A Very Jewish Christmas

I pick up my phone, dial the number and hit ‘Talk.’

It’s the week before my first Christmas, and I’m more anxious than Sarah Jessica Parker at the Kentucky Derby.

So many horses. One of them has to be my father!

I want to get my girlfriend something special, but before I buy it, I need to find out what the rest of her family got her.

Only, there’s a slight problem.

I don’t know if my girlfriend’s family still acknowledges Santa Clause’s existence, and I don’t want to be rude by assuming they know he’s not real.

The phone stops ringing, and my girlfriend’s mom picks up.

We chat awkwardly for a few moments, then I get to the heart of why I’ve called.

“So … uh…,” I begin confidently. “You wouldn’t happen to know what Santa’s leaving your daughter under the Christmas tree, would you?”

There’s a pause.

“Are you kidding me?” her mom answers. “This is a joke, right? Of course I know. I’m her mother! I bought those damn gifts. You really think there’s a Santa? … Wait, Jeff, will you hold on a sec? I’ve got the other line. It’s the ‘Easter Bunny’ …”

“Well, all right,” I say, annoyed. “But could you ask him for some gift ideas?”

“You’re an idiot,” she says.

***

My girlfriend and I are blessed. For many reasons. We love each other, we have a healthy baby, and we never have to worry about the toilet seat being left up because we both pee sitting down.

But there’s still one giant elephant in the room that neither of us wants to discuss: Religion.

See, she was born Methodist. And I was born with shoulder hair. Or in other words, a Jew.

Though both of us come from strong religious backgrounds, neither of us currently practice. In fact, if religion were a sport, I’d be Allen Iverson.

“We’re talking about practice?! Practice?! … I mean listen, we’re sitting here talking about practice! Not a game, not a game, not a game, but we’re talking about practice, man!”

But even though we’re both secular, we’ve decided that we want our daughter to grow up with a religion.

Brooklyn and her mommy on Christmas Eve.

We just don’t know which one.

“How about we explain the core beliefs of each faith, and then let Brooklyn decide for herself?” my girlfriend once suggested.

“That’s not a bad idea,” I had replied.

Then I began to imagine:

It’d be just like The Practice. Brooklyn would be the judge, and my girlfriend and I would be the attorneys, debating for hours before giving our closing arguments.

My girlfriend would be like, “Your Honor. If you choose Christianity, you’ll get to believe in Jesus, the son of God who died for your sins. You’ll get to celebrate Christmas, where you’ll get to decorate a giant tree and put up beautiful Christmas lights. You’ll sing about Rudolph and Donor and Blitzen, and you’ll get to open tons of wonderful presents that were given to you by Santa Claus, the jolliest man on Earth. Plus, you’ll be a member of the most popular religion in the world.”

Then I’d be like, “Your Honor. If you choose Judaism, you won’t get any of that. No Jesus, no Santa Clause, no reindeer. In fact, most of the world will probably hate you. But … when you grow up … you have a 99 percent chance of being really f-cking rich!”

My girlfriend would be like, “I object! I obj –”

Then Brooklyn would pound the gavel. “Order, order, order! I’ve come to a decision … Someone get this girl a yamakah!”

***

It’s Christmas Eve. I, along with the rest of my girlfriend’s family, sit two rows from the back of the biggest church I’ve ever seen.

I feel like I’m at Kauffman Stadium; I need binoculars just to see the action. The only difference is that this place is actually full.

“Maybe if the Royals invested less time in Luke Hochevar and more time in Jesus, they’d actually have some believers,” I tell my girlfriend.

“Shhhh,” she says. “The service is about to begin.”

After a few minutes of gripping announcements — the Jump Rope for Jesus on Thursday sounds like a whale of a time — the Pastor leads the congregation in prayer.

I join in, screaming at the top of my lungs.

“HARK, THE HERALD ANGELS SING! GLORY TO A NEW BORN KING!”

The church members all turn and stare at me.

“What are you doing?!” my girlfriend whispers.

“We’re sitting in the nosebleeds,” I answer. “If I’m going to do this, I want to make sure Jesus can hear me!”

***

It’s Christmas morning.

My girlfriend, my baby and I all arrive at my girlfriend’s mom’s house.

Why go to church to read about angels when I’ve got my own right here?

It’s early. Too early. I’m used to celebrating Hanukkah, which takes place during the night.

“I don’t care how great Christmas is,” I tell my girlfriend as I ring the doorbell. “No holiday is worth celebrating at 7 a.m.”

