Confessions of a New Father Part One

"Nothing can prepare you for having your first child," we heard over and over again during my wife Jennifer's pregnancy. So I worked hard preparing myself to be completely and woefully unprepared. While Jen pored over volumes of books on babies, became a regular visitor to scores of baby related websites, and spent hour upon hour agonizing over which products to buy for the baby (we settled on all of them), I was pretty much just along for the ride, excited about the impending arrival but more or less just a spectator observing the mayhem. If there was no way to get prepared, what was the point in trying?

Childbirth is obviously a woman's show, but the American mans role has changed an awful lot since I was born. My dad- who has a lot of experience having had six sons- tells me that in his day, the nurses would tell men to wait outside during labor.
"You felt kind of relieved not to have to stay," he said.
The situation was still the same when we lived in Macedonia, (and probably in many other countries as well) save for the fact that instead of waiting in the hospital most men repair to a local bar with their friends in a testosterone soaked orgy of male bonding drunkenness. But these days, American men are expected to be on hand for the delivery and that's a good thing.

Still, just because we now have ringside seats for the delivery experience, it doesn’t mean we have any idea what the hell we’re doing. Jen's contractions began at 7AM, and grew stronger and more frequent before we arrived at the hospital at Noon. I naively assumed that our baby would be born some time that afternoon, and that we’d be home in time to watch the Cubs game together that evening. I was right about watching the game- the hospital had a great wireless connection that allowed us to watch baseball on mlb.com right in the delivery room, but wrong about the being home early part. By 11pm they told us she still wasn't ready to start pushing. At 1AM, the doctors began to talk about having to a C-section. By 3.15 AM, we were told that she was finally ready, and I thanked my stars that I wasn't required to do any pushing, as I was mentally and physically spent and probably couldn't have pushed a shopping cart, let alone a child by that point.

Once it was time to push, I figured the baby would be spewing forth some time soon, but our child, as it turned out, was perfectly content in the womb, and was in no hurry to come out. I was exhausted and became more so just watching all of the effort that Jen was putting forth. The doctors and nurses, bless them, were wonderfully encouraging, repeatedly telling Jen, "good job," and "you're almost there!" But after three plus hours of pushing, I couldn't help but think, you told her she was almost there HOURS ago!

"We'll have to use a vacuum to suction him out," they finally told us after three hours and fifteen minutes of pushing. I didn't think they were going to wheel in a Hoover or a Dust Buster, but I really had no idea what this would entail. Nonetheless, within moments I saw his little head, covered in slime, in what was surely the most surreal moment of my life. I'm sure that this moment is bizarre for any first time Dad, but our little guy procrastinated coming out for so long, I had begun to wonder if he would ever show his face.

The all female team of doctors and nurses pulled him out, hoisted him up, told us, "it's a boy!" and then handed me a set of scissors to cut the cord. The next thing I knew, he was swept away by a team of doctors. Jen eventually got to bond with him for about 30 seconds, but I didn't get to hold him until several hours later that day. It didn't matter though; the gravity of the occasion awed me. In my mind, I knew that I was going to be a dad, but I just couldn't believe that it somehow just happened. I arrived at the hospital with just a wife, but I'd be leaving with a child in tow.

Before Leo even arrived home from the hospital, he already had a closet stocked with Buffalo Bills, Sabres and Chicago Cubs bibs, outfits and hats. How could I inflict such horrible sports teams on my son? Ok, so inheriting sports teams that no only lose regularly, but also manage to do so in the most heart-wrenching manner possible, might not be good karma, but what was I supposed to do? Get the kid Cowboys and Yankees gear?

The first days at home with our boy flew by in something of a haze, kind of like a great night out where you drink too much and later on know that you had a good time, but don't remember exactly what you did. I do know that I spent hours just gazing at my son, who we named Leo, and marveling at every little thing about him. The first things you notice, of course, are how tiny and fragile he seems. Everything about him is small, save for his voice! Sure, I've heard lots of babies cry before, in fact, I normally sit next to inconsolable babies on airplanes without fail. But your baby's wail is different. You can't just shake your head and think, can't they quiet him down? The "they" is now "us." Leo's wail is an angry, primal scream that could shatter windows, and when it happens it sure as hell cannot be ignored.


Jen is very cool and composed, even when Leo the Lip is wailing as though his innards were being pealed right off of him. Jen is such a good mom, I sometimes want to confirm with her that she has not, in fact, done this mothering thing before. I, on the other hand, am a rank novice, and when left alone with Leo when he's in "Lip" mode have a tendency to panic. In all fairness, Jen has changed most of Leo's diapers, but my first encounter with Leo's undergarments was probably enough to put me off on the task for a lifetime. The boy had soiled himself so thoroughly that it was hard to tell where the shit ended and where the boy began. The diaper was so loaded down with crap that it weighed about as much as a cinder block. Leo's legs were coated in shit, as was his outfit, and I had no idea where to even start, the child needed a full scale bath, not the dainty little wipes Jen had on the changing table! To make matters worse, Leo is not a big fan of being changed to begin with, so he was screaming bloody murder while kicking his legs around and flailing his arms like a man with a gunshot wound trying to hail a taxi to the hospital in a downpour.

