Last week I became a dad. Obviously I was already a Father because I personally birthed Duncan and Louie. But I didn't have a human child until just twelve days ago.

I've been telling people with a straight face we did it to "save our marriage" and each and every time Skylar has slapped me for this so I think the baby, in fact, is already doing the opposite.

I was relieved early on that the baby, which we have named West so he'll always remember where to go if there's another dust bowl or gold rush, is very cute. And I mean that in an objective way. This can be confirmed by science. I have a certificate and everything. Yes, West, whom I have only been able to call "Mr. Baby" so far, is a cutie-patootie.

Unfortunately he also poops. I had hoped evolution had natural-selected that sort of thing out by now. It turns out we are still creating pooping humans. When I learned this upsetting news I casually suggested to Skylar we divide responsibilities going forward and that he take diapers and I take feedings. That way I specialize in imports and he can begin a long robust career in exports.

Skylar did not go for this and noted that the imports are "the fun part" and it was then that I realized parenthood has already completely shifted our perspective on what constitutes "fun."

My first blowout diaper was on Monday. It happened at 5:00 in the morning, which I told Mr. Baby was past his curfew and he's been grounded ever since.

I knew there was a problem the moment I picked him up out of his bassinet and noticed a pronounced squishiness on his back.

Now, I was under the impression that the reason we have purchased roughly 16,000 diapers and have stored them in every nook and cranny in our humble abode is because the diapers are supposed to collect the shit that comes from the baby until that baby has learned to go down the street and poop in the gas station bathroom like every decent American who is ashamed of their body. Our plan was to use these diapers for about 12 weeks and then have him fully potty trained and fluent in Latin so we never have to go through this again.

Unfortunately, it turns out diapers can sometimes divert the shit up the infant's back, and, in my case on Monday morning at, again I'll remind you FIVE A.M., up to his NECK. The NECK part of the body, in case you are unfamiliar, is nowhere near the ASS part of the body. Even in babies. As it turns out, they have the same anatomy as the rest of us except that their heads are proportionally the size of a Macy's Thanksgiving Day Snoopy float.

How did the mustard poop that has introduced me to a new smell that I did not know science was capable of concocting make it up to Mr. Baby's neck? I do not know. I have essentially read an entire internet's worth of physics books to understand it so I can make sure it never happens again and I still can't figure it out. The only thing I've learned about parenting on the internet so far is literally everything I'm doing is wrong and every other parent in the world is 100% correct and I should be ashamed of myself.

I tried to hand Mr. Baby over to Skylar but he just responded, looking at my hands that now had poop that had seeped through the clothes dripping off of them, "obviously I'm not an idiot." So, in an act of marital violence, I was sent off into battle alone.

The entire changing table and two separate walls were covered in poop within about 30 seconds. I was literally gagging and convulsing like the girl in Exorcist the moment I opened the diaper up. Skylar, for his part, stood at the doorway to the nursery offering really helpful tips and advice like "you need to get him cleaned up" and "stop gagging." Eventually he gave up even the facade of support and just started filming a video that will never see the light of day if Skylar wants me to continue feeding him.

It was around the time I was bent over, trying to gain my composure, that Mr. Baby began a fountain of piss that nearly reached the ceiling. By the time I got the Bellagio Urine Show under control, he had already soaked through the clean outfit and swaddle I had pulled out for him and set nearby.

Side note: so we just do laundry every day now? Forever? Sometimes three times a day? How is something that weighs seven pounds and sleeps 23 hours per day making me do laundry THRICE before lunchtime? AND WHY DOESN'T THE DIAPER CAPTURE ALL THE SHIT.

I used enough wet wipes over the next ten minutes to quadruple the United States' GDP for a generation. When the gagging got bad enough, I just started laying the wipes on top of him like a coroner covering a corpse. He didn't wake up once during this entire ordeal, which honestly felt like a form of abandonment I wasn't prepared to face on my seventh day as a parent.

Long story short, this ultimately turned into a bath. The bath did make him cry a little bit, which, like, ok. Obviously I was the victim here but I respect the hustle in trying to make it all about him. It was confirmation this really is my son.

Skylar showed up to assist at the tail-end of the bathing, like a dinner guest expecting credit for an entire elaborate meal just because they brought their plate to the sink after eating.

We finished the bath and got him dressed in a very cute outfit (this baby may not be potty trained, but he's at least going to look FABULOUS). By this point he began making the sucking motion with his mouth, which is the cutest way to inform others you are hungry and I vote we all start doing this.

I whipped him up the Eli Special. He eats the same thing for every meal but so far he doesn't seem to mind. Unlike my dogs who look at me each time I put dog food in their bowls as if they are saying "this shit again?" NINE OUT OF TEN VETS RECOMMEND THIS BRAND THERE ARE DOGS IN RUSSIA WHO WOULD BE HAPPY TO HAVE THIS DUNCAN AND LOUIE.

Skylar stole the baby from me once he was dry, warm, and fed, so he could take him to the couch for an all-morning snuggle, which is neither in the import or export industries but is instead classified under Domestic Relations.

We basically switch off now. Take turns on diaper duty. It's the most disgusting game of Russian Roulette anyone has ever played. Each time I'm up to bat, I take Mr. Baby to his changing table, say a little prayer to the gods to summon urine and nothing else, and then open his diaper to see what he has in store for me. "Save the poopoos for daddy Skylar," I've been whispering at him. There's no sign he understands my requests, but certainly it can't hurt to deliver them.

Even still, notwithstanding the blowout diapers and curfew violations, and despite the internet that is hellbent on telling me I'm a terrible parent, I must confess, it's pretty wonderful to have a baby. A baby who loves to snuggle and bring tears to my eyes if I stare at him long enough. A really, truly, wonderfully, terrific baby.

An objectively cute one.

~It Just Gets Stranger