“What’s your deal?” my girlfriend asks.

“I don’t do mornings!” I say. “I do nights. Date nights. Late nights. Put me in front of a live studio audience and I’ll say, ‘Ittt’s Saturday Night!’ BUT I DO NOT DO MORNINGS!”

Her mom opens the door.

“Merry Christmas!” she exclaims.

“Merry Christmas!” I reply. “Which way to the eggnog?”

***

After getting settled in and sufficiently tipsy, I join everyone in the family room. It’s packed. There’s almost as many people as there are gifts under the tree.

As I look around, I feel like I stick out like a — well, like a Jew on Christmas morning.

To the left of the tree sit my girlfriend’s mom and my girlfriend’s younger sister. To the right sit my girlfriend’s older sister and her husband, along with her husband’s parents. Behind us sit my girlfriend’s grandparents, who drove all the way from North Carolina to be here for Brooklyn’s first Christmas.

“I’m sure you’re used to all this, Jeff,” my girlfriend’s older sister says. “Hanukkah’s eight crazy nights, right?”

“Not really,” I say. “It’s more like two nights of disappointment followed by six nights of who gives a crap.”

The gift opening ensues, and it rages on forever. Gift after gift. Picture after picture. Hug after hug.

Brooklyn with her brown, hairy bear. And a new stuffed animal!

And every gift that is opened is received with a variation of the same reaction.

“O.M.G. That is so cute!” Or, “That’s really cute!” Or, “That’s so stinkin’ cute!”

“I think I’m going to vomit,” I whisper to Brooklyn.

Then I look at her spit-stained dress.

“Looks like you’re one step ahead of me,” I say.

A few gifts later, my girlfriend’s mom hands me a small present.

“This one’s for Brooklyn, from her cousins in Carolina.”

I open it up, and it appears to be a small metal dumbbell with Brooklyn’s monogram engraved on it.

My face turns red with anger.

“What is this?!” I ask. “Why would someone give a dumbbell to a baby? I know she’s got some extra fat, but good God! She’s a baby! What else did her cousins get her? A treadmill and a Nike calorie counter so she can see how much weight she loses every time she takes a dump?! This is outrageous!”

The whole room draws quiet.

“It’s not a dumbbell,” my girlfriend says. “It’s a rattle!”

Then she shakes it.

“See!” she says.

“Oh … M. G!” I say. “That is so stinkin’ cute!”

***

It’s  1 p.m. Time for an intermission. Or as Jewish people like to call it, “lunch.”

We all walk into the kitchen, and there’s food as far as the eye can see.

There’s corn bread and salad and mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes and cranberries and six – six! — different kinds of casserole. At the end of the line there’s two different large trays. One is filled with turkey, the other with ham.

“Why aren’t you getting any ham, young man?” my girlfriend’s grandpa grumbles.

“Because Jewish people aren’t allowed to eat pork products,” I tell him.

He looks back at me with wild, enraged eyes, like it was 1941 again, and I had just broken the news about Pearl Harbor.

“DEAR MOTHER OF MOSES!” he yells. “IT CAN’T BE TRUE!”

“Unfortunately it is,” I say.

“I don’t get it,” he replies. “Why the hell can’t Jews eat the greatest animal on God’s green earth? Aren’t you supposed to be ‘The Chosen’ people?”

“We are,” I respond. “We’re the ones God ‘chose’ to make miserable.”

As we finish eating, my girlfriend’s mom comes up to my girlfriend and me and hands us the wish bone.

I was like, “I’ma break you in two, wishbone!” And the wishbone was all like, “Awww snap!”

“As new parents, you two get the honor of breaking the wish bone,” she announces. “The goal is to make the same wish. It should be something important. Something that means a lot to the both of you. Something like happiness, or success or great health.”

I look at my girlfriend. She looks back at me. Then we both look at our baby. It’s like we can read each other’s minds. Even though we haven’t said a word, I know in my heart we’re both wishing for the same thing.

“Ready … Go!” my girlfriend’s mom screams.

We start pulling the wishbone, twisting it with all our might until it finally breaks.

The bone snaps, and I end up with the larger piece.

“I win!” I exclaim. “I win!”

Then I look around the room, searching to see if my wish was granted.

“Where’s the iPad?!” I yell. “Does somebody see an iPad?!”

“That’s what you wished for?” my girlfriend asks.

