Being a father is its own kind of labor

If you’re an astute reader (I’m guessing most of you are), perhaps you noticed something strange about the cover of this edition of the Son Day. Oh, there it is again. Did you catch it?

The perk of owning a newspaper is that on rare occasion, a celebration say, you have the authority to do whatever you want. You don’t get that opportunity often, owner or not, so I wanted to jump at the opportunity to capture the birth of my son in a fun way by renaming the paper in his honor…just this once. And, of course, I’m a writer so what better/nerdy way of doing that than “playing with homonyms!”

My son was born 5lbs 10ozs, 19.25-in. long (why not “tall,” I have no idea—just because he can’t stand shouldn’t make a difference), with a 9.9 Apgar at 3:10 a.m. Tuesday, November 15.

He was a week overdue, and I credit his arrival in part to the supermoon that night, proving the old idea that full moons do, in fact, bring on labor. My wife requested that I keep the actual story of his birth private, so I’m respecting her wishes but will say that in terms of labor and delivery, my wife’s was a breeze, and she did awesome, crying out only occasionally: “It’s coming again. It’s coming again. Chris, it’s coming again. Make it stop.” She meant her contractions. Everything went so quick there was a time that I thought the doctor wouldn’t make it. She did. And my son was born, changing my life irrevocably in the best way possible: I’m now a dad!

And the first thing I’ve learned in the few weeks of being a father is that babies aren’t babies. They’re bombs. And when they’re born, your entire life blows up. The only difference between a baby and an actual bomb is that with a baby, you’re looking forward to the explosion…maybe a little stupidly.

Since my son’s birth, there are some things I’ve learned to accept about my new life quickly, and I’m not talking about new responsibilities or the task of rearing a child. I’m talking about trivial, day-to-day matters like that at any given point, I have baby pee, baby poop, baby spitup, baby sweat (or all four at the same time) on my body. My kitchen looks like a hurricane hit it. Personal hygiene, for the time being, has went out the window. And my diet has declined to scavenging for meals instead of preparing.

Oddly, though, and how’s this for backwards, I’m sleeping more with a newborn in the house than not.

That caught your attention because I’m sure I’m about the only parent in the entire history of the world to make such a bold claim. But here’s why: I only sleep about four to five hours a night. I’ve maintained that sleep duration for more than twenty years, and even going back to my own childhood, I didn’t sleep much. But when we took our son home, I subscribed to the popular parenting tip “sleep when the baby sleeps,” afraid I’d lose even the little sleep I had, and after a day or two, I realized I was catching more Zs than normal. I am more exhausted, though, so go figure.

As a I mentioned to Sun Day Web Editor (and my longtime friend) Billy O’Keefe in an email a couple weeks after my son was born: It’s hard having a newborn in the house. Actually, I preceded that statement with a string of choice words that I would like to keep private because what final thing I’ve learned after these few weeks is that a father experiences his own sort of labor after the birth. It’s called being a dad.

So far, it’s worth it.

Now excuse me so I can go wash god knows what off my hands.

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