Groundhog Day

This was written for a new website www.post-baby.com that was supposed to launch this week. It will now be launching this summer. Here is a sneak preview.

“It just never stops, does it?” I asked my wife from across the living room. It was Saturday morning. I was lying on the couch finishing up my coffee and listening to NPR while my son was napping. She had just turned the baby monitor down and was heading to the kitchen for a warm up.

“Nope,” she answered. I stared at her butt as she left the room. She didn’t even have to ask me what I was talking about.

“I need a vacation,” I yelled. I could hear her laughing over the sound of the running water in the kitchen sink.

“You better get a different job then,” she smirked as she turned the corner and walked in carrying our coffee mugs, “Poor, poor, little beardie.” She let out my favorite giggle, handed me my cup, and took a seat across from me on the big chair. Our little dog got up from next to me and squeezed in beside her.

“Traitor,” I said to the dog before smiling an exhausted smile at my wife and taking a sip of my coffee. Sometimes when he’s sleeping, my mind plays tricks on me. I’ll sit there with some coffee, my wife, and This American Life, and forget I have a kid. It usually just lasts about a minute, often less, before the reality of it all comes tumbling down and spits up in your morning coffee. No my friend, you do have a kid, and he will be waking up before you know it and always before you want him to. I miss my childless Saturdays when we would sleep in, drink coffee all day, listen to NPR, and talk about things other than our son. I miss vacation days.

No sir, there are no vacation days in my job. Hell, there are no vacation days for any parent. Whether you are a stay at home parent or not, there are no weekends, at least not like you remember them. Nothing can prepare you for the minute by minute onslaught of raising a child. It’s Darwinism at its finest. Once that slimy little bugger pops out you either sink or swim, or tread water poorly and hope the sharks don’t attack. It’s not about winning or losing, you’re pretty much just always playing for the tie. It can be draining, and it’s only been eight months. Eight months. Two-hundred and fifty three days. It’s amazing how much your life can change in two-hundred and fifty three days. My mind is continuously blown. My emotions are constantly in overdrive. My sleep is consistently interrupted. The crying, the whining, and the pooping, like the parenting, never stops. I really need a personal day, but you don’t get those either.

I’m lucky. My kid is great. I get to stay at home with him every day. He amazes me by the second. He’s the best. Except when he’s not. I love him with every breath of me, but I love a lot of things. I do not, however, love the day in and day out monotony that comes with the first year of life. What makes it worse is that the monotony is paired with random, shocking surprises. There is a never ending cycle of using and washing bottles, bowls, spoons, nipples, bibs, onesies, pajamas, and diapers. Plus, at any second you could get blindsided by startling developments, atrocious noises and smells, and unavoidable falls and fluids. That’s bottles, bowls, spoons, nipples, bibs, onesies, pajamas, and diapers every day for the last two-hundred and fifty three days, and startling developments, atrocious noises and smells, unavoidable falls and fluids every day for the last two-hundred and fifty three days. Someone please stop the merry-go-round. I’m going to throw up. It’s the same day over and over and over again, but without Bill Murray and definitely without Punxatawney Phil and the chubby dude with the mustache. It’s positively exhausting. I don’t just need a massage, I need the happy ending.

When you are childless, people constantly tell you how life-changing it is. You nod and smile and think you understand. I know I did. I now know, I didn’t have a clue. Sure, it’s been the most special and eye-opening two-hundred and fifty three days of my life and I wouldn’t change a thing. I’m in love with my son. I understand that everything else doesn’t really matter. But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss my life without him. It doesn’t mean I don’t miss sleeping in. It doesn’t mean I don’t miss going anywhere and doing anything that I feel like, anytime. It doesn’t mean I don’t miss my Saturdays. It also doesn’t mean that there aren’t going to be days when I long for what was, wish for uninterrupted me-time, or want to dust off a piece of that selfishness that you kind of have to quit cold turkey and stuff in the back of the drawer once you cut the cord.

The last two-hundred and fifty three days have been the most intense experience of my life. Having a kid is the ultimate game-changer, and there are times when you just want to take your bat and go home. As much as I have grown to love being a Dad, sometimes I think that birth control companies should pay me to do testimonials in their commercials. Even better, they should make anyone that is even thinking about having unprotected sex by accident or getting pregnant on purpose spend a week shadowing me 24/7. Better yet, they can borrow my kid, try him out for a month, and I can take that vacation. Though, I’d settle for a Saturday.