{Originally Published on The Playpen}

You know, there are a lot of articles, resources and links these days for expectant mothers, new mothers, old mothers, you name it. One of the things I realized when my daughter, Frankie, was born eight weeks prematurely was that there weren’t many resources available to dads. Even the books for new dads are all about how to keep your wife happy. What’s the deal with that?

I’ll be the first to admit that I didn’t know (still don’t know, come to think of it) the first thing about parenting. This is not a “how to” article by any stretch of the imagination. Its simply me, a young dad, looking to get some thoughts out there and maybe provide a little comic relief to other dads at the same time.

As I mentioned, my daughter was (is) a preemie. And she was little….real little. My wife had an emergency C-section after some difficulties with her pregnancy. Lets start there. Going through that process was no picnic. Getting your thoughts in order is virtually impossible. “What if my kid isn’t okay?” “What if something happens to my wife?” “How come that doctor over there looks unsure of himself?” “I didn’t paint the nursery yet!” “There’s a LOT of equipment in here…this is going to cost a TON.”

So you’re dealing with that side of things while at the same time trying to provide reassurance to Mom who, yes its true, is freaking out worse than you. Not an easy situation. As I was sorting all that out, and as I was sitting in the operating room, I made the biggest mistake of my life.

“Do you want to see your new daughter?”, my wife’s doctor asked me, apparently completely unaware that I was about two seconds shy of a heart attack.

“YEAH,” I said, and stood up from my stool, eagerly peering over the sheet that was placed over my wife’s mid-section.

Originally published on The Newborn Identity

A couple days ago I said that, thanks to Rigby, I had cared for Madeline flawlessly for the most part. I’m not going to say this statement was untrue, but I will do my best impression of a contract lawyer and direct you to the statement, “for the most part.” Before you get too worried please realize that no babies were harmed in this production. Nonetheless, I may have made one pretty bad mistake while caring for Maddie that, when I realized what I had done, made me tear up. Wait. The contract lawyer in me has advised me to revise that statement. I didn’t tear up…dudes never tear up unless “Field Of Dreams” comes on TBS…I just inexplicably found that wetness had appeared on my eyeballs.

So, as you may know, Maddie is off the bottom of the weight chart for her age not only because she was a preemie, but also because she has been adversely affected by the media’s tendency to glamorize women of nearly anorexic weights. Okay. Maybe it was mainly because she was a preemie, but I’m pretty sure that re-run of “The Simple Life” I once watched while feeding her didn’t help.

Anyhoo, the first week I was left home alone with Maddie my wife left me with a million instructions on how to take care of her. There were ten steps to be followed when changing a diaper, elaborate demonstrations of how to swaddle her, heck, there may have even been a long discussion of how to even breathe around the kid. That last one may have been an exaggeration, but it gives you the idea.

At the end of my first week as Maddie’s day-time caretaker Heather came home and was very impressed with my work. Had I correctly instituted the ten step instructions on how to change her diaper? Check. Was I able to swaddle her pefectly in ten seconds or less? Check. Did I put two scoops of formula into the 110 cc’s of water every time I fed her? Check, er, what? TWO SCOOPS? I thought it was just one!

Heather’s jaw dropped. “You’ve only been giving her one scoop?”

I cleared my throat and said, “Um, er, perhaps?”