusion right now. She can go from meal to meal and change her preference, sometimes wanting the bottle, sometimes wanting the breast. This is particularly a problem when her dad is doing the feeding and she doesn’t want the bottle. Anyway, Brooke finally gets her to eat after much fussiness. Miss Crankypants returns.

·        Sydney spit up half her food. Now, this is not unexpected from Sydney, but it necessitated a outfit change, which was not easy to do in the back seat, but somehow Brooke managed.

·        The car filled with a horrible odor. I immediately accuse Brooke. She immediately accuses me. After quick denials, we look at the dogs. They are always likely culprits, but what if it wasn’t them? We have to check Sydney. A couple seconds later, I look in my rearview mirror to see a look of horror on my wife’s face. Then she starts gagging. It is clear. Sydney has experienced an episode of explosive ass disorder while we are stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic with nowhere to turn off.

The highlight of the trip was Brooke changing Sydney while sitting in a back seat with a car seat, breast pump and several other bags stuffed back there.  It was as tight as my belt after a Sunday meal. She discovered that Sydney’s explosion had exceeded her diaper line and was actually half way up her back. Nice. Another outfit. At about this time, I say, “Honey, I wish I wasn’t driving so I could help you back there.” She shoots me a dirty look. By the time she is done, Sydney has poop in her hair and on her clothes, and Brooke has it all over her hands. And there is no bathroom in sight!

· Right about this time, the dogs decide they are too antsy and they need to get up and prance around the back of the SUV like reindeer on Christmas Eve. This was a great capper to Brooke’s diaper episode and she let loose her anger on everyone within earshot, including her innocent, just-trying-to-get-his-family-home-safely, nice-guy husband.

Suddenly, my impatience with the traffic was the least of my concerns.

About a half hour later, we had crawled close enough to an exit that I could take the whole family to the bathroom. Brooke cleaned up herself and Sydney, the dogs found a nice patch of grass in the parking lot of an office complex and I breathed a sigh of relief. We still had another hour in traffic and another hour and half of driving after that, but I had survived the worst of it. Even Chevy Chase never had it this bad.

I passed the next couple hours thinking about my buddy Joe Jones. I think he has a wife and two daughters now. I imagine he traded his duffle bag in for a Pack and Play a long time ago.

Rappin' Lullabies at 3 a.m.

The things I do when it is 3 a.m. and my daughter won’t sleep. My sleep-deprived mind searches for ways to remain sane. The other night, I made up a rap song to help Sydney sleep. The key is getting the cadence down, I guess. Yo, ya Yo, Yo, Yo….

My name is Sydney Grace,

I got spit-up all over my face,

But there’s no way that’s gonna keep me down

Someday I’ll own this Cincinnati town.

I may cry and scream a heck of a lot,

But chalk it up to being just a normal tot.

Life right now is full of drama,

Thorns for daddy; roses for mama.

But someday soon I’ll be all grown,

Preparing for college and taking out my loans,

And daddy will look back on these tough days,

Wondering if there was any possible way,

He could jump in a ship and go back in time,

When he was sleep-deprived and making up these rhymes.

Because he will miss his little princess girl

Who has finally made it in this world,

But I will never forget him, so he shouldn’t be sad,

Because he will always be the king of dads.

Beating the Feedbag for my Daughter's Love

Parenting, it turns out, is a competition.

And I am losing.

Who is working harder, getting less sleep, changing more diapers or more quickly winning the love of the child? These are the things mom and dad debate in the first months of a child’s life.

I’m under no delusion that a mother’s life isn’t difficult. But somehow we dads are the Winklevoss twins of parenting: we get no credit for a project that will ultimately be a tremendous success.

I am eternally grateful my wife has chosen to be the nighttime caretaker on weeknights, when I have to work the next morning. I dread the thought of her returning to work after next week and us splitting nighttime duties.

Yes, Sydney has decided that, even though she sleeps 17 hours a day, it is best for her to continue to ensure a few of her awake hours occur after midnight.  In fact, she seems most rambunctious after her late-evening feeding. She may be a vampire.

