It’s now been three weeks since our son, Ivan, was born, and we’ve had an amazing amount of experiences with him in just those few weeks.

 

Things started before we left the hospital.  Like a lot of neurotic, New Age-y dads, I stayed overnight on the Maternity Ward in my wife’s room, sleeping in a chair beside her bed.  Thing is, as a man on the Maternity Ward you are welcome but sort of not.  It’s not exactly like being a skunk at the family picnic, but it’s sort of like being the family dog at that picnic. It’s okay that you’re there, but no one really cares about you, and if you eat or drink food or water that was supposedly for someone else, you are going to get in big trouble.

 

Anyone who’s spent any time on a Maternity Ward knows it’s a weird, suspended-animation and exhausting reality.  Two days after our son was born, I was in my wife’s hospital room at 3 in the morning, and I thought:  “I have coffee breath. I haven’t slept in 48 hours. And I’m sitting, watching someone who doesn’t know I’m there. I’m either a new dad, or I’m a cop on a stakeout.”

 

While we were in the hospital, there was an earthquake in New York City, an occurrence that is quite uncommon.  Then, just 5 days later, Hurricane Irene swept through New York.  In addition, every day since our son was born, there has been a literal deluge of Hazmat-filled diapers.  As a result, we began to wonder if our son had some weird abilities to cause natural disasters and whether he was a weather-controlling X-Man or Magneto-following mutant.

 

Speaking of diapers, when Ivan was born, the first thing they told us was that the most important thing was to count diapers, for #1 and #2.  But, the #2 ones are really important because that tells you if the kid is actually eating, whether something is coming out your wife’s breast or whether the kid’s just a pervert who likes boobies.  So, every diaper you change you examine it carefully.  Finally, little Ivan had his first #2, and it was just about the most exciting thing.  It was as if he invented electricity.  Then, there was another and another, and next thing you know, I felt like the count from Sesame Street — “One, one poopy diaper. Two. Two poopy diapers. Three! Three poopy diapers! Ah, ah, ah . . . I love to count.”

 

As a Jewish family, we began right away to plan for Ivan’s bris (the ritual circumcision).  For some reason, it became my job to find the mohel for the bris, and I was freaking out.  My wife, meantime, said she wasn’t worried at all.  So, I said, “How can you not be worried?  This isn’t like a haircut or a manicure.  If they mess it up, you can’t just wait for things to grow back.”

 

By the way, picking a mohel is tough.  It’s not like you can ask the guy to send photos of his work.   If he does, you both go to jail for child pornography.

 

Once the bris was done (successfully I might add), things began to settle into a rhythm, which can be best described as “Eating, Pooping, Crying and Sleeping.  Repeat.”

 

Interestingly, I’ve learned that my son can literally poop and eat at the same time.  And, what’s even more fascinating is that he can do both while asleep.  Now maybe this doesn’t impress you.  But, in case it doesn’t, bear in mind that there are men that spend their entire adult lives in recliners on Sunday afternoons, watching football, trying to do this, and my son, in less than 2 weeks on this planet, managed to figure this out and master it.

 

Truth is, my son reacts to breastmilk the way Popeye reacts to spinach, if the spinach were laced with Ambien and Ex-Lax. At this point, I need to speak with his doctor to see if he’s eligible for Olympics for having giant forearms or superhuman pooping abilities.

 

As opposed to some new parents, I had no experience to speak of in the area of childcare.  Yet, I’ve begun to master the art of the diaper-change.  However, I got a little cocky (no pun intended) and was reminded of that  old adage that “pride goeth before the fall.”  I was changing Ivan’s messy diaper one afternoon, and I did it in well under 1 minute. So, I looked at him and said: “See.  See what a good dad I am.  Look at how good I am at diapers!”  He didn’t even miss a beat.  He just looked at me and pooped in the new one as if to say “Never, ever, EVER forget who is in charge around here. YOU work for ME!.”   And, for a second, I was defeated. But then I came up with a retort.  I looked back at him and said: “Well that was well-played.  But how about I just leave you in that diaper for several minutes as passive-aggressive retribution.”

 

Several days later we had another interesting diaper-changing event.  It was one that anyone with a son is familiar with.  I was changing Ivan’s diaper, and he peed on me.  Which is just about the ultimate humiliation.  So, I decided to get back at him.  I took a photo of him, naked, with his little Johnson just hanging out there, blowing in the wind, and I’m going to save it for 18-20 years and then show it to the first girl he’s “serious” about and brings home to meet the parents.

 

Actually, the crazy thing was that it didn’t even bother me that much.  Which, when you think about it, is a little nuts.  I mean, another dude pees on you, and there’s gonna be a fight.  But, my son peed on me, and all I could think was, “Well, if I had just been circumcised, I’d want to take that thing out for a test drive too.”  Besides, I figure it was fairplay, considering what I had the mohel do to his penis

 

Then he peed on my wife.  And, I laughed my ass off.  And, again, if another man peed on my wife, I’d probably kill him.  But, my son peed on my wife, and I thought it was just about the funniest thing I ever saw.  In fact, I laughed so hard, I almost peed on her myself.

 

Meantime, I’m taking a lot of photos of him.  But, the only time I can take them is when he’s not crying or pooping, when my hands are free, so the only pictures I have of him are when he’s sleeping.  I have hundreds of pictures of him sleeping.  It’s getting a little creepy.  If you saw all these, you’d swear I was some sort of stalker.

 

Ultimately, what I’m learning is that having a child is a test of all your skills and abilities.  It’s like the military, except the buddy in your foxhole weighs 7 lbs, 10 ozs and can’t carry any of his own equipment.  Also, he cries a lot which makes it impossible to sneak up on the enemy.  And, there’s a lot of friendly fire.  Good news is, it doesn’t kill you.  It just stains your clothes.