I am a very involved father. I rarely sit on the side and let the "womenfolk" do the raising. I like to dig in, get my hands dirty and fix the problem. Ms. Hoss loves/hates that at times. She has explained to me on countless occasions how she just wants me to listen. She said other things but I didn't pay attention. When it comes to our daughter though, I'm all about taking the responsibility and doing what needs to be done. Yes, sometimes I call for help when it is out of my range. Much like I will do when she gets to be 13 or so and wants to talk about buying her first bra. I am so out, not my area of expertise and it terrifies me that my daughter will one day be growing up. Other than that, I'm all on board.
I am superdad
I made a deal with my wife that I would do the 3 am feedings so she could rest. After several false starts I got the hang of it. I approach things from a logical standpoint. For example, when I would feed my daughter at 3 am, we were as organized as a military marching band. Get kid, bring kid downstairs, put kid in carseat to hold her while I make bottle, feed kid, go to bed. That is about the time when my daughter decided to let me know that logic don't work, my life is a lie, I'm no where as smart as I think I am. She decided that she should scream constantly the minute I put her down. The hell with the boiling water, she wanted some chest time. I tried to adjust. I would put her in the car seat, actually buckle her in, and swing her so she might fall back asleep. Of course, the louder she screamed, the higher I would swing her. It got to the point that I was almost hitting the ceiling while juggleing boiling hot water. Cirque de sole called and asked us to join, but we hated the pants. We eventually worked it out by doing 2 things. First, she figured out that the more she screamed, the faster I would move, thus giving her food. I figured out that I felt alot better if I gave her some smack talk while she screamed. Such classic gems such as "you can scream all you want squid, the water won't boil any faster." or my favorite of "when your 18 I'm going to walk out to your slumber party in tighty whites while scratching my gut." Plan your revenge early. We worked it out though, basically meaning that I would start crying at how much my daughter hated me. A year has passed since then and we are entering a new phase for her. She is very mobile, always on the go, loves to climb but still finds it in her daily schedule to yell at me.
I am patient superdad
As I have said before, I'm not the wait and see type. Nor am I squemish. When she poops, and good god phew, I jump right in. Here is my case in point of superdad on the make. Tonight was bath time. She loves