“Well, duh!” I say. “Now where is it? Could you lift up the baby? She’s probably sitting on it. I can’t wait to download 50 Shades of Grey!“

***

The sun is setting. Christmas is almost over.

My girlfriend’s mom just opened a gift from us, even though she insisted she didn’t want anything.

“This beautiful baby is my gift,” she says.

“No it’s not,” I protest. “If the baby were a gift, I would have exchanged her for a different color.”

“What?” my girlfriend’s mom asks.

“I’m just saying,” I continue, “that baby’s are like iPhones. Everyone wants a black one.”

“Not me!” my girlfriend’s grandpa yells.

Then I give my girlfriend her gift from me.

“I know how much you’ve been through this past month,” I say. “So I wanted to give you something I knew you’d enjoy.”

She opens it up.

It’s a gift certificate for a full spa treatment at a nearby salon.

“I love it!” my girlfriend says.

“I’m so glad,” I say. “I bought the ‘John Travolta’ package, so everything’s included.”

“This is exactly what I needed,” she says. “Thank you so much!”

“You’re welcome,” I say. “But don’t thank me. Thank the Easter Bunny.”

Tub Girl

It’s Monday evening. Time for Brooklyn’s bath.

It’s been four days since we last washed her, and she’s starting to brown like a rotten banana.

Usually Brooklyn smells great — like peppermint. I’m not sure why, but I think it’s because I drank a handle of Rumple Minze the night she was conceived.

Maybe you should wear protection.

Don’t worry, babe. I’m like a giant bottle of Listerine: minty fresh and 100 percent sterile!

Right now, Brooklyn doesn’t smell anything like peppermint.

For whatever reason, she always seems to pick up the scent of whoever she’s around. Earlier in the evening she was at Bingo Night with grandma. Which means that tonight she smells like Xanax and cigarettes.

Brooklyn’s got more crack than the city she’s named after.

“Maybe Brooklyn should stop going to Bingo,” I tell my girlfriend.

“But Grandma loves Bingo,” my girlfriend says. “She always wins.”

“Trust me,” I say. “When a bunch of menopausal women gather in one place, no one wins.”

I head to Brooklyn’s room and start getting ready for her bath. Washing a baby is kind of like getting a colonoscopy. The worst part is the prep.

I grab the whale-shaped plastic tub, the sponge, the wash cloth and the bath soap and place it all next to the kitchen sink.

Then I undress the baby, take off her diaper and wipe up whatever surprise she’s left me.

After that, it’s a race to get her as clean as possible before she turns the tub into a Johnny-on-the-spot.

“That won’t happen,” my girlfriend says.

“If Brooklyn’s anything like me, it will,” I say.

“Uh, what?” my girlfriend asks.

“Whenever I take a bath my bowels turn into instant oatmeal,” I say. “Just add warm water and I’m ready to go!”

“You’re no longer allowed to take baths here,” she says.

“That’s fine,” I say. “The same thing happens when I shower.”

I lift Brooklyn from the changing mat and place her in the tub. As my girlfriend mixes the soap and water, I can’t help but stare at my naked baby.

She’s absolutely adorable.

But man, is she fat.

Not a happy camper after Daddy scalded her back.

She’s got rolls everywhere. And by the way she smells, I’m pretty sure she’s hiding a tuna sandwich in one of them. She also has so many cracks, I can’t tell which one is the crack.

“I’ve been wiping the wrong one this whole time,” I think.

Despite all the baby fat, I’m relieved that we can at least see Brooklyn’s belly button. When she was first born she had an outtie, which worried the hell out of me.

“People are going to think she’s a circus freak!” I thought. “She’ll be put in the same tent as the one-eyed monster and the three-titted lady! … I wonder how much it costs to see the three-titted lady?”

Luckily my baby’s belly button turned out to be just like 1940′s fashion: totally in right now.

We turn on the faucet and begin to wash her. I take a plastic cup, fill it with warm water — it’s important it’s not too hot, otherwise it will burn her skin — and pour it over her body.

After she’s completely wet, I wash her with the sponge while my girlfriend digs the fossils out of her cracks with the rag.

“I think this one was a brontosaurus,” she says as she removes the crusty remains from Brooklyn’s thigh roll.

Next, it’s time to rinse her. My girlfriend lifts Brooklyn up so that her back’s facing me. She’s got the cutest, tiniest bottom in the world. And it’s full of cellulite.

I feel like Kanye West the first time he hooked up with Kim Kardashian.

