Listen up, soup for brains. Yesterday, you were just a man. But today, a doctor snipped the umbilical cord off an angry, gray alien with your name on it. And whether it was your wife, your girlfriend, or some other remarkable woman that just heave-ho’ed a pineapple out of her lady parts, your entire world’s about to get flipped like a wild-ass pancake.
Congrats, dipshit, you’re a dad now.
Being a man’s man is easy. Any douchenozzle can wake up at 5 a.m. to go to the gym and dip their junk in ice water, or whatever the hell bros are doing these days. But try waking up every two hours, every night, for twelve weeks straight to bottle-feed a screaming wolverine. Now, that’s dad shit right there.
A man might hear a baby banshee-wail and let someone else deal with it. But a dad doesn’t pawn off his late-night duties on a woman who’s still recovering from getting ripped in half. A real dad knows that chick needs some shut-eye.
Same goes for diaper changes. When dads smell a fire in the hole, they don’t tuck tail—they get down to business. So roll up your sleeves, papacito. Unless, of course, Mr. Alpha is too prissy to get his hands dirty and would rather have his kid’s mommy do it for him.
What, you think you weren’t “biologically programmed to be a caregiver”? Uh oh, does baby have a widdle too much testosterone to be nurturing? Get bent, dingus. Do you know what they say about excuses? They make an “Ex” out of “U” when your girl leaves you for some guy named Enrique. Enrique can take care of children without throwing a goddamn hissy fit. Enrique likes kids. And, pretty soon, your kids are gonna like Enrique more than they like you. Nice going, doofus, you just got Enrique’d.
Manhood ain’t got nothin’ on fatherhood, friend. If you thought manual labor was hard, get ready for emotional labor. All that logistical stuff is about to hit you like a stack of bricks. Or were you not aware of how much mental jiujitsu is involved in scheduling travel soccer around cello lessons and ballet class? Earth to dodo: your kids don’t just enrich themselves like some sort of magical, self-enriching elf progeny. That’s on you, baby boo. Get ready, ’cause ballet got moved to Saturday this week. Now you’ve got two kids, one car, and three destinations. Your weekend’s about to be that riddle with the fox, the hen, and the grain, but with twice as many round trips. And you better hope you remembered to stick your daughter’s cleats in her bag the night before. Otherwise, you’re cooked.
Asking what you can do around the house to help? Get outta here with that weak sauce. A dad anticipates what needs to be done and handles that crap before it becomes an issue. You gotta be so on top of things, your partner could swear there are ninjas breaking into your house to silently fold laundry and wash the dishes. Helpful ninjas. If you can’t co-manage your household like a boss, you might as well hand in your dad card right now.
And if you thought you’d only have sons, you better suck it up, buttercup. You’re a Girl Dad now. So check your punk-ass ego at the door and play tea party with your damn daughters. You don’t like that your new name is Penelope Fluffybottom? Tough luck. It’s time to nut up and put on your petticoat—you’re an eighteenth-century governess now. And don’t even think about breaking character. Not even when your daughters inform you that Penelope has tuberculosis from her volunteer work at the paupers’ prison. News flash, jackass, your girls are precocious as hell. They’ll probably be playwrights or some shit. Sorry if you thought you’d be tossing a baseball around like a pleb. Your little ladies don’t have time for that—Penelope has to catch the twelve-thirty locomotive to the seaside to restore her humours. Pack your steamer trunks, missy.
The most important thing you can do for your kid is be there for them, every minute, of every day, till you’re six feet under. Sometimes that means wrapping your arms around them like a giant dad burrito. Other times, being there means staying as far away as physically possible, especially during that awkward phase when they’re slamming doors and calling you words you’re pretty sure you didn’t teach them. Have fun figuring out when’s the right time to do which.
Good luck, amigo. You’re gonna need it. Cause this is about to be the best, hardest, most life-affirming, infuriating job of your miserable life.
At least until your kid grows up and has a kid of their own. Any idiot can be a fun grandpa.