Month 2: Still In the Weeds
Learnings and observations from my first year of fatherhood
Day 31: Mom, Baby and I went out to lunch for the first time together. Baby was asleep and for a brief moment life was as it used to be. No longer eating in turns, from take out containers at home, huddled over our meals like animals. We used knives and drank from glasses, we had servers, and sauce in packets. We were fancy again.
Day 32: Got brave and suggested I bathe Baby myself. Mistake. I’m not sure who was more scared, Baby or me. She can’t sit yet, so the goal is to corral a wet, squirming, crying baby, with one arm, so you can soap and rinse her with the other. Front and back. I didn’t drop her, but it’s moments like this when I question how I’m legally allowed to care for a baby.
Day 33: Baby has been crying for hours today. Nothing works. We’re officially back at square one.
Day 34: We’ve entered what’s referred to as the Witching Hour(s). A period between 5pm-12am marked by inexplicable, inconsolable tears with only the briefest moments of reprieve. It could be gas, milk, acid, over tiredness, who knows. Our pediatrician thinks we might just have to ride this out until the magical three month mark, which is both reassuring and completely useless.
Day 35: It finally happened. Mom was out, Baby was asleep. I was mid no. 2, checking my sites on the toilet, when the baby woke up and started wailing. And when you hear the cries, there’s this instinctual need to run to her rescue. I must’ve gone through half the roll. I’ll never poop without Mom again.
Day 36: I never thought that I’d one day be sucking snot out of a baby. But if we don’t, she can’t breathe (obviously terrible). And if she can’t breathe, she can’t sleep and if she can’t sleep, we don’t sleep. So yeah, I guess we’re also selfish. I had to hold her down and spray saline solution up her nostrils, so the mucus loosened enough for me to suck it out through a tube! I really hope this is a one time thing. She was not into this.
Sleep strategy #54: Don’t talk, don’t stare. You’re freezing her out.
Day 37: Today Mom threatened to suffocate me in my sleep. I think she was joking? She resents the fact that I can leave the house, go work, and have this semblance of a life while she endures Stockholm syndrome alone. Baby of course is her captor and the house is her prison.
Day 38: Originating from classic 80’s sitcom Married with Children, I had my inaugural No MA’AM meeting; a support group and network of defeated fathers, holding onto their glory years. Talking shit, commiserating over beer and fried chicken about the times when we were still somebodies. When we scored four touchdown in one game, and when we still wielded power in our relationships. This is the trip of fatherhood. It’s this massive ego shift, where everything now centres around the baby. And since Mom’s running point, you’re the lowest in the chain. You’re the help. I feel for you Al Bundy, I finally get you.
Day 39: Big milestone. Baby’s poop has exploded out of the diaper and onto her back. She has officially outgrown newborn diapers.
Day 40: It’s a grind, balancing full time work and taking over baby watch when I get home. I literally have two jobs now. I complained to mom that I was exhausted and needed a nap today and got one of those “Oh no you didn’t!” responses. She can’t sympathize as she has yet to sleep a three hour stretch since Baby was born. I get it, but damnit I’m tired too!
Day 41: Baby started drooling this week. It’s pretty adorable. It makes her look hungry all the time, in a Homer Simpson kind of way. The drawback though is that all my t-shirts now have drool stains across the chest. I really should’ve changed first or used a burp cloth, but in a weird way I’m proud. I feel like I’m officially a parent now.
Sleep strategy #929: Hold baby and walk up and down the stairs. If stairs aren’t available, continually step on and off a stool. It’s all about that bounce.
Day 42: I’m glad we bought a house even if we are saddled with debt. We never leave this place! I’m buying a smoker, I’m setting up a gym, maybe I’ll even get a pop-a-shot machine. I’m hunkering down. This may very well be my tomb.
Day 43: The baby broke us. The frustration of not being able to put her down for more than 10 minutes, has me sitting in my living room staring at $1500 worth of failed products, selling that dream of baby independence — Graco Play yard, bean bag chair, Fisher Price bouncer, Mamaroo, play mats. That’s how important 10 minutes is now.
Day 44: Making a sleep plan. Up until now, we’ve been playing defence. The baby cries and we scramble. We’re going to flip the script on her. Topsy-turvy it. All naps and sleeps will happen in the same dark room, in the same position, with the same white noise. I don’t even know if she understands all these inputs but we’re going to condition her.
Day 45: Mom already reneged on our conditioning plan from Day 44 (yesterday). She sees Baby’s fat face and can’t help but hold her to sleep. We’ll have to revisit this later.
Day 46: My brother, father of two, has been wearing the same tacky red hoodie for the better half of a decade. He’s mastered the art of not caring. A style prevalent among dads, both easy and convenient, while masking early to mid stage dad bod. It’s a nicety of being dad, Baby doesn’t care what you wear and her opinion is the only one that matters now.
