You’re A Father, Charlie Brown …

The word “sacrifice” is defined as “giving up something valued for the sake of something else regarded as more important or worthy.” In biblical times, sacrifice meant giving up your most prized sheep to get in God’s good graces. During the Great Depression, it meant working degrading jobs just to feed your family. And yet neither of those compare to the unthinkable sacrifices you must make as a parent in the 21^st century.

Brittany: “Hey hun?”

Me: “Yes my lovely wife?”

Brittany: “When the baby is born, I think you should cut back on your softball playing.”

(Long pause.)

Me: “I’m leaving you.”

This scene took place right after I told Brittany about my plan to play an upcoming softball tournament. I’ve always been willing to give up a lot for the baby—partying, money, my dream of owning a pet elephant—but not softball. Never. It wasn’t until I heard this story that … well, you’ll see.

I’d like to tell you the tale of my friend, Weave, who sacrificed for his pregnant wife. We met on the softball diamonds of Lombard, Ill. back in the spring of 2002 (thanks to our mutual friend and coach, Joe). I was a young softball star in the making (stop laughing), and Weave was a big-hearted, seasoned veteran who brought his ALF bobblehead to the park each night for good luck. When asked to describe himself, he replied, “I’m the living embodiment of Charlie Brown—someone is always pulling the ball out from under me.”

His wife, Julie, also played on the team and spent most of her time scooping bad throws (from yours truly) at first base. Aside from being a gold-glover, she also swung a mighty stick and, as legend has it, once led our team in home runs—though you won’t find a single guy on the team willing to confirm this. More important, Julie is also pregnant with their first child.

Last week, Weave received an instant message from Tom (another friend):

"Want to go boo Sammy Sosa next Wednesday night at the White Sox game?" Weave, whose love of the White Sox rivals my love of the Reds, never passes up the offer to go to a game. He also never passes up the chance to boo Sammy Sosa. But after contemplating the offer for a few days, he turned it down.

“Julie always said I could go to games and such, but I just didn’t want to go,” he said. “I want to stay with her and be around as much as I can for the pregnancy.”

On Wednesday night Weave did what he normally does: ate some dinner, checked his fantasy teams, called friends and family to tell them about a hilarious column he read called The Life Of Dad and, of course, watched the White Sox. The starting pitcher that night was Mark Buehrle, a southpaw who’s so ineffective he’s often confused for a batting tee. Weave decided to channel surf, assuming that the Sox would get thumped. Around the 5th inning he noticed something interesting—Buehrle hadn’t given up a hit.

He stopped surfing.

“I knew right then, I swear,” Weave said. “I passed up the chance to see a no-hitter.”

Now, for you crazy non-baseball types, no-hitters are about as rare a phenomenon as Brittany passing up candy—sure, it happens, but not many have seen it and years can pass before it happens again. In fact, the last time a Red threw a no-hitter Ronald Regan was president, interest rates were 10% and I was in love with Winnie Cooper. I’d have given up anything—including Winnie—to be at that game.

Weave stared at the TV. The sixth, seventh and eighth innings passed and still no hits. He paced all over the living room. Julie, who had been online looking up baby strollers, joined him. She watched with half excitement, pretending to care.

He kept muttering to himself, “I could have been at this game!” But he wasn’t; he was home with his wife. And with that, Buehrle threw his final pitch, inducing a grounder to the third baseman and completing his no-hitter. Weave began clapping and a tear rolled down his cheek. Julie, like any loving wife, smiled, mocked his tear and went back to talking about strollers.

Good Grief.

Sacrifices come in all shapes and forms. Whether it’s missing history to care for your pregnant wife or cutting back the number of nights you play softball, good dads will always give up anything for their children (and even children-to-be). Weave’s story helped give me perspective and taught me a lesson that I’ll never forget:

Kids will always be a pain in the butt.

Pulling My Weight …

Pregnant women can be so self-centered sometimes. They’re always thinking of themselves, saying extremely silly things like I’m hungry, feed me or I’m tired, carry me upstairs. They demand these things without taking into consideration that food is expensive and that carrying them up the stairs is a direct violation of section B paragraph 12 of your softball contract:

“No player is allowed to lift or carry any woman he impregnated—not even his wife—up steps, down steps or over big puddles of mud during spring, summer or fall sessions. Any violation of this rule will be met with a demotion, suspension or, worse—taking over coaching responsibilities of the team.”

