It’s no secret, the amount of crying you have to listen to when you have a baby is astronomical. Before this, my exposure to crying females was pretty much limited to those I was in a relationship with

My daughter got her first bill today. $25, a cancellation fee for blowing off an appointment with a Dr. Papoolian.

So I’m standing in front of the fridge, door open, wondering more-or-less what happened to my life, when I suddenly remember I have an eight month old baby in my arms.

Before what happened happened at Sandy Hook Elementary, I was going to write about back pain. Specifically “boomer back”—dark secret of infant–spawning post-50 boomerdom—a malady specific to “older parents”

Ideas, as famed vegetarian and human breast milk fan, George Bernard Shaw, once said, are not responsible for the people who embrace them.

My niggling fear, as a late-in-the game Dad, was that somehow I’d end up in diapers before my baby was out of them.

First time away from the baby, and the world is a strange new place. Before leaving, I spent an acid-without-the-acid-esque few days contemplating the tiny faux-hawked nipple-sucker perched atop E’s monstro breast.

WEEK 39, DAY 7

Spoiler alert: I’m writing this with half-day old, 6 pound, nine ounce newborn and Patton Oswalt-lookalike Baby N curled in my left arm, typing one-handed with a precariously balanced MacBook on my crotch

WEEK 39, DAY 6

Here we are, back in the doctor’s office. Our home away from home. We’ve come, yet again, to try and see why our unborn party ball has yet to start its descent into humanity.