Third Time's the Charm

Welcome to the jungle.

It’s weird how life works. One day your drinking Natty Light out of a plastic pitcher in a dirty college bar called Chuck’s. The next day your mini-humanoid daughters (who you suspect are already smarter than you) tell you you’re 150 years old while they’re swiping through TikTok learning the new “drop challenge.” (I think this is it?)

After you get engaged, it’s easy to talk the talk. Yeah, huge wedding, joint bank account, 2.3 perfect little children, a dog, and a “cute” little second home on the beach. Then life, as it does, socks you in the jaw. Everything seems to become this high-pressure, mountain trek with all sorts of unpredictable weather, both good and bad. Your pristine plans? Up shit’s creek, as you compare the Spörksten and Flangrøvåg pleather coaches in Ikea. Everything seems like an unplanned coincidence. The only houses we can afford have feral cats on the roof, but then you find your future starter home on the way back from Arby’s. One kid? Everything warrants a 911 call, but the defense locks down with a double team. Two? Man-to-man, shut down the passing lane and drinks lot of wine.

But three!? An “oh, shit” moment if there ever was one. The zone is a desperation defense for a reason. Maybe a few moral victories, but you give up a lot of big plays. So, yeah, this is that moment. A new baby is on the way for our family, and I’m fairly sure I lost all institutional knowledge on how to grow a human. (But I do always remember the Windi and “The Snotsucker.” These represent the exact moment where nothing can disgust you ever again.)

And another girl, no less. Yes, my sanity and patience as I know it, now has an expiration date. Three Elsa costumes. Three annihilated bedrooms. Three heads to brush. (Which is apparently three times some kind of ancient torture device inflicted to only those of the worst lawbreakers.) But don’t get me wrong. I’m pumped. My chances of parenting a professional athlete or tech CEO just increased dramatically. Plus, kids are great. I love them, and stuff.

I kid, I kid. The greatest joy of my life, without question, is loving my little girls and family. But it ain’t so little anymore and we’re about to have more living creatures in our house than a traveling circus. Scared is one word. Petrified is another. I’m far older and more creaky than I was almost six years ago. I was limber, well-rested and completely naive. I now think 8:00 p.m. is late, I audibly grimace when I stand up after sitting a while, and I think about my colon health far too frequently.

Plus, I have to learn the swaddling, the burping, the shushing, the rocking, the crying (me, not the baby). I see other dads wearing the BabyBjörn and think, “Poor schmuck, it will get better.” In a few months, I’ll have the little thing strapped to my chest as I try to explain what a squirrel is on our hourly walk. It’s back to square one. And this time I have a bigger peanut gallery and two little kids just waiting to play makeup with her little sister.

But I suppose it was all meant to be. I started this blog to help document fathering two growing girls, navigating Kindergarten to dating (which I hope is at least two decades apart). It will now offer a perspective on handling a newborn waaaaaay to close to 40 while managing four amazingly strong females (I just have an inkling for this next one given the pattern). Oh, and all eight grandparents be warned: girls one and two can’t wait for their week-long vacation at your house.

I guess this is the official announcement. And I appreciate sharing it with you. If nothing else, this project has cemented my parenting flaws in ink(?), but also provided an interesting introspective on being a dad, every day, good and bad.

Three girls. Very cool. This dad? Still very uncool. But a guy can always dream.