Side note: last night, a weekend night, I had night duty. Sydney slept a solid 5 ½ hours, from 12:15 a.m. to 5:50 a.m. I am taking full credit for it. All hail, King Daddy!!! Clearly, she knows that when daddy is in charge, she must behave.

Back to story: So nearly every morning, I awake to find Brooke sleeping in a different room because she has moved Sydney around the house in an effort to calm her crying and get her to sleep. My wife appears to be getting less sleep to me, and she is not afraid to let me know it. “Oh, are you just waking up? Must be nice. I think I managed about 22 minutes last night.” Yawn.

But is she really sleeping less? After I leave for work, what exactly does she do? How do I know she doesn’t sleep all day. Yes, I get a solid six hours and she might only get three at night, but does she then turn around and get five more during the day? Who really knows? You know she’ll never admit it, because then she can’t play the “sleep” card every morning and make me feel like former presidential candidate John Edwards, abandoning his wife in a time of need.

But, before I let her win the title for less sleep, I am going to sneak away from work some morning and peek through my windows to see exactly what goes on around here when I am gone. I suspect I am going to find one huge slumber party.

As for changing diapers, I concede. She is home alone with her all day, so there’s no doubt. Plus, as I have already acknowledged, I am not above passing off the baby with a smelly surprise hiding below her belt.

Working harder? Come on. I work all day THEN come home and take care of the baby. Brooke catches up on Jersey Shore reruns during the day. Yeah, she gives me all that “we did tummy time today” jazz, but how long can that take?

Brooke will argue that even while I am home, she is the primary caretaker. Maybe so, but it takes a lot of energy at the end of my long, hard work day to pump Sydney’s arms or tickle her feet in order to keep her awake so she will sleep after midnight.

Please someone, give me the check mark on this one.

But the final, and most important, competition is the battle over Sydney’s love. Secretly, each parent wants to be the main apple of their baby’s eye.

This morning, Brooke told me that Sydney smiled at her. I quickly shot her down with the retort that the baby is too young to smile yet…at least to smile for a conscious reason of happiness. Brooke just got a reflex. My thinking?  I can’t let Brooke claim that victory!

One of my favorite things to do is grab my child, sneak off to a hidden corner and ask over and over again, “Who is your best friend? Daddy is.” If I can somehow tell her this a million times over in the next few months, it will come true. I am playing subliminal mind tricks with a 6 week old.

I will step up my game soon and whisper the word “Da-Da” a few dozen times a night in hopes it will eventually be her first words.

Nevertheless, I am losing the battle because my wife – whom I have nicknamed “feedbag” – has the hunger-quenching milk Sydney craves every three hours. I feel like Sonny Bono or Art Garfunkle or Selena Gomez or Russell Brand….I am definitely the less glamorous and desired one in this duo.

It becomes obvious every time I’m holding her and she starts crying, only to have her mother come over, snatch her from my arms and make the noise disappear. Talk about putting dad in his place. If I ever had any illusions I was winning this competition, Sydney shatters them with the sounds of silence.

But it is only a matter of time before my subliminal messages kick in.  I like to look at this as a race between the tortoise and hare. Brooke may be out to a big lead, but I have a lifetime to catch up.

Sydney Will Someday Hate Me for This

I went a few miles out of my way the other night to buy diapers. We were parked in the parking lot of a super market when my wife said, “But I have a coupon for $4 off if we go to Walgreens.” So, we drove across town to save $4.

This is what parenthood does to you.

Remember who I am. If I am really, really hungry for Arby’s and the McDonald's is two miles closer, nine out of 10 times, I am hitting up the McDonald’s. Convenience is a hallmark of my lifestyle. Why do something yourself when you can pay someone else to do it? Trickle-down economics. My wife likes to say my middle name is “relaxation.”

So to get me to drive from the parking lot of a grocery store across freaking town to save $4 on diapers? I never would have thought I’d see the day. But when you are going through diapers like they’re dollar bills at a strip club, you get desperate.

By the way, I probably haven’t been to a strip club in 15 years. I went to one in Windsor for a bachelor party, probably in the late ‘90s. I think I went to one in Atlanta about that time, too. I have lived in Cincinnati off and on for 17 years, and I don’t think I have ever been to a local club.