Recently, I’ve noticed that this self-centeredness has caused Brittany to start skirting her chores. She stopped vacuuming. She stopped washing the dishes. She stopped picking up after me, leaving mounds of my dirty clothes piled up in the living room, exactly where I left them! In fact, one pile had grown so large that we sculpted faces in it and named it Mt. Sockmore.

Disgusting? Sure, but impressive nonetheless.

I decided that this kind of neglect was completely unacceptable. When I confronted her, she made up lame excuses like “I’m tired” or “My back hurts” or “You’re a grown adult and should be able to pick up your own damn clothes and throw them in the hamper.” Obviously the baby is causing her to lose her mind.

With this conversation, I had opened a can of worms. She began acting like I didn’t do enough and demanded that I pick up the slack. Clean the bathtub!, she’d say. So I cleaned the bathtub. Vacuum the rugs! So I vacuumed the rugs. Cook dinner! So I picked up a yummy 30-sack of White Castles. But, in true Brittany fashion, she complained. Since it’s extremely hard to argue with a pregnant woman, I did what any rational man in my position would do: I ignored her. Then I ate my White Castles.

After the food had settled, I gave Brittany’s gripes some thought. Maybe she was right. Maybe I haven’t been the best husband. Maybe I don’t do enough around the house. Maybe “Bacon” isn’t a reasonable name for a child. At that moment, I knew I had to step up to the plate and help out.

So I cleaned the bathroom—sink, tub and toilet. I changed the bedding and fluffed the pillows. I did the laundry (twice, if you count the underwear I accidentally dropped in the toilet and dried with the hair blow dryer). I made trips to the grocery store with lists that included more than just Mt. Dew, Miller Lite and Doritos. I did all these things and more.

I rarely pat myself on the back (hey, stop groaning!), but after examining the past week and all I accomplished, I knew I deserved it. I knew I could safely look in the mirror and say to myself “job well done.” Brittany didn’t say it, but I knew she was proud of me, too. After all, for the first time in my life, she only had to redo half of my cleaning.

*Pat Pat*

I still don’t like doing chores and, if I had my way, I’d hire a housekeeper to take care of everything. Then again, if I had my way the Reds would play year-round, video games would qualify as ‘pets’ and all the thoughts running through my head would be narrated by the soothing voice of James Earl Jones. Unfortunately, I can’t control everything and it’s not unreasonable for me to pull my weight around the house. I vow that until BK3 is born, I will clean more, dust more and shower more—at least once a week—and help out in anyway I can.

Of course, once the baby arrives, my cleaning career is over. Don’t believe me? You should. It’s prohibited in my softball contract.

In Memoriam: While growing up, Kurt Vonnegut was my favorite writer. His books pushed me to think harder, think for myself. I may never be as prolific as he was, but I wouldn’t be the writer I am today without him. I’d like to end with a passage he wrote in Slaughterhouse-Five that’s stuck with me since I was 15:

“Why me? Why you? Why us for that matter? Why anything? Because this moment simply is. Have you ever seen bugs trapped in amber? Well, here we are, trapped in the amber of this moment. There is no why.”

Goodnight Mr. Vonnegut. You'll be missed.

My Seven Deadly Fears ...

I once heard that all fathers-to-be develop a heightened sense of fear. They can’t help it; having a baby is a life-altering event. Before you had a pregnant wife, your biggest concern was that your favorite fun-loving coworker Maria—who walks with you to the pop machine when you’re thirsty—will still talk to you after your not-so-inconspicuous booger-flinging incident. But now, months into the pregnancy, boogers are the furthest thing from your mind.

Just a few short months ago, the only two reasons I’d stay up late were for 1) extra innings and 2) sex—both of which irritate my wife. Now, I lie awake all night with my eyes wide open, running scenario after scenario in my head, terrified that something will go horribly wrong. Honestly, I haven’t felt this scared since I was nine years old and noticed the uncanny resemblance between My Buddy, the doll I cuddled at night, and Chucky, the mass-murdering doll from the Child’s Play movies. (Note: That was the night My Buddy got banished to the basement and was replaced by the extremely trustworthy and not-at-all threatening Strawberry Shortcake.)

