My fuzzy face makes her cry.

This morning was as typical as any other. I woke up from my warm bed at 6:25 sharp, jumped in the shower, washed my underarms and bottom, de-funkified myself then threw on my clothes. I squirted the usual dime sized portion of hair gel in my palm and ran it through my messy hair, gave myself a quick look over and was ready to tackle the day.

For the past few days, every time I smother Lainey in kisses, she erupts in a fury of screams and cries. My aunt told me yesterday that it was probably because of my lumber jack beard I’ve grown out of laziness over the past few weeks. I always entertained the idea that my beard is silky smooth; I condition it daily and secretly apply some of my wife’s feminine moisturizers to it most mornings. Well, today it was time for it to go and later I hoped to pass the kissably smooth test before I left for work.

I plopped down in front of the computer with a big bowl of Frosted Mini Wheat; there was a little Guitar Hero prize inside the box! I tossed it in my backpack so I could play with it at work. I surfed around the net a moment, finished my high fiber, stool softening bowl of cereal and put on my shoes. It was almost time to head out.

Sara lay half awake on the couch with Lainey pressed up against her breast. They looked so warm, comfortable and adorable. Part of me wished I could snuggle up next to them and spend the day right there. I started getting a little sappy feeling in the pit of my stomach and immediately seized the manly instinct to fight it off. It is a simple fact in life that men do not enjoy being sappy inside. It makes us feel puny.

As I was suppressing my weak, estrogen laden feelings deep into the pit of my stomach, I looked over at the TV to see a story Good Morning America was doing about a little girl who had went to visit Santa. The report featured an adorable, blonde headed, cute as could be little girl probably not more than 4 years old sitting on Santa’s lap. The reporter commented, “Kensley Penny told Santa all she wanted for Christmas was her daddy, who left for Afghanistan last spring.”

Then suddenly her father appeared, as if it were a scene scripted for a film. The little girl turned to him in disbelief. “Hey daddy? HEY DADDY!” she exclaimed. The pitch in her tiny voice ran from an instant of shock immediately to heightened excitement. He picked her up, smothering her in a tight hug. “Hey daddy, I missed you daddy!” She said over and over.

It was obvious that the soldier was fighting tears; he buried his face into the little girl’s tiny body. The instinct to not cry in front of others runs deep in a man, especially a certified bad ass like this guy undoubtedly is. This is a man who slays terrorists in foreign lands, and today he’s caught in front of the nation, crying over the love of a small child.

Immediately tears welled up in my eyes. I turned to Sara in grief, “Oh that’s horrible! Holy crap that’s horrible. Why do they put this stuff on TV?” She started laughing at me. “God, I can’t stop crying, this sucks. God this sucks!” A month ago, I’d have watched this news cast and been moved, but certainly not brought to tears. Today I was reduced to a puddle of slime, simply because I now could relate to what he must have been feeling.

I lay down next to Sara and Lainey and hugged them, so proud that they were mine and I was theirs. I kissed Lainey a few times on the cheek and guess what, no cries! Guess that lumberjack beard was to blame all along.

I headed off to work after that and blasted The Adam Carolla Show on the way there. He was ranting about a bad trip to the movie theater amongst other things. Through his awesomeness I gained a little bit of my dignity back and successfully suppressed those sappy feelings. Thanks Adam.

Over the past month I’ve learned that it is not easy being a tough guy when you have a little baby, especially a little girl. But with some hard work and a little luck, I’ll be back to my stone cold, awesome self soon enough.

If you feel like being brought to tears, check out the news cast that inspired this story.

Satan lives inside!

When mothers everywhere look at my baby, their eyes fill with lust and emotion and they say, “Oh, she’s so cute. How old is she? It makes me want another one so bad!”

What’s the deal with these women? Since the birth of my daughter I’ve encountered this countless times. We even encountered it at the hospital where literally nine out of ten women there were having a baby of their own. It’s like a contagious disease.

In the recent weeks my sister in law has even decided that she’s suddenly going to have a baby. She’s officially discontinued the pill and decided to take the plunge. My wife told me her cousin mentioned wanting a second baby too; fortunately she has the sense to know not to go there again.

Well this post is for you Amanda, my beautiful sister in law. I love you very much, so I’m going to do my best to educate you on the hardships you are about to bring on yourself. I know you aren’t going to believe a thing I say, but remember, we warned you about that giant dog you have living in your two bedroom house too and now he makes your life hell. So please, heed my warning.

Your niece is definitely a gift from God. I’m not a religious, superstitious or spiritual person by any means. In fact, I’m a scientist by trade (at least that’s what my college diploma calls me), I work to be as practical and realistic as possible in all matters of life but I will admit, she is a little gift from God.

The joy ends there.

In Lainey’s two weeks of existence she has soiled roughly 90 diapers. Your sister’s life has become a series of power naps. She resembles a dairy cow more than a person now. Lainey eats roughly every 60 minutes, 24 hours a day and 7 days a week. Babies are serious business. They’re cute, they make you melt inside, but don’t think for an instant that you won’t find yourself wondering if Lucifer himself isn’t creeping around in there when she wakes you up for the 6th time in the middle of the night.