Wait, wait, wait. THIS is what you look like naked?! Damn girl, put yo clothes back on! No wonder Kris Humphries dumped dat ass. It’s covered in cottage cheese!

After burning Brooklyn the least I could do was let her borrow my robe.

I begin to pour the water on Brooklyn’s back, but as I do this, I realize I forgot to make sure the water’s not too hot.

It doesn’t take long to realize it is.

Within seconds of pouring the water, she’s screaming bloody murder as her back turns redder than a ginger without sunscreen.

“Oh God, what have I done?!” I scream. “I just burned my child! Social Services is going to take her. I’m going to jail. I can’t go to jail. I’ll become someone’s bitch!”

“Calm down,” my girlfriend says. “She’ll be fine. You’re not going to jail, and you won’t become someone’s bitch. You’re already mine.”

A few minutes and a burst eardrum later, Brooklyn finally calms down. We dry her off, put her in a new diaper and lather her with baby lotion.

Then we put her in her robe and place her in the basinet. She giggles like nothing ever happened.

“See, I told you she’d be fine,” my girlfriend says. “Now go make me a sandwich, bitch!”

Breast in Show

It’s 10:30 in the morning.

The sun sneaks through the bedroom curtains, providing enough light for my annoyed eyes to slowly open.

It’s the weekend. Finally.

As I begin to stretch, I suddenly realize I’ve got company. My girlfriend and Brooklyn are here.

It feels weird. Different.

Back in the day, waking up Saturday morning with two girls in my bed meant a wild night.

Now it means Mommy’s breastfeeding.

And the Golden Globes go to ...

Which is still kind of hot.

I look over at my girlfriend, who sits upright with a pillow on her lap and a burp towel draped over her shoulder.

The baby squirms wildly on the pillow, her face hidden toward her mom as she attempts to eat.

As she does this, I can’t help but stare. My girlfriend’s chest has never looked more glorious.

She’s never been an actress, but ever since the birth, she’s had two golden globes.

“If this is what happens,” I think, “I hope she breast feeds Brooklyn until she’s 20.”

After gawking for what seems like eternity, the sound of my girlfriend’s voice snaps me from my trance.

“I thought the baby’s the one who’s supposed to be drooling,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” I say as I wipe my mouth with the burp towel. “How’s, uh, this … going?”

“Horribly,” my girlfriend says. “I’ve been sitting here forever, but she won’t latch on. And even when she does, she’s not getting anything.”

“Well, Daddy’s getting a little something,” I say.

My girlfriend glares at me.

“That’s not funny,” she says.

“You’re right,” I say. “I’m sorry. I hope things perk up.”

***

Thirty minutes later, the baby finally finishes eating.

“That’s one hell of a milk mustache,” I say.

“At least one of you can grow one,” my girlfriend says.

Then my girlfriend, exhausted and drained, hands me the baby.

“Will you try to burp her?” she asks.

“Sure,” I say. “No problem.”

I grab the burp towel, place Brooklyn over my shoulder and gently begin to pat her.

“Come on, girl,” I say. “Burp for Daddy.”

Five minutes in, she still hasn’t burped.

I know. I'm a natural.

I remove her from my shoulder and hold her directly in front of me.

“Why won’t you burp for Daddy?” I ask as I lightly bounce her up and down.

Just then, she unleashes a mammoth belch that nearly blows off my eyebrows. I feel like Doc standing in front of the DeLorean right before it goes back to the future.

“Great Scott!” I yell as I lift Brooklyn in triumph.

Then I look up toward her face, and just as our eyes begin to lock, she starts spitting up streams of chunky white goo.

All over my face.

“HELP!” I scream. “GET IT OFF ME! I CAN’T SEE! I CAN’T SEE! I THINK IT’S IN MY MOUTH!”

“That’s what she said!” my girlfriend exclaims.

“Not lately,” I think.

***

Not too long after I’ve lost all of my remaining dignity, my girlfriend and I sit at the dinner table.

“I hate breastfeeding,” my girlfriend says. “It’s awkward, it’s uncomfortable and it sucks.”

“Technically she sucks,” I say. “And look at it this way. No matter how empty our fridge is, at least we’ll always have something to eat.”

Honey, I’m hungry! Will you squirt me a glass of milk?!

“Plus,” I continue, “if we ever want to enjoy a cocktail, all you have to do is drink some vodka, and bam! You’re making white russians.”

As we talk, Brooklyn lies in her bassinet, grunting uncomfortably like she’s Bob Barker sitting on the john.