Back to the point: Earlier this week, BabyCenter.com—the epicenter of everything you need to know about babies, parenting and ovulation calendars—featured an article covering the top seven fears of your average expectant father. It was so nice to know that others were experiencing the same anxiety. So I read the list of fears:

1. Will I be able to protect and provide for my family?

2. Will I be able to perform when my wife is in labor?

3. Am I really the baby's father?

4. Can I handle dealing with my own mortality?

5. Can I handle any health issues my wife or child encounter?

6. Will my wife love the baby more than me and exclude me from that intimate relationship?

7. Will I be able to handle "women's medicine" (the OB/GYN establishment)?

As I read down those fears one thing came to mind: What a load of crap! Those are the top seven? Not in a million years. Number three is the only one that even cracks my top 50, and it’s strictly because I know that if Brittany found a man who could operate a vacuum cleaner, she’d immediately bear his child.

So I got to thinking, What really terrifies us fathers-to-be? For your benefit and the benefit of other future dads, I’ve compiled a list of the seven real fears that I—and other expectant fathers—face. Maybe BabyCenter.com can take some notes.

The Seven Deadly Fears

1. My 50-inch Television, Steven, will feel neglected. Sure, I’ll attempt to express my love by cleaning its remote and occasionally wiggling its antenna. But at the end of the day, when the baby consumes my time, Steven will give me the doe-eyes and take his picture-in-picture somewhere else.

2. Brittany will rip off my arm and use it to beat me senseless over an empty tub of ice cream. Seems silly, but I’ve seen her maim for less.

3. After I’m dead and cremated, my child will snort my ashes. Unthinkable, you say? Reports about Keith Richards beg to differ.

4. My mother-in-law will steal the baby. I have this reoccurring nightmare that, moments after delivery, Mama T swipes BK3 before I get to hold her and races down the hallway yelling, “I’ve got one! I’ve got one!” Keep in mind that if this actually happened, my mom—who’d murder someone before giving up a grandchild—would jump up and immediately chase after her. Of course, it would go down as the slowest, silliest race in the history of mankind. (Where are the dads, you ask? In the cafeteria, sharing a celebratory dinner of liver and onions.)

5. In spite of years of conditioning, the child will hate baseball and the Reds. I could barely type that sentence without getting the shakes. In fact, I’d have an easier time accepting a shotgun blast to the crotch.

6. My Buddy will kill me in my sleep. I know this isn’t baby related, but still, freaks the shit out of me.

And finally:

7. The baby will grow up to look less like me and more like Hervé Villechaize.

There you have it, a complete list of fears that terrify all of us dads-in-waiting. I’d like to think they’ll go away, but somehow I doubt it. In fact, I can only assume they’ll get worse. And, on nights where the anxiety keeps me from getting a good night’s sleep, I’ll just turn to the home remedy that calmed my fears when I was younger: a warm glass of milk, a peanut-butter cookie and a hug from Strawberry Shortcake.

What Doesn’t Kill You ...

Babies have many needs. They need a loving family. They need an ample amount of sleep. They need to be rocked, fed, changed and burped. And, according to an online checklist, they also need “neck wings,” which I can only imagine come in handy when you’re too lazy to get up from the couch to pass the baby off to grandma.

Welcome to the world of baby registering.

At precisely 1:04 p.m. this past Monday, Brittany and I set foot in Babies “R” Us, the New York Yankees of everything created for, relating to and resembling babies. At 1:05, I was in a dead sprint for my car. Trust me, you’ve never feared for your life until you see an entire corral of hormonal pregnant women. Each one eyeballs you like a wild boar, ready to sink her teeth into your flesh; ready to tear you apart, limb from limb; ready to destroy every ounce of manhood you have left—all while totting two binkies and a potty seat.

If it wasn’t for Brittany (and her surprisingly strong headlock-grip), I would have been at home in front of my big screen, eating Doritos and sipping on an ice cold Zima. Instead, I sat uncomfortably at the customer service desk in front of Matilda, the Registering Czar. Not two chairs from me was another beaten dad-to-be, donning a ripped shirt and bruised ego. He gave me a sympathetic nod before being dragged off by his pregnant wife.

That man must be having twins.

