Hi all,

Plainly, my interests are lying elsewhere these days. Until we get Nate's circadian rhythms hooked up and ensure he's no longer terrified of his own hand, I'll obviously not be posting here so much. I just want to say thanks to all the well-wishers.

Hope all is well,
Dan

P.S. Parents may now commence with sharing their war stories. Truthfully, it's had its difficult moments, but when you keep in mind that you're dealing with a creature that's both entirely guileless and purely id, it's easy not to take the shrieks and wails too personally. Honestly, with a great partner (such as I have in Mike) those moments are a lot less difficult.

(No, that's not Nate in the picture. I'll get a good shot of the two of us eventually.)

Now that I have had a child for a whole day I am, of course, a child expert. Thus, I will occasionally share some of my observations on child-raising, based on my observations of my wife as she performs all the child care, because I am far too busy for such feminine pursuits.

Firstoff, I intend to share the things you never seem to read about in cutesy ruminations on parenthood by soft-boiled columnists and idiot comedians.

For instance, baby shit.

There's allegedly no end of hilarity to the idea of an infant soiling his nappies. Said infant blasts out a puddle of yecch into the protective confines of his/her Pampers, leading to uproarious images of Papa Comedian removing the plastic garment and reacting with a horror echoed by the discovery of Wilbur Whateley's nether regions. After removing it from his child—looking at him/her as if mommy was the devil's whore—he pinches the diaper between thumb and forefinger and brings it to the garbage can as if he's carrying an open jar of hydrochloric acid. Cleaning the child is, of course, a traumatic experience, leading to daddy accidentally stapling the diaper to baby's head or whatnot. Ho! Har!

For chrissakes, it's SHIT. You don't want to eat the stuff, but if you've survived beholding a stranger's runny-chunky movements in a public toilet, you'll survive seeing your newborn's BMs. Jesus, you wipe it off your own butt every day. Grow up.

What they never tell you about is the absolute worst-looking and hardest to clean crap that will ever issue forth from your progeny. Whatever my son expels between now and potty-training, it will never match the pure nastiness that is meconium (gross picture, fair warning). Nay, it's not an element overlooked on the periodic table. It's the remnants of whatever nourishment Mike (for instance) was feeding Nate (for instance) in utero for the last few months. Think spoiled Indian food mixed with crude oil, but twice as sticky. Now, it's not easy to clean up, and I needed a little help from my lovely sister-in-law Marnie to change the little fella and prevent him from splashing his toesies in the muck, but as gross as it was it hardly made me want to run screaming into the night. I've shoveled human waste. I've cleaned up 40 years worth of grease from brass mill machines the size of three story buildings. I've looked after a drunken, ralphing, 300-pound Cuban in college, so I don't spook easily. Still, this is what the idiots are joking about, but can never bring themselves to properly describe, or even name. I don't know why. The comic possibilities of what looks like demon spooge shooting out your son's behind are endless, and you don't have to make yourself sound like a pussy to do it.

Anyway, relax. Meconium passes in a few days, leaving you with standard diarrhea to dab mop. Grow a set and grab a wet wipe. You'll do fine.

Nathanael Gray Kelly
6 lbs., 9 oz.
12/31/07, 8:35 a.m.
Mother and son doing fine.

Yes, we know about the tax deduction.

Sorry, Wallace. Unless you need a diaper changed, that's not for you.

A woman at work who is quite adept with knitting needles, offered to make Nate a pair of booties. She showed me a sample boot, explaining they were jester style, but when I saw the dangling coxcomb all I could see were Cthulhu tentacles. I showed her a picture of the Old One and asked if she could make them look like him. She said sure, and that she could embroider the eyes, so Nate won't say, "Mmmm, lunch!" when he sees goggly plastic eyeballs on his feet.

I told Mike this was the one hipster indulgence I'd allow myself: dressing Nate in thematic clothing. Anyone know where I can get him a Cannibal Corpse onesie?

I'm joking, of course. I know exactly where to get one.

Next month, Mike and I are going for the ultrasound that tells us the sex of the baby.

Poll #1027188 baby
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 15

What do YOU think we will have?

Why didn't I provide "Other," "Spawn of Shub-Niggurath," or something like? Because I knew you wisenheimers would do so in the comments.

By the way, sueg, Mike has appreciated reading your smart and non-panicky accounts of impending motherhood.