Screw a newwww car, I need a newwww colon! Where are my beauties? These depends aren’t going to change themselves!

I feel sorry for my baby.

No wonder Brooklyn's digestive system is all messed up. This baby'll eat anything.

She may not have inherited my Dumbo ears, my Jewy nose or my Teen Wolf knuckle hair (yet), but she did get my awful digestive system.

I just hope she outgrows the grunting/public farting phase by high school.

I start to imagine …

A cocky jock wearing a letter jacket presses his forearm against her locker.

“So, uh, hey Brooklyn. Wadya doin’ Friday night?”

Brooklyn looks up at him. She’s sweet and nervous.

“I’m not sure. I don’t think I have any — UGHHHH … UGHHHH … UGHHHH … (gigantic fart) … plans.”

The jock blinks twice, completely unfazed.

“Sounds kinky. Pick ya up at 7?”

“Sounds great. (toot) See ya then!” 

And then it hits me.

I need to buy a gun.

Wake and Ache

It’s 5 a.m.

I’m snuggled comfortably in bed, the covers pulled up to my chin and my pillow stained in fresh drool.

“Jeff …” I hear in the faint distance.

“Ughh,” I moan as I itch my butt.

“Jeffff …” I hear again.

“But Mommy, I don’t want to go to Hebrew school …” I mumble.

“JEFFFFFFFFFFFF!!!!!” someone shrills.

I spring up.

“What — what’s going on?! Who’s there?!” I scream.

“Calm down, it’s just me,” my girlfriend says. “Brooklyn’s crying again.”

“Oh,” I say as I slowly release the grip on my Build-A-Bear. “OK … I’ll go check on her.”

I take off my eye mask and walk toward the baby’s room. I’m a zombie. It’s the third time I’ve made this trip tonight, and I have work in the morning.

“What the hell did I get myself into?” I think.

Brooklyn with my -- I mean her -- favorite Build-A-Bear monkey.

I enter the baby’s room, and I’m immediately hit with a whiff of vile toxins. I peer down at Brooklyn in her bassinet. She’s drowning in a bowl of her own poop soup.

“Mmmm,” I say as I take a big whiff. “Smells like the South.”

I pick up the baby. My hands are tucked under her armpits and my arms are fully extended like I’m carrying a wet dog.

“Just don’t drip on Daddy,” I plead above her screams.

I place Brooklyn on the changing table and immediately go into auto pilot, changing her with the quickness and precision of a trauma surgeon.

After she’s changed I put her in a fresh onesie and place her back in the bassinet.

“All done,” I think.

Only, she’s not.

She’s still crying. Hard.

“Brookie, Brookie, look at Daddy,” I say as I make weird faces and dance like a (slightly) straighter but less coordinated member of the Village People.

This only makes her more upset.

“Wu-wu-wu-weyyyyyyyyyyy!” she screams.

“….M … C … A!!!!” I chant back.

It’s no use. She continues to wail.

Now my head is pounding, I’m sweating, and I’m pretty sure I have poop somewhere on my face.

“Come here,” I say as I pick her up and rock her in my arms. Then I sing her a lullaby. Only, it’s been so long since I’ve heard a lullaby that I can’t remember any of the lyrics.

So I make up my own.

“Hush little baby, don’t say a word,” I sing, “Daddy’s impressed by your massive turd. If that massive turd don’t shrink, Daddy’s gonna puke in the kitchen sink …”

An hour later she’s still crying. And now my arms are asleep.

Brooklyn spent the whole night in our bed, and not once did she fall through a crack. Though she might have accidentally seen mine.

“At least something is,” I think.

I look down at Brooklyn.

“All right, that’s it baby, you’re coming to bed with Da-da.”

I carry Brooklyn into our room, crawl into bed and place her on top of my chest.

“What are you doing?” my girlfriend asks.

“Attempting to stay sane,” I tell her.

“The baby’s not supposed to sleep in bed with us!” she says. “She could fall through a crack and disappear!”

“Jesus,” I say. “She’s a baby, not car keys.”

I close my eyes. Then I think about what would happen if the baby were like car keys.

ME: “Honey, have you seen the baby? I can’t find her anywhere!”

GIRLFRIEND: “Did you check under the sofa?”

ME: “Yeah…”

GIRLFRIEND: “How about between the cushions?”

ME: “I think she’s lost!”

GIRLFRIEND: “She better not be … We don’t have a spare!”

ME: What are we going to do?!

GIRLFRIEND: “Don’t worry. I’ll go to the dealer and make a new one.”