Finally, with a list in one hand and a non-lethal scanning gun in the other, we began registering. It started off light and easy—monitors, outlet covers, Baby On Board bumper stickers—and took only a few minutes to register our first 10 items. Next, we progressed to bibs sporting witty phrases like “Don’t Wake Me … I’ll Wake You” and “I’m The Boss Now” and “If My Mommy Loved Me She’d Feed Me Bacon.” Apparently there are other cruel mothers in this world.

Aisle after aisle, scan after scan, I started realizing that this wasn’t nearly as unpleasant as I had imagined. In fact, I kind of enjoyed it. I put the scanner through my belt loop and acted like a cowboy in the old west, hunting lions, tigers and cookie monsters (Brittany points out that cowboys didn’t hunt any of these things—I guess she’s also smarter than a 5th grader).

As we turned the corner, I saw what appeared to be an oversized lunchbox with a blow horn in it. Seemed like a pretty odd combination. Since I didn’t know what it was or how it helped the baby, I asked.

“Hey hun,” I said to my lovely wife. “What’s this contraption?”

“That?” she said matter-of-factly. “Oh, that’s a breast pump.”

Cowboy fantasy is over. Resume dead sprint to the car.

How could a store full of cuddly animals, Bert & Ernie bowls and Spider-man sippy cups have such pornographic equipment? Shouldn’t this mega emporium built for toddlers be rated G? Shouldn’t there be a special room for pumps with a sign that says “Mothers Only”? Shouldn’t there be a “3rd Rock From The Sun” fan site? Unfortunately you won’t like the answer to any of these questions.

After several panic attacks, I calmed down. It was partially because I came to my senses, but mostly because of the evil eye I was receiving from Matilda. We continued registering for the next 3 hours, picking out diaper garbage cans, strollers and toys. When all was said and done, we had identified more than 70 items we needed for BK3. My brain could take no more. Neither could Brittany’s feet.

As we left Babies “R” Us and headed for the car, I couldn’t help but think about the millions of dads that had gone through this before me. They all survived and, apparently, so did I. This nightmare must have been a right of passage that was meant to make me stronger—and it did. In some ways, I’m thankful I got to take part in baby registering.

“Oh crap,” Brittany said. “We forgot the neck wings.”

God hates me.

Will They Or Won't They ...

There comes a point in every pregnancy (around 20 weeks or so) where the parents-to-be have to make one very important decision: Will they or won’t they find out the sex of the baby? Everyone wants to know. In fact, it’s the second most common question I receive after “How on Earth did you convince her to marry you?” and it’s one Brittany and I have struggled with for months. This is partly due to our over-analyzing of all decisions before committing to them, but mostly it’s due to the fact that, deep down, Brittany loves it when I’m miserable.

Recently, the debate on this has heated up. Next week hails Sonogram Monday—our first (and only) opportunity before the child is born to find out if we’re having a little slugger or a little ballerina—and Brittany and I are split right down the middle on what to do. Obviously there are two schools of thought on this, and I’d like to present both to you without bias so you can develop an informed opinion of what we should do.

School #1: We Should Find Out. This school of thought helps you plan accordingly with names, clothes, softball positions, etc. You’re no longer hand-tied to greens and yellows, and can build a baby room based on cool themes like trucks or dragonflies instead of decorating it in fruit. As a mother, it helps you feel more connected to the child. As a father, it lets you know whether you’ll need a baseball bat to teach your son how to hit homers or a cheerleading baton to mercilessly beat any boy that so much as winks at your little princess.

The only con to this argument is that people may be over aggressive in their purchases, leaving you no neutral clothes for any future children you may have. Then again, all your children may be the same gender, so it wouldn’t really matter. Which bring us to …

School #2: We Should Keep It A Surprise. This school thought, of course, has the very important element of being THE DUMBEST SCHOOL OF THOUGHT I’VE EVER HEARD!

By now you’ve probably guessed which side of the fence I fall on—the logical, sensible side where you learn the sex of your baby—and which one Brittany falls on—the wrong side. I really don’t understand why anyone would wait nine months for an answer to a question that’s attainable at four. To put this in perspective, I like to think of it in these terms: Sure, you could wait until Christmas to ask for “Gilmore Girls” Season 1 on DVD, but why would you when, with a quick trip to Target, you could be watching it this Saturday night?