Day 47: We’re at the back of a Chinese restaurant, beside a fish tank, in front of a washroom that doesn’t have counter space. We cobbled together three chairs to form a makeshift table to service a crying baby with pee running down her leg. This is the struggle of diaper changes in public spaces.
Day 48: Came home from work, Baby was fussing with Mom for hours. It only took me 5 minutes but I rocked Baby to sleep, and put her down. Mom hates me right now, but I feel like such a G.
Day 49: So we hit the 6 week mark. Went to the obstetrician and he gave us the thumbs up on banging again. A quick note on banging: It’s not happening. We don’t have the energy. I feel frail, she feels fat and most of the time we pass each other like shift workers clocking in and out.
Day 50: Baby has started to grin at me. I have no idea if this is something I’m doing or her just discovering new face muscles, but it’s pretty amazing to actually feel like we’re interacting.
Update: She was discovering new muscles, it had nothing to do with me.
Day 51: My sense of scale is completely broken. Caught myself touching the contours of Mom’s face, dumbfounded as to why it looked so big. It’s like staring at an Easter island statue now. Starting to notice this when I see older babies too, who weigh 5–10 pounds more. They look like fat gnomes unfit for slings or strollers. This makes absolutely no sense, maybe I’ve just been staring at my baby for too long.
Day 52: Woke up at 3 am to the screams of Baby. Ran into the room and caught a glimpse of Mom’s night routine; half awake, hooked up to a breast pump, while syphoning snot from the chubster. Poor Baby, poor Mom.
Day 53: Happy Father’s Day! Mom took me to the Mandarin, a Chinese buffet, serving the type of food you’d expect to find in a strip mall of a small town. Torpedo shrimp, egg rolls, chicken balls with dollops of red sauce. Sushi without the raw fish. Food too sweet or too salty, catering to the dying taste buds of the elderly. What a glorious experience, like a magnificent B movie. I love these girls. I can get used to the pampering.
Day 54: Completely legitimate and plausible excuse — “Sorry I couldn’t/can’t make it, Baby was/is being fussy.” Use sparingly to maximize yield and social credibility, but this is your out! Best used for awkward social commitments, lingering friends, or just general boredom or malaise. If you’re reading this and suspect I did this to you, I didn’t. That time Baby was legit being fussy.
Day 55: Baby was supposed to be sleeping 1.5 hours ago. A month ago this would have stressed me out. Panicked, not knowing what I was doing wrong, trying to force her to sleep so she could get her ever important cycles in. This of course led to more cries and more stress, compounding the problem. But ceding control, letting go, and moving at Baby’s pace, makes life a lot more sane.
Day 56: Was playing with my nephews (2 & 5) today. Love these dudes, but it doesn’t look like parenthood is gonna get any easier. They’ve got boundless energy, fidget-spinner drama, curious fingers, and immediately-bored syndrome. You gotta improvise with them and really be a kid again. It’s fun, I love it, but it’s tiring. It makes me appreciative of Baby’s age right now. There’s at least a formula or rhythm to it all. Her needs are finite. She’s not running around or asking me about the mechanics of private parts. My only drama is sleep and interpreting the funny faces she makes at me.
Day 57: Totally pretended to be asleep so I could shirk my duties at 5:30 am. Yes, it was a dick move. And yes, it did take Mom an extra hour to put Baby to sleep. But out here, in this game, it was either her or me that was going to lose that hour and I feel great!
Day 58: Made the mistake of joining Mom and her mommy group for lunch today. Like a fly on the wall, mouth agape, listening to discussions around milk flow, bleeding nipples, episiotomies, postpartum bowel movements, and the need for adult stool softeners. I think my penis completely retracted into the recesses of my stomach.
Day 59: Lying beside Baby, one hand on her chest, the other liking a video of a cat trying to fit into a tissue box. Baby’s freaking out, tears soaking the bed sheets. She wants me to pick her up, but I’m refusing. This is cold blooded right here, but I don’t want her getting too used to being held. Mom had to leave the room, she can’t watch this. This will be Baby’s first introduction to the tough love of Asian parents.
Update — 15 minutes elapsed, she’s now asleep on my chest. She won, again.
Day 60: Baby drank from the bottle for the first time and is officially (not really) untethered from the boob. I can help with the feeding now and actually feel like I’m contributing. It’s the least I can do as Mom, the milk factory, has been working around the clock.
Day 61: Note to self — Remember to scrub the folds. Her little balled up fists have accrued this black crud, as have her armpits and neck. I think it’s from the pooling of sweat and milk residue, trapped in her crevices, compacted by her rolls. Do not smell it. It’s so foul.
Day 62: Baby no longer sees me as her alien captor. Noticing that she has separation anxiety when I leave the room now. Maybe it could’ve been anyone lying there beside her, radiating heat, but I like to think that I’m special. Mom has noticed this for weeks already.