I’m not saying I haven’t had my share of adventures. In college, I swore I and a stripper in Florida had solid eye contact and she would soon be mine. We had a connection. It took my buddies dragging me out of the club and screaming at me that it was HER JOB to have eye contact with me before my wet dream fizzled.

In my 20s, at my first job where I worked a later shift, a few of us liked to relax after work with a jaunt or two to some of the fine gentleman’s establishments in Rockford, Ill. (“Fine gentleman’s establishments” seems like an oxymoron to me, like “jumbo shrimp.”)

But overall, I’m just not a strip club kind of guy. I don’t see the point in spending my hard-earned dollars on a woman whom I have zero chance of taking home that night. If I am going to be out and about, let it be at a regular club where I have at least a tiny shot at some action (this is pre-marriage, mind you). Wives and girlfriends should understand: the safest place for your man to be on a Saturday night is in a strip club. Those women want nothing to do with him except to discover the fastest way for his dollar bills to find a home in their G-strings.

But, I digress.

Our mountain of pre-baby diapers has become a molehill. I knew we would go through diapers, but I underestimated the rate….which means I underestimated the cost. I’m not a cheap guy, but I do like to spend money on things that are enjoyable. A fine dinner, a gangster movie, a trip to Vegas…shitty diapers are not on the list.

It seems like Sydney needs changed every couple of hours. Brooke likes to change her before every feeding, which is about every three hours. Sometimes, she needs changed in-between. I have to admit, I sometimes see that little blue line on the diaper and I turn her over quick before Brooke notices. If she is going to pee again soon, it might as well be in the same diaper. It saves me money and a little wetness can’t hurt, right?

I have self-diagnosed Sydney with Explosive Ass Disorder (EAD). Don’t bother looking it up in Webster’s or your New England Medical Journal. It’s a term I personally coined.

I believe this to be a hereditary disease, because the first time I ever encountered it was when my dad got a little older in life and was spending time at my sister’s. I happened to visit one day and my sister explained a “Holy-Crap-Mother-of-God-Hide-the-Women-and-Children” moment she had trying to clean up her bathroom after my dad’s bout with EAD.

Yeah, I went there.

I was afraid to even visit that bathroom after what came out of her mouth. I drove two towns over to my brother’s house just to take a whizz.

So grandpa passed on his EAD to my precious little child. First, she has enough gas to fuel a Sunoco station for a month. I don’t really have a reference point to compare her to other babies, but I estimate she farts at least 10 times an hour. Yes, she even farts in her sleep. That’s 240 farts a day!!!

Then, there are times when I am holding her and I can just tell she is going to the bathroom while she sits in my hands. There is a rumbling, then a sound like water gushing over Niagara Falls. That is what a liquid diet will do to you. Good lord, this child needs some roughage. If I am lucky, Brooke does not hear this and I can stealthily hand her over to play with her mama, who will no doubt discover the equivalent of a murder scene in her daughter’s pants shortly thereafter.

How much is my daughter going to hate me when she grows up and reads this?

So, my life of convenience and relaxation is now the equivalent of life on a chain gang. I used to sleep through the night. Now, I feed and change diapers. I used to nap on the weekends. Now I use them to catch up on everything I didn’t get done during the week. I used to watch my favorite TV shows. Now I spend all evening keeping her awake so she will sleep through the night. I used to buy whatever I needed, wherever I wanted. Now I drive across town to save $4.

Someday, very soon, she is going to smile when I pick her up. A few months after that, she’s going to call me “da-da.” A few years after that, she’ll squeeze my hand tight as she enters kindergarten for the first time. Later, there will be high school graduation, freshman year at college, calls about her world travels, the excitement of her first job and maybe even the chance to walk her down the aisle.

In other words, it will all be worth it someday.

My Wife Says My Posts Are Too Long

Q. What do these have in common?

-- A British Petroleum station
-- A recently fueled Hummer
-- A long-haul trucker
-- My wife
-- My wife’s daughter

A.    They are all full of gas!!!!