A Not-So-Happy Ending

Deadbeat Dad's Not-So-Happy Ending

Having a newborn child is like being a full-fledged, rock-bottom drug addict. Everything that was good and decent about you gets subsumed by the drugs, or in your case the child whose presence dominates literally every aspect of your life. You have no control over anything, and your life, once a parade of laughs and good times, becomes slave to the needs and cravings of this one thing. Your baby owns you, Bitch. Most of all, you find yourself doing things you swore you would never do—crossing that thin blue line of dignity where your addiction or child forces you to make horrifying choices. As a Deadbeat Dad this manifests itself in, say, wondering if that’s chocolate or feces on your child’s leg and unconsciously doing a taste test. Or being too tired to go to the grocery store and too lazy to go to the ATM, so you wind up eating baby food to stave off the munchies. You tell yourself you will never do these things. But you will. Trust me, you will.

Herewith a cautionary tale….

When your bundle of joy first arrives in the world your sex life goes completely out the window. You can pretty much guarantee that the drive-through will be closed for at least six months. Thus to avoid dangerous side effects, swelling, the random ogling of strangers, shooting sprees…you must literally take matters into your own hands. The problem is, any waking moment you have is spent with your crying, spitting, shitting, pissing little miracle. To make matters worse, our daughter NEVER FUCKING SLEPT. It seems she was born with my digestive system fully intact, i.e. the gullet of a 30-year-old lactose intolerant Jew with Irritable Bowel Syndrome. She was like Baby BjornJonathan Winters in Mork and Mindy, literally aging in reverse.

Anyway, this design tick in her creation meant that even self-romance posed all manner of logistical complications, considering the fact that if I needed to take a shit I would have to hold her, lest she scream like an evil Gremlin. Eating, drinking and taking bong hits were equally difficult. If I needed to scarf some food I’d cram her into the Baby Bjorn and place a plate on top of her head like it was a tiny table. (A subject for another day but there is NOTHING more vaginal, emasculating, pussifying in the world than the goddamn Bjorn. Designed by some Swedish denizen of the European Social Welfare State, the same dude that invented that harness with fake tits full of milk so you can breast feed, it assumes that you’re okay shredding your last ounce of dignity to strap on the fabric equivalent of a late 1990s Ford Taurus.)

This usually resulted in her being drenched in sauce. Nothing like scalding your little treasure with a steaming microwave buritto. Shit happens, and a man’s got to eat. For drinking I used a straw—for everything, one of those super long crazy straws. Then I could hold her and not have to bend over to drink. You’d be surprised how many vodka sodas you can slurp down this way. Too many—trust me. The World War II surplus gas mask I sealed on a two-foot Graffix to allow for hands-free inhalation and reverse exhalation away from the baby unfortunately never got past the prototype stage, as I was kicked out of the house for the day when my wife found me testing out the new contraption.

Late Night TVI lost track of what I was talking about…oh, yeah, Baby not sleeping, no time to do anything, choking the chicken. So, needless to say, doing anything other than caring for little shithead (I really do love her; you just start to go fucking insane when they don’t sleep for like six months) is virtually impossible. But, like I said, a man’s got to eat. And on the rare occasions when she did doze off, it would be between 10 p.m. and midnight while watching a Steven Seagal marathon I kept on permanent rotation on my TiVo. It seems that nothing lulled her to sleep better than the White Ninja himself. (Remind me to thank him, I hear he’s a lovely man.)

So the moment I see her eyes close, the Wa-Wa peddle starts playing in my head, and it’s sexy time. First thing I do is turn her car seat away from the television. Not that she would know at two months old what was going on, but still. You need to turn her away from you, as well. Not that she’d know what you were doing either, but the last thing you need are those helpless eyes casting judgment on your activities. Your wife will be asleep, so no worries there. If you have Mother staying with you, make sure she is asleep too. She’ll be naturally suspicious that you are the world’s biggest fucking loser with no idea how to care for a child or her Burp Clothdaughter, so the last thing you need is for her to walk into the living room in her nightgown while you’re going to town on yourself. Believe me, it’s bad. Five years later, and mine still won’t look me in the eye.

Okay, so with all your bases covered, you can get down to business. Now, keep in mind there is no time for the usual foreplay, the strolling through the old mental spank bank or other luxuries. She could wake up at any second and spoil the moment. You need laser focus and something ferociously dirty. Keep the sound down, both for the sake of the child and your mother-in-law, who is listening to your heavy breathing through the door. Upon “completion,” do not use the burp clothe. It’s just wrong—but does mimic the consistency of formula spit-up, if questions should arise.

I have no idea why I’m telling you any of this, and am completely ashamed. Just forget I said anything. It never happened.

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