If you haven’t gotten the gist of the blog by now, my wife and I had a baby. Well, my wife had a baby; I mostly sat around asking if she needed more ice chips. Team effort.
Squatch is that baby. His name is Felix, but even before he was born, before we met him, before we even knew he was a he, he was named Squatch.
My wife insists that I can be mistaken for a sasquatch if you might happen to be standing around with a grainy Super 8 pointed in my direction. Big feet, body hair, putrid stench—the whole nine yards. And I just happen to be lucky enough that this fact hasn’t dissuaded her from carrying and rearing my sasquatch seed. As a result, I lovingly refer to that wonderful little parasite as “Baby Sasquatch.”
The nickname has stuck around postpartum. My wife didn’t start out too fond of the word Squatch, but it grew on her. Sort of. She doesn’t use it, but she doesn’t yell at me when I use it. You just have to give it time. And a couple thousand repeatings. And a blog that’s become an international sensation*.
*And of course, by “international sensation,” I mean the Slovenian spambots that like to leave comments on my posts. ‘Sup, guys?