& three weeks in

It’s been a while. Did you miss me? Karli’s been telling me I need to update the blog because if I don’t, people will stop reading. This is why I like her—she actually thinks people read my blog.

Spoiler alert: The first few weeks have mostly been variations of this.

Today, Squatch is three weeks old. It’s been quite the adventure so far. It is umpteen times more difficult than I could have imagined, but also exponentially more awesome. Much of this is due to the fact that he’s the coolest baby ever*. But some is also because of how hard it is and the fact that we appear to be succeeding so far—as shown by it being three weeks in and he’s still alive and without lasting physical or psychological damage. We think.

*Don’t argue that point. It’s established fact. Also fact: he’s the cutest baby ever.

So far in his three weeks, though, he hasn’t done anything too exciting. We got to go to the doctor a few times, but the highlights for him would probably be the visitors. He entertained guests in his hospital suite and here at our shitty apartment, and has done so in a manner that Emily Post would be proud of.

Visual proof that he’s safe and in one piece.

One thing I’m glad we did was ask out-of-town guests (meaning family) to wait at least a week before coming down to visit. It’s not that we aren’t dying for Squatch to meet all his family, but that week buffer was mostly for us. We needed time to establish a routine, get comfortable with a new baby in the house, and most importantly, to screw up. Because, in those first few days, boy did we ever screw up. And the last thing we needed was an audience to witness those screw-ups.

Like the time we were changing his diaper and he started to crap on the changing pad, and as we were trying to clean him up for that, we managed to get him to pee on his own face. Or like the time the dog snatched away a piece of bread that had managed to fall on his head and stop our hearts for about 15 seconds. Or any other number of meltdowns and freak-outs that happened in those first few days home*. We didn’t need people watching those.

*I’m not going to say who’s responsible for these screw-ups, but his name rhymes with Swatch’s Schmaddy.

Squatch hanging with Wumpy. (Stolen from my mother-in-law’s Facebook page.)

After the week moratorium, however, Squatch got to meet Karli’s parents—Wumpy and Nana. That’s what we’ve decided they’ll be called, and putting it out on the internet makes it official. No going back now. Having them here allowed us to hand him off for a few minutes* and get some help packing up a few things, and they were excited to see their first grandkid.

*A slight underexaggeration. I’m pretty sure that one of them was holding the kid practically every second they were awake and Squatch wasn’t attached to a boob. Not that they seemed to mind at all.

A few more visitors are in store before Squatch’s first big adventure—moving day. I’ll make sure to keep you apprised of how that whole mess goes down, too, especially now that we’ve made it through the first few weeks. I think I’ll be able to keep up on the blog a little better now. People keep telling us the first few weeks are the hardest and it gets better. Of course, they could just be trying to be nice.

& thoughts on runners

With this post, I’m officially making the transition from being an expectant daddy blog to becoming a full-fledged daddy blog. I’ve already been peed on, so it’s official.

To make that transition, I want to talk about running. No, not running away—you should know me better than that by now—and don’t worry, this isn’t going to turn into another post where I gripe about being overweight and out-of-shape. I’ll spare you that. I’ll post a birth story at some point in the near future, but today I mostly wanted to talk about one thing.

I don’t get running.

I don’t really get runners, either.

What sane person considers this fun? Photo by iwanbeijes/stock.xchng

Sure, I’ve run before. I’ve tried going out with runner friends and end up making a fool out of myself. I’ve jumped on a treadmill and, after nearly killing myself by not knowing how to use it, mostly huffed and wheezed myself back to the locker room. I’ve run when taking part in other sports. I’ve run to chase down various food trucks who are trying to get away. But running, in and of itself as a sport of its own—I just don’t get it.

You have to have a special mentality to be a runner. You almost need to be slightly masochistic. A glutton for punishment. Because, when you look at it, runners run to nowhere. They always end up back home or at the starting line or, on a treadmill, in the exact same place they’ve always been since firing the thing up. They run and run and run, and they get nowhere. Except exhausted.

In order to keep running and get nowhere, those runners need something to drive them. Some want to get in shape, some want to stay in shape, some want to push themselves to get faster and compete and win races or marathons or whatever. But they need that motivation to drag their sorry asses out of bed at the crack of dawn (or before) and put one foot in front of another so they can end up tired and back where they started.

People who run will tell you that it’s hard, but its the endorphins that keep them at it. Exercise releases those endorphins, so to go along with the tiredness is a feeling of bliss and happiness. It’s hard to get to that place, and that’s why a lot of people who start running will fail. They never get to that place. Running is hard.

Today, Squatch is five days old. In these five days, I haven’t slept much, which is no surprise to the parents out there. There’s just so much to do. And I’m just the dad—the one who didn’t carry the baby around for nine months then force him out of my nether bits. But now that he’s here, I’ve been trying to carry as much of the load as I can handle with him and with the house in general.

He’s gotta know how adorable this is, right? This has to be on purpose.

Those of you who’ve had babies or been around babies or have seen a baby know that they’re pretty helpless on their own. You have to do everything for them. Karli does the feeding since I lack the required attachments. I get her water and snacks to make sure she’s able to provide that food for Squatch. I try to handle the bulk of the diaper changing. I try to make meals for us at a reasonable time. I wash the breast pump equipment and the bottles and the dishes and whatever else happens to be in a three-foot radius of the kitchen sink. I try to keep the apartment (reasonably) clean. I make runs to the store to get more snacks and food.

Then, a couple hours later, it happens again. Squatch is hungry. His diaper is wet and turdy again. There’s more dishes and bottles to clean. The dog needs taken out. Every couple hours—like Law & Order reruns—it’s on again. All this work and I’m back where I started. And tired.

But I don’t mind. As a matter of fact, I kind of enjoy it, strange as it sounds. I get a strange rush from doing all this work because it’s for my wife and my brand new kid, which makes it seem worthwhile that I’m just heading in circles, ending up right back at where I began before collapsing into the bed in a tired heap of Sasquatch. I dig it. I can’t stop doing it. It’s hard, but I really need to do it. I want to do it.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I kinda get running.