Countdown to Fatherhood

Copyright 2007 by Valentine J. Brkich (First printed in the July 2007 edition of The Point Magazine, Wexford, PA)


Well, it's official. The final countdown has begun. My wife just entered her third trimester of pregnancy, which means I only have three more months of somewhat acceptable irresponsibility remaining. After our first child is born, the stupid little things I do will cease to be cute and will suddenly become moronic.

For instance, last week I left the outside faucet on. As a result my new garden hose burst from the pressure, spraying water everywhere for about 20 minutes before I discovered it. By then the water had leaked into my basement and left a large puddle in the middle of the floor. I did this not once, mind you, but twice in a period of a couple weeks, ruining two completely good hoses and bruising my fragile male ego to boot. My wife, although annoyed with my absentmindedness, was somewhat amused by my inexplicable yet endearing dopiness.

Fast forward to this fall when our house will be filled with binkies, Boppies™, Bumbos™ and all things "baby." I can tell you right now that my innate dopiness will no longer be acceptable. Breaking a couple garden hoses is one thing; breaking a newborn baby is a completely different story. You can't just go to the local hardware store and pick up another one. ("Ah…yes, I need some 3/4-inch screws, a couple washers and a brand new baby, please.")

When I'm a daddy, I'll really have to be on my game. I'm actually going to have to think about every decision I make before I make it. This is a lot of pressure for someone who's been winging it for the past 32 years. And if I'm nervous about all this, imagine how my wife must feel. How is she supposed to trust giving a baby to someone who falls up the stairs on a daily basis?

My father-in-law has told me many, many times about one time when he and his friend were watching their kids while the women were out shopping. Seems simple enough, right? Well, when the women returned just two short hours later, they found the men drinking beer and the two infants right where they had left them—in the playpen. Only now the infants' diapers were dangerously close to bursting. I have to admit, at first I didn't see the big deal in all this. But then my wife explained how a playpen and a babysitter are actually two completely different things. Who knew?

This is how men think. It's frightening but true. Heck, I'm still not convinced that greasing the bathtub is such a bad babysitting option.

So I guess I only have a couple of months to get my act together and become a responsible, selfless caregiver. I know this may sound impossible, but don't worry. If all else fails, I'll just consider my first instinct and then I’ll do the opposite. It should work like a charm.