ME: “Great! … Wait, what?”

I open my eyes and peer down. Brooklyn is passed out on my chest.

“Finally,” I think.

My girlfriend with her sweet little angel. And Brooklyn.

I start to drift, but right before I fall asleep, I’m startled by a blaring noise.

I spring up. The baby shoots off my chest like a cannon ball.

“Weeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!” she screams as she plops on the opposite side of the bed.

I look over at my nightstand. It’s the alarm clock.

7:45 a.m.

Time for work.

“Wu-wu-wu-weyyyyyyyyyyy!” I scream.

Killer Wails

It’s early evening. The sun begins to set, and our first evening at home with Brooklyn descends upon us.

My girlfriend and I sit at the dinner table. We’re eating some sort of meat dish that one of our friends made. I’m not exactly sure what it is, but my guess is rump roast. Because it tastes like ass.

Brooklyn is between us, resting comfortably in her portable bassinet. Fisher Price calls it a “Rock n’ Play,” which doesn’t make sense to me because it doesn’t rock, it doesn’t play, and it doesn’t play rock. Or roll.

Rock n' Play? More like Bore n' Snore.

“I wish this thing played AC/DC,” I tell my girlfriend.

“You don’t even like AC/DC,” she says.

“You’re right,” I say. “Too much loud, obnoxious screaming…”

Just then my sentence is cut off by loud, obnoxious screaming.

I look over at the Bore n’ Snore. It’s Brooklyn. The high-pitched wail emanating from her tiny body pierces the air like a fire alarm.

I immediately hit the ground.

“What are you doing?!” my girlfriend asks.

“STOP, DROP AND ROLL!” I scream from under the table. “STOP, DROP AND ROLL!”

***

It’s 10 p.m. Brooklyn has just been fed and is asleep in her Bore n’ Snore. I drag the bassinet into her room and place it in front of the baby monitor.

“I don’t even know why we got this monitor,” I whisper. “It’s not like we won’t know if she needs something. Even Helen Keller could hear those wails.”

Brooklyn hittin' the bottle hard again.

“Well it cost a lot of money,” my girlfriend says. “So we might as well use it.”

She’s right. It did cost a lot of money. That’s because out of the hundreds of baby monitors, we chose the one with a four-inch, high-definition LCD screen.

“What do we need a monitor with a screen for?” I remember asking when we saw it at Target. “Do you think our baby’s some sort of Russian spy? Are you worried that she’s going to sneak in a bunch of baby boys and throw a giant party where they all chug milk from a formula bong and do breast pump stands?”

How do they even market it?

“Introducing the all new HD baby monitor … Now you can see your baby’s boogers like never before! Get it while it’s snot!”

***

Brooklyn waves goodbye.

We sneak back to our room and crawl into bed. I turn on the baby monitor. It’s so advanced, it even has a night vision view that makes me feel like I’m playing Modern Warfare: Baby Edition.

I continue to stare at the monitor, watching Brooklyn as she sleeps.

After a few minutes I put the monitor down and turn to my girlfriend.

“This channel is boring,” I whine. “Does this thing come with a remote?”

My girlfriend looks at me.

“No,” she says. “But if you’re in the mood to watch Lost, just look in the mirror.”

“Meh,” I say, looking back down at the monitor. “I think I’ll stick to All My Children.”

Diaper Dootie

A few hours after we get back from the hospital, the moment I’ve dreaded most is finally here.

It’s time to change my first diaper.

In front of me lies Brooklyn, who’s squirming and grunting on top of a pink changing pad. To my right is a wooden box filled with changing essentials: diapers, baby wipes, butt cream, and smelling salts in case I pass out.

I’m dressed like I’m about to handle anthrax, wearing a full body suit, a surgical mask and latex gloves.

“Just don’t let it touch the skin,” I warn myself.

Then I slowly unbutton the snaps on Brooklyn’s onesie. I wrestle her feet out of the footies and pull the leggings above her waste and over her head.

She’s wearing a tiny Pampers diaper, which has a vertical line running through it that indicates whether it’s soiled. A yellow line means “Good to go.” A blue line means, “Oh God, no.”

Right now the line is completely blue.

Don’t be fooled by that face. Her venom is lethal…

I take a deep breath.

“It can’t be that bad,” I think. “She’s so tiny. Plus everyone knows girls don’t poop.”

As I open the diaper, I feel like a contestant on Deal or No Deal. Only instead it’s called Poo or No Poo, and I’m praying I choose the right diaper.

