(Written last week. I was too chicken shit to post three times in one week.)
Our sitter starts next Tuesday but the wife was returning to work this week, so I decided to stay home and take a week of vacation. Truth be told, I was really looking forward to some one-on-one with my little Pinkie Tuscadero.
As a stay-at-home dad, I wondered if I would be the conscientious kind of stay-at-home parent. You know, the parent who takes a shower and doesn’t wear sweat pants all day. The one who cleans the house and exercises in the same day. The one who doesn’t delay his/her infant’s bottle because they’re trying to set the DVR to record every episode of Jon and Kate plus 8 (oh my god, he is so not a good guy anymore!), The Hills, and The Real Housewives of New York City. What parent would stoop to such a level?
Even worse, I secretly feared I might start blogging from the tanning salon on East Broadway while kibbitzing with the bleached hair moms chain smoking Kools outside. To fit in, I would only drink extra large iced coffees from P.S. Gourmet or 64-ounce Big Gulps from 7-Eleven. I’d also have to look 45 even though I’m 33. I’d suddenly start yelling F-bombs at children because they’re, uh, swearing.
Fortunately, we’ve made it to Friday and no tanning salon in sight for me yet. Honestly, I’ve realized that naps are like pitch counts for starting pitchers. The higher the minutes without sleep or the more pitches in a game, the higher the probability of a meltdown. Before you know it, 7 innings or 5 hours go by and coach/dad has a disaster on his hands. Coaches and dads need some reps to detect the warning signs.
Anyways, I’ve definitely noticed that G-sizzle prefers to chew/suck on her fingers (or an entire hand) instead of a pacifier - although the soft handkerchief-sized fabric with an animal head on top is a close second. When she starts getting fussy and isn’t calmed by the giraffe or pointer/ring-finger combo, it’s kind of like when David Ortiz begins to get around on a starter’s fastball: the coach/dads nees to call for a reliever or a nap.
Probably my biggest area of improvement has been the neck bottle hold. Previously, I used my left hand to cradle the head and my right hand to hold the bottle. Operating a remote control at the same time is difficult unless you prop the bottle under your jaw, against your neck. That way, you can toggle between SportsCenter, ESPN2, and ESPN News without having to watch commercials while feeding.
Admittedly, the road hasn’t been entirely smooth. After a jog with the Cadillac of strollers, G-Love was snoozing so I kept her in the car seat while I hopped in the shower. Of course, she was freaking out about 3 minutes later. Hastily, I rinsed off and hopped out. It wasn’t until about 6 minutes after dressing when I realized that I still had soap in my crack.
It wasn’t until this week that I realized the actual number of wardrobe malfunctions during the course of a full day. Rumor has it that the Bellagio sports book just posted G's over-under tomorrow at 4.5 outfit changes in 24 hours. Poops, pees, spit-ups, and drool do a number on her threads, which - by the way - doesn’t include the wardrobe malfunctions to each parent's clothes.
Overall it’s been such a great experience, I think I’m ready to go Mr. Mom full-time. As Jack Butler once said, “When this beard comes in, it’s gonna look great.” Hey wife, you ready to be my sugar mama?