Though sleep and free time are not things I have in excess these days, I thought I’d take a moment to update the ol’ JLP with some musings on being a new dad. If these aren’t funny enough for you, then rent the hit film Weekend at Bernies and the ill-advised 1997 follow-up Weekend at Bernies III: The Ultimate Violation and guffaw till you puke.
-Turns out that the 3am offerings on television aren’t the most compelling, particularly if you don’t have cable. While I’m burping and soothing Oliver, I’m stuck choosing between infomercials on natural weight loss remedies, local news re-runs, and celebrity gossip shows. Watching these in such a loopy mental state is actually somewhat compelling. From what I’ve gathered, Lindsay Lohan is too skinny and enjoys drugs, and Jon Gosselin trapped himself in a helium balloon that flew over Colorado.
-Coffee has gone from an occasional indulgence to a flat-out necessity. I’m basically dependant on it these days to stay alert. It is like the thick, nourishing milk from a she-wolf, and I am the ravenous polar bear nursing unfeasably from her.
-Since watching my wife go through such a traumatic delivery and becoming a father, my emotions have been on overdrive to a preposterous extreme. Two days ago, while grabbing a few items at Target, I was thinking about the rollercoaster of a year Bridgette and I have been through and how incredibly blessed I felt. I hit the electronics area and saw a display of Christmas music. As I picked up the albums and started reading the song titles, tears began welling in my eyes. There I was, holding a copy of Alan Jackson’s Let it Be Christmas in a busy department store in October, weeping openly. This is no joke. I went home and told Bridgette about it and she laughed right in my face. Since Tuesday morning at 2am, she’s been the heroically determined stoic and I’ve been the emotional basket case. It’s probably time to stop drinking this Diet Pepsi with Estrogen.
-Bridgette can somehow simultaneously hold Oliver and vacuum the carpet, talk on the phone, and lovingly nurture the cats. Meanwhile, when I hold him, I feebly demand that she dip my chicken strips in BBQ sauce for me and then lift them to my eager, quivering lips. I just can’t multitask very well, and can sometimes feel a bit uncoordinated with him. The way I see it, though, as long as he doesn’t die from dysentery on my watch, I’ve done my job.
Enjoy your Sunday, everyone.