During our first week of parenthood, Sara and I were both brought to tears numerous times by that little monster you love holding so much. She would cry for hours, nothing could satisfy her, nothing would make her sleep or calm down. We swore we were doing something wrong… Nope! According to all Sara’s friends, this was normal. Think of the torment as a rite of passage for new parents everywhere.

Do you like having a clean home? Do you care for sleeping? Do you enjoy watching a TV show or movie without pausing or missing half it? Do you appreciate having a meal on your own terms? How about showers, do you enjoy taking showers when you want?

FORGET ABOUT IT!

And prepare to receive contradicting advice from every person and family member you know. Everyone is going to tell you how to raise your baby. And when you follow some of that advice and your baby screams bloody murder, you’re going to hate yourself.

Prepare for long, lonely days and sleepless nights. While your husband is tending to his career fifty or more hours a week and sleeping all night so he can get up every morning to work and pay the mortgage, you’re going to be dealing with your child, basically alone. Sure, I do my best to clean, cook meals, do laundry and change the occasional diaper but I did all that before (minus the diaper stuff of course). But Sara still does 90% of the work with the baby. If your husband didn’t do any of these things before, he probably isn’t going to magically start now. So be prepared.

I hear that after about 6 months the baby starts getting easier to deal with, they become more functional and independent, and they sleep through the night more. But right now, it’s a little piece of hell. Sara has already asked me to get a vasectomy.

I don’t write this to discourage anyone from having a child, given they’re financially stable enough to do so. I simply write it as a disclaimer.

If you’re ready to face all this, have the baby. It’ll be a wonderful and beautiful little person, I’m sure. If you aren’t ready to basically go to war all by yourself, go get that birth control prescription refilled.

Good luck.

Thermometer after use!

A few nights ago my wife and I took Lainey’s (I’ve decided to call her that) temperature ourselves, for the first time. She had been extra squirmy and fussy all day long and wasn’t sleeping her usual 20 hours a day. Even though her suckling and pooping habits were right on cue, something about her seemed off.

We grabbed our trusty, digital thermometer, the same one we use for ourselves and wiggled it beneath her armpit. For what seemed like three minutes we waited, watching the temperature reading inch up, a tenth of a degree at a time until it reached a little over 100 degree (Fahrenheit).

Sara almost instantly became over alarmed, “You add 1 degree to the reading if you take it under her arm” she said worriedly. “She’s running a 101 degree fever. We have to call the doctor!”

Suddenly, for the first time I watched my wife turn into one of those parents, the parents that over react, the parents that seemingly make something out of what might be nothing. I looked down at Lainey, kissed her forehead and rubbed my hand along her backside. She simply didn’t feel feverish to me. In fact, she barely felt flushed at all, though I could easily be wrong. I admittedly know next to nothing about babies.

Sara called the doctor’s hot line and waited for our pediatrician to call us back. When the call came, Sara had a short talk with her and Sara now seemed cooler. “The doctor said we need to take her temperature rectally” Sara said. “What, you mean in the butt hole?” I replied, balking at the idea.

So I set off to the drug store to retrieve a rectal thermometer. Turns out, there are entire array of thermometers, some for ears, some for under the tongue, some for under the tongue or optionally the rectum (ooh nasty!). Some thermometers promise to read quickly than others, some more accurately, some are flexible on the end and some include super deluxe features like AM/FM radio and alarm clocks! Alright, I’m exaggerating about those last details, but you catch my drift, there’s no need for 15 different models of thermometers.

I decided to go with a special model of thermometer made specifically for jamming up an infant’s rear. You could never believe the shock and awe I felt when I discovered that there existed a contraption fashioned specifically for this! It featured a flexible rubber tip and was shaped in such a way that prevented you from pushing it up there too far! Plus, it guaranteed an accurate reading in under a minute!

I carried the handy device home, took off Lainey’s diaper and Sara proceeded to insert the probe. At first Lainey lay there, half awake and asleep and almost unaware of what was going on. Twenty seconds went by, then thirty and even forty… still the reading inched up.

Lainey started squirming, her lips curled, she balled her little hands into fists and she began to squeeze that little rectum of hers as hard as she could. “Push it in Sara, she’s about to squeeze the thermometer out!” I said excitedly.

Finally we had a reading. Sara pulled out the thermometer when…SQUIRT!!!!

Mustard colored poop squirted out of Lainey’s rectum like cola shooting out of the top of a shaken-up, popped can of Coca-Cola! I turned and burst into intense laughter, my chuckling so jolly and outrageous that Laney’s eyes burst open in shock! I pounded the walls in agony from the pain of the excessive rumbling, tumbling and bellowing. Sara stared at me in disbeleif and began laugher herself, not at the baby but at her baboon of a husband.

Lainey’s temperature was fine. Turns out we might have had her wrapped up too tight, making her under the arm temperature seem high. No worries here, only dookie squirts and laughter.