"JEN, PLEASE COME QUICK!" I yelled loudly enough to elevate above Leo's screams.
Jen came running in and, at first, was annoyed with me for unnecessarily alarming her. She had thought that Leo was hurt. But once she realized how utterly panicked I had become over his overflowing diaper she got the giggles and could not stop laughing for hours.

I have, on several occasions, suggested that we enroll Leo in anger management classes, but Jen thinks he's still a bit young. The thing that I find fascinating about babies is all of the crazy facial expressions they get. Leo has a sleepy look, an alert look, several angry frowns, but the one look that he can't do is the smile. I think it's interesting that babies can immediately frown but that it takes awhile for them to be able to smile. But then again, I think just about everything my son does is edge-of-the-seat fascinating. Look he's yawning! Now, look he's stretching! He's putting his fist on the side of his head! He's trying to gouge his eyes out! Hey, he's pulling my chest hair, SHIT, IT HURTS! I jump up off the sofa several times each hour to get my camera, and I already have about 14,000 photos of him lying around the house in various moods and states of dress and undress.

Leo is a really smart kid already. I think he already knows to save his most fierce tantrums for when his mom is away or otherwise occupied. One of the first times I was in sole custody of the boy was- please don't laugh- during one of Jen's showers. I could tell Leo was hungry- in between piercing screams he was trying to fit his fists in his mouth. I had to try to play the role of green room host, keeping our guest occupied until the host of the program could entertain him. But I was doing a crappy job, and as each minute crept by I kept thinking this may be the longest shower of my life, this may be the longest shower in recorded history! Jen's shower was probably no more than 15 minutes, but its amazing how long fifteen minutes can be when you have an angry and hungry infant on your hands.

The interminable shower though, was just a warm-up for my first real night alone with Leo. One Saturday night in September, Jen needed to attend her sisters hen party, making Leo and I bachelors for the evening. Jen left me with what she referred to as a "soft feeder" with which I was supposed to feed him while she was gone.
"The soft feeder is better than a bottle because it helps them avoid nipple confusion," she told me, and not knowing any better, I just nodded my head in collusion.

I'm no expert on the phenomenon of nipple confusion, but I seriously doubted that any son of mine would find the concept of nipples to be very confusing, and time has proven me correct on this issue. Jen and I had also had a mini-disagreement regarding pacifiers on this same nipple confusion point. I believe, firmly, that pacifiers are one of the world's great inventions- when they work. Jen was concerned that a pacifier would cause nipple confusion and screw up her breast-feeding efforts, but Leo took to the pacifier right away, and I begged and pleaded on his behalf and mine for its continued usage. (and I won)

So there we were, two men on a Saturday night with some sports on TV, a pizza and some good Octoberfest beer for me and a soft feeder on the coffee table for Leo. Everything was just fine for the first fifteen minutes after Jen left. Leo was sleeping on my chest like a little lamb, and I couldn't help but think, what's all the fuss about, this is easy! But then the beast began to lurk. It started with some minor fidgeting which I tried to shrug off, then there were some gurgling noises, then a low whimper, and before you knew it- all out kicking and screaming. Don't panic- remember your training- get out the damned soft feeder. But I soon learned that the soft feeder should really just be called a baby shovel. Sure, I'll grant you that its shovel-like feeding mallet looks and feels nothing like a nipple, but the damn thing is so wide compared to his mouth, that even if the child was cooperating, feeding him with this shovel would be a serious challenge.

But Leo was not cooperating- far from it- he was shaking and gyrating his whole body like someone with real soul on a dance floor, screaming and repeatedly knocking the shovel with his hands. I gamely pressed on, trying, more or less to ram the shovel like tool down his mouth, but the boy was having none of it. He was hungry- no doubt- but he kept shaking his head around like he was having a seizure and each shovel full would either swamp him with too much milk or would stream all over his face and chest. If I had our dinner together on film, it would be hilarious, but it was not so amusing at the time. Leo was used to drinking his milk straight from a breast and could not seem to understand why his dad was shoveling milk down his throat with this strange device. I began to count the minutes till Jen got home, and when the moment arrived I felt an enormous weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I felt bad about it, but our men's dinner had been a complete failure and I wanted my boy to eat.

The trials and tribulations of dealing with a newborn are funnier than hearing about the joys, aren't they? Just admit it, you'd rather hear stories of impossible diaper changes and failed feedings than of fatherly bliss, right? Just human nature, I understand. But what makes all of the work rewarding are those moments you get with your child that are so sublime that they bring you to a stage of contentedness that you've never experienced before. When Leo lies on my chest, his heart beating right against mine and looks up at me with his bright, wide eyes, there is no warmer, more righteous feeling on earth. No matter what else has come before, or what will happen afterwards, in those moments you feel as though all is right with the world. Until the Cubs fail to advance runners in scoring position, and get unceremoniously swept out of the playoffs by the no-name Diamondbacks. Then, you're angry again. But it doesn't last as long or sting as bad, when you have your beautiful boy on your lap rhythmically sucking away happily at his pacifier, that marvelous invention that has saved the world.