This argument seems to be ringing hallow around my house, though. For some insane reason, Brittany thinks that her opinion is more important than mine. She brings up senseless points like she is carrying the baby and she is dealing with constant back pain and she is going to have to push the baby out of her fun zone. She says all of this without taking into consideration that she is driving me crazy.

So I spent a few days doing some soul searching and trying to find a middle ground. I offered to have the doctor tell me only, so she would still be surprised. This was met with a welcoming “No way, Mr. Blabbermouth.” I even offered to do laundry for a year, though that deal fell through when I, not knowing what the washing machine looked like, attempted to shove our clothes into the hot-water heater.

That slick move officially lowered my voting power to 49%, just shy of what is needed to win a decision in our house.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that, even though I don’t agree, she does have a point. While a dad’s role is important, it’s not nearly as vital as mom’s. So far, Brittany has had to do all the hard work. She’s sacrificed many things—her energy, her figure, her dream of becoming a pole dancer—all while keeping up with her job and home life. And I admire that.

If this gift is something that means that much to her, I can suck it up for the next 4 months. Sure, it’ll be tough, but I can do it. After all, I love her. And, when the big day comes and Brittany’s ready to push, I hope the doctor looks up at both of us and relays the news I’ve been dying to hear since we passed on finding out the gender the first time:

“Oh my god, this baby has a giant head!”

Payback is hell, love. Payback is hell.

Stuffed Animals ...

Lately I’ve been in a funk. Why? Brittany and I used to be partiers. On any given night we’d paint the town Cincinnati Red. We’d stay up to all hours, hanging out with friends, talking philosophically and trying to answer the one question that’s perplexed man since the beginning of eternity: Why is your sergeant toe bigger than your captain?

Recently, though, I’ve come to the realization that our reckless lifestyle has come to an end. No more late nights. No more excessive drinking. No more Bringing Sexy Back with Justin Timberlake. Everything bad for us must go.

When did that happen?

While our wild sides have been dying slow, painful deaths for years, they didn’t become fully extinct until this past Saturday when, at precisely 11:45 p.m., we left Lily Shoemaker’s very first birthday party and saw our future. Now, make no mistake, we had a great time. In fact, it was probably the best party we’ve been to in the past year. But that’s exactly my point: When was the last time you walked away happy from a party where the guest of honor had a bedtime and a load in her pants?

It’s a scientific fact that everyone eventually transitions from fun-loving, bar-hopping party animal to boring, early-rising, mortgage-paying adult. This decline typically starts when you’re on the wrong side of 25 and, if my data is correct, only gets worse as time moves on. You trade in your backwards ball cap for a comb over. You tell your good buddy Captain Crunch that he’s no longer welcome in your house, and bring in your new life-ling partner, Raisin Bran. If that’s not enough, you have to listen to the neighborhood kids call you “sir.” SIR!

There’s not much more humbling than that.

When we got home on Saturday night I felt less like a party animal and more like a stuffed animal. I was tired and sleepy. I sat there on my bed, lifelessly staring at the blank television screen. All I really wanted was for Brittany to come in, give me a hug and tell me that, no matter how old we get, we’ll still be the life of the party. Instead, she plopped into bed, complained that I was “on her side” and told me to get my “pickle breath” out of her face. I love her so much.

The next morning I got to thinking: Why does becoming old and boring have to be a bad thing? Every change in my life thus far has been a success—going away to college, getting married, switching from the high-five to the rock-bump. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I actually enjoy parties at friends’ houses where there’s no loud music and plenty of seating. I like having a chance to just sit back and chat with my friends. I like coming home and not smelling like bar—that nice combination of beer, smoke, sweat and urine. I like getting to bed early, turning on “Saturday Night Live,” then immediately coming to my senses and flipping the channel to anything but “Saturday Night Live.” Most important, I like not feeling bad about any of this.

The part of my brain that used to focus on all-night keggers and late night trips to White Castle blew a fuse. The replacement parts include kids—my kids—sitting in their beanbag chairs, reaching into that family-size bowl of popcorn, chuckling while their mother complains that we’ve rented Uncle Buck for the 20th time. (Though, if she was really counting, she’d know it was the 21st).

It may not be everyone’s dream, but it’s my dream. Excluding Uncle Buck, it’s Brittany’s dream, too. If it takes us losing our edge and becoming boring, so be it. I’ve accepted it. Brittany has accepted it too.

Now, if I could only get her to accept my pickle breath …