Howie: All right, Jeff. Only two diapers left. This is it. How are you feeling?

Me: I’m feeling pretty nervous, Howie.

Howie: Are you sure you don’t want to walk away?

Me: No Howie, I’ve gotta do this. My whole family is watching.

Howie: All right, then. Let’s see what’s in the final diaper …

[insert overdramatic pause as a woman with no foreseeable talent other than having a great rack opens the diaper]

Howie: And there’s … NO POO! Congratulations, you’ve won the grand prize! You only have to wipe up pee pee!

Me: I won! I won! I can’t believe I won!

Howie: Is there anything you’d like to say?

Me: I’d just like to thank the Big Man upstairs and the Little Man in my pants for making this all possible!

[Crowd goes wild] Howie: Tune in next time, folks, when Jeff tests his luck after Brooklyn’s just chugged a gallon of spoiled breast milk!

Back to reality.

I open the diaper and peek in. To my relief, it’s just barely soiled.

“Thank the Lord!” I scream. Then I drop to a knee and start Tebowing.

After I finish I immediately shift into turbo gear, changing Brooklyn with the speed of a pit crew member at a NASCAR race.

First I wipe her. (Note: with girls it should always be done front to back. That way none of the chocolate leaks into the wrong container, so to speak.)

Then I apply some butt cream (on her) and remove the dirty diaper.

“Almost done,” I say. “You’re doing great!”

There was a crime committed, and Brooklyn’s the leading suspect. “If the diaper fits, you must convict.”

But right before I put on a new diaper, Brooklyn starts to squirm. Then she pauses, looks up at me, and farts. Loudly.

It’s a warning signal.

Everyone take cover! This thing’s about to blow!

I try to grab a clean diaper, but by the time I start to put it on her, it’s already too late.

Brooklyn poops. EVERYWHERE.

All over her new diaper. All over her onesie. All over the changing pad.

“CODE RED!” I scream. “CODE RED! HIDE YO KIDS, HIDE YO WIFE! WE’VE GOT A CODE RED!”

I try to move, but I’m frozen. I can’t believe what I’m seeing; it’s like watching a blender after it’s lost its lid.

“IT WON’T STOP!” I scream. “SOMEBODY GET ME A WINE CORK, STAT!”

I look at Brooklyn’s face. She’s giggling. Like she’s thinking, “Gotcha!”

“That’s not funny!” I say.

She giggles harder.

“Bad Brooklyn, bad!” I say, like she’s a dog or something.

Then I quickly put her in a new diaper. I take all the ruins, throw them in a trash bag and chuck it out of my apartment with the force of an Olympic javelin thrower.

The bag lands on a neighbors truck, exploding all over the windshield and setting off the alarm. The neighbor hears the noise and runs out to his car. He’s freaking out.

“What the hell happened?!” he screams.

I shrug.

“Crappy weather,” I say.

We eventually made up. But she definitely owes me a drink the next time we hit da clubs.

Then I shut the door and storm back into the house.

My girlfriend, still immobile from the surgery, lies on the couch. I walk up to her.

“What in God’s name was that?!” I ask.

“What was what?” she asks.

“That!” I say, pointing toward the condemned room. “WHAT. WAS. THAT?!”

“The line was blue, right?” she asks.

“Yeah, it was blue,” I say. “But that’s not enough warning! That room should be blocked off by caution tape because our daughter just committed a hate crime!”

“I’m so sorry,” my girlfriend says. “Come here.”

She cradles me softly in her arms.

“It was horrible,” I say, shivering. “I was so scared … and lost … and confused. I felt like Ice Tea on Law and Order: SVU.”

“Well, I don’t want to frighten you, Jeff,” my girlfriend says. “But there’s probably going to be another unsolved mystery in about 30 minutes.”

“That’s fine,” I say. “Just as long as I solve the one in my pants first.”

Coming Home

It’s Thursday morning. After spending five days at the hospital, it’s finally time to come home.

My girlfriend remains in pain, but she’s progressed steadily over the past few days. Her hemoglobin is up, she’s regained color in her face, and she can walk to the bathroom without needing a nurse.

Brooklyn is doing better, too. After the delivery she developed jaundice, which made her look like Maggie Simpson, but it quickly subsided after she began feeding.

As we begin the checkout process with Heather, the nurse on duty, a small plastic fan oscillates slowly across the room. My girlfriend’s been having hot flashes the past 24 hours, and the fan has helped her stay cool.

