One thing I've learned since becoming a parent is there is no better way to receive unequivocal and hyperbolic praise than to Be Anywhere as a dad with a child.

This morning, I took West with me to the post office to mail something (brag). West was in his stroller eating the full balanced breakfast I had just slaved away making for him: a cheese stick and Ritz crackers.

Side note: Why did none of you hot losers warn me before the Angel Gabriel descended upon my home with this cherubim how much it sucks to have to prepare three meals a day for someone?

I've made dinner for years because I think I'm legally obligated to feed Skylar after work. That's fine. I don't mind that. But I decided a decade ago Skylar is now old enough to fend for himself for the rest of the day. And I don't make breakfast or lunch for myself because I'm on year 24 of my exceptionally healthy diet where I consume all of my calories for the day after 8:00 PM in the form of high fat dairy products and popcorn.

But 'ol Angel Gabe told me children have to eat every NINE minutes or they'll die and I'll go to prison and as I have stated repeatedly on this exceptional website, this face was not meant for prison. It was meant for watching TV and getting jiggy at the clurb with my tramp stamp in full view. (The tramp stamp is the words "Worth It" and somehow both of them are misspelled.)

Feeding West was fine when he was just eating Bad Parent Formula Why Aren't You Breastfeeding. This is because the recipe for formula is two ingredients: cocaine and water. Skylar would only let us use water he had personally milked from some machinal teat at Whole Foods specifically because "it's the purest." But beyond that completely unnecessary inconvenience, feeding him was not difficult.

Then he began to eat Real Food and in turn, I transitioned from Hot Stay At Home Dad to Hot Personal Chef.

I don't know why, but breakfast is the worst one. Do we all agree that breakfast is the worst meal to make? There's something about rolling out of bed to stand over a stove that just absolutely sucks ass. But I do it because I'm an incredible caregiver.

Anyway, so we roll into the post office at exactly 8:06 AM to find the place absolutely buzzing with every single person who has ever lived in my town. I don't know what in the Black Friday was happening in that post office. I go to my post office at most once per year. Why are so many people finding so many reasons to go to the post office? Is there some popular scam I don't know about?

Also, I am an incredibly smart middle-aged man but every time I do go to the post office, I feel like my mom just gave birth to me while bungee jumping. It's so disorienting for me. They have this wall of envelopes and boxes with extremely different rates and words printed on them and I can't figure out what any of them mean or which one I'm supposed to choose. Do I need the "Express" or the "Quick" or the "Overnight?" How are these different from one another? My brain just fully reboots as I look at them.

Then I pick an envelope and start writing the address onto it and I'm once again convinced black magic is involved in all of this because I do not understand how my nearly illegible scribbles will summon an army of stranger across the word to pass my tiny package to a specific person who lives hundreds of miles away from me.

I have never once sent a letter believing it would actually get delivered. I know logically it most likely will, but I never believe it. I sent a book to a friend last year and when she texted to thank me I responded, "oh, you actually got it?" I was genuinely shocked.

So there I am, standing in a line so long they measured it in light years when a woman turned around, looked at my child, and then looked at me and said, "you are such a great dad!"

Guys, I was literally doing nothing other than being at the post office with my kid. I wasn't even interacting with him in that moment. I think I was actively scrolling social media as West ate his choking hazards breakfast in his stroller.

And this happens to me at least once a week. It's usually at the grocery store. One of these days I want to respond, "thanks, but this isn't my child. I just found him the other day at the park."

Now, if you are a hot mom reading this, you may have just screamed at your device (I imagine all of you access this site exclusively from circa 1993 desktop Macintosh computers). And that would be fair. The post office and grocery store scenarios I've described above tend not to be the experience of mothers, who are reported to CPS if their child's outfit isn't cute enough.

It's not my fault the bar for men is in the underground parking below hell.

I will note, the praise almost always comes from women, so if the criticism also mostly comes from women, this may be something to discuss at the next monthly All Women In The World meeting. Actually, it would be really great if this could be a women problem. The All Men In The World agenda of things we have to work on is already sixteen pages long and I don't think we can possibly accommodate another item. (The Gay Agenda is much shorter and it includes multiple dance breaks.)

Eventually we made it to the front of the line and mailed the package that most certainly will never be delivered.

West threw the last of his string cheese on the ground as we rolled out together past everyone in the world and through the door, West, the best toddler in town, and I, the best dad in town.

Off to our next great adventure where I'm totally crushing this parenting thing. You know, by being physically in the presence of my offspring.

~It Just Gets Stranger