Opinion & Comment

Initiation into fraternity of fatherhood and things learned along the way

OUT MY WAY - Ben Garrett

If I heard it once, I heard it a thousand times: “You better get you some sleep now, big boy, ‘cause they ain’t gonna be no more sleep once them youngins get here.”

Those words were oft-repeated by men — fathers — of all shapes and sizes in the months leading up to the birth of our twins, Toby and Rachel, in March. The kindly words of advice were well-intended, I supposed, but — color me suspicious — I couldn’t help but note a hint of glee in their voices as fathers-already warned me of the coming surprises of father-to-be.

It didn’t take long before I realized that, indeed, the glee and sarcasm were real, not imagined. The fraternity of fatherhood (Pi Pheta Papa), I learned, is one to which membership is easily obtained and new brothers are welcomed, but it isn’t one that comes without its hazing.

Fathers, I discovered, having “been there, done that,” take a certain amount of pleasure in the culture shock that every man experiences when he becomes a father for the first time.

“You might as well sell them fishin’ poles, Garrett, ‘cause you ain’t gonna get a chance to use ‘em for the next few years,” one friend would say with a smirk on his face as he warned me of the impending lifestyle changes.

“Twins? TWINS? Boy you are in for it,” another opined gleefully as he smacked his knee in laughter.

“You do know that the days of eight hour sleeps are over, don’t you?” asked a complete stranger in the concession line at Thompson-Boling Arena with a look on his face that can only be described as a classic example of the wicked-evil-grin.

I would roll my eyes and let their comments do the proverbial in-one-ear-and-out-the-other routine as I thought to myself, “It can’t be so bad. What’s so difficult about a few bottle feedings and a couple of dirty diapers?”

That, I reflect back, is among the stupidest statements I have ever made.

Nearly three months later, I am somewhat amused at some of the changes I note in myself, and downright disturbed at others. For starters, I actually know the difference between a Onesie and a sleeper. For another, I found myself cooing at the cat the other day. Perhaps most disturbing, I find myself using the word “poop” in normal conversation.

I’ve learned to accept the well-intended advice of complete strangers with at least a feined interest. But, I swear, if another stranger tells me in Wal-Mart that I’m holding Baby the wrong way or have Baby dressed too warm or too cold, I’m gonna spit up on them.

I’ve also learned that the satanic predictions made to me in January — no fishing or hunting, just diapers and burping — are exactly true in June. The Cabelas magazines and auto traders next to my porcelain thinking chair have been replaced with stacks of back issues of American Baby. Emailing friends for the latest fishing reports on area lakes is a distant memory; the other day, I found myself excitedly emailing that I’d discovered Shout will work wonders for bringing spit-up stains out of my “A bad day fishing is better than a good day at work” T-shirt. Distant memories also are the days of sneaking out to a farm pond or two after work in search of nesting bluegill or shellcrackers, or to try and drag a largemouth out from under a lily pad; many’s the day where the most dramatic moment of my day involves a tiny bowel movement.

It isn’t that I’m complaining; I suppose that all too soon the trials and tribulations of spit-up on my only clean pair of slacks just before leaving for work will be replaced by the pitter-patter of little feet, and from there, first days of school, first dates, first cars and college (and, for me, first gray hairs, first SSI check and first liver spots).

And, I’ve found, the wish-you-well-(not) attitude of fathers that I used to detest so much — that glee of fathers-already warning fathers-to-be — is actually catching. It was just a few days ago, when I noticed the swell in the belly of a complete stranger in the checkout line at Wal-Mart, and tapped her husband on the shoulder to say, with a smirk, “You just wait, ol’ fella . . . your days of restful nights are almost over,” that I realized: Somewhere between the first time I was peed on and the first time I was vomited on, I’ve been initiated. And though I’d never admit it to those aforementioned fishing buddies, I suppose I’d have to say that “A bad day of fatherhood is better than a good day fishing” (I think).