“I love that fan,” she says to Heather.

Mom and Brooklyn feeling a lot better.

“You know what?” Heather asks. “Why don’t you just take it home? Our gift to you.”

“Thanks,” my girlfriend says. “That’s so sweet.”

I shake my head in disbelief.

“Really?” I think. “It’s that easy? We can just say we love something, and then we get to keep it?”

I point to the adjacent wall.

“I love that flatscreen TV,” I say.

“Well you can’t have that,” Heather says, prying the remote from my hand. “But you can have your baby.”

I stare at the ground like a grade schooler that just got put in timeout.

“Fine,” I say. ”But I’m taking this.”

I grab a nearby toothbrush.

“Um, that’s yours,” Heather says.

“Damn right it is!” I say.

***

A few minutes later Dr. Stone walks in.

“How are you feeling?” she asks. “Have you been passing gas?”

“A little bit. But I think it’s mostly from the pad thai,” I say.

“I was talking to your girlfriend,” Dr. Stone says.

“Oh,” I say. “Duhhhh.”

Dr. Stone shakes her head, then takes out a pen and writes my girlfriend a prescription for Percocet.

“Take this for pain,” she says. “If you don’t want to take a whole pill, you can split it in half … “

“… And give the other half to me,” I think.

(Baby) Blue Steel.

Dr. Stone proceeds to give my girlfriend a million directions, none of which I listen to, however, because I’m too busy taking pictures of the baby like I’m the paparazzi.

“Look over here Brooklyn!” I say as I snap picture after picture. “You’re beautiful! You’re a star! When are you getting back together with Ashton?!”

I turn to my girlfriend.

“I think we have ourselves a little baby Zoolander!” I say.

Dr. Stone gives us a few papers to sign, then gets ready to leave.

“Good luck,” she says as she heads out the door. “Daddy’s gonna need it.”

“Yeah right,” I mumble.

Then I take the pacifier out of my mouth.

“This thing is awesome,” I say.

***

Now we’re in my car, about to head home.

My girlfriend sits shotgun. Brooklyn is in the back, strapped in her car seat.

I take a deep breath.

“You can do this,” I say to myself.

I turn on the ignition.

"Baby on Board?" More like, "Baby Looks Bored."

I’ve driven a car thousands of times. Some of those I was even sober. But never in my life have I been more nervous behind a wheel than I am right now.

I pull onto Interstate 435. It’s a 65 mile-per-hour zone. I’m going 15.

I look out the window. I’m getting passed more times than a chubby fifth grader during the mile run.

Great job, Bobby! You finished in 23 minutes and 45 seconds! Sure, you weigh 260 pounds, have no visible kneecaps and probably have early onset diabetes, but we’re going to praise you anyway because this is elementary school and everyone’s a winner!! Now go eat some chocolate cake.

All the sudden I hear a loud honk. I look back in my rearview mirror. A decrepit old Asian woman in a beat-up Honda is tailgating me.

“Are you serious?” I think.

I take another look in the mirror. Her car is right on top of mine, and she’s scowling at me like Kim Jong-un after finding out he inherited everything from his father but the Lamborghini Gallardo.

Wat da hell?! Dis is cwap! How can I wule da wold if I can’t even cwoose fo bitches?!

The lady abruptly changes lanes, and as she passes me, motions for me to roll down the window.

“What da hell da matter with you?!” she screams. “You go slow like turtle. You an asshole!”

“Um, excuse me,” I reply. “But there’s a baby in this car … Call me poopyface.”

She rolls up her window, hits the gas and cuts in front of me.

“Ass-hooooole!” she screams in the distance as she flips me off.

***

Eight hours and 2.5 miles later, we’re almost home.

Just before we arrive, we stop at a Little Caesar’s to pick up a pizza. We purchase a “Hot-N-Ready,” which, judging by the smell emanating from the backseat, also describes the bowel movement in Brooklyn’s diaper.

“I didn’t know they were offering a two-for-one special,” I think.

We get back to the apartment, and it takes me three trips to bring in all the stuff that had been sent to us while we were in the hospital.

After my final trip, I pause to look at it all.

“Wow,” I say to my girlfriend. “If I had known that we’d be getting free food, flowers, and time off work, I’d have quit using condoms a long time ago.”

She hands me the baby.

“Great to hear,” she says. “Just remember that while you’re changing this diaper. It’s full of shit. Just like you.”

I smile.

“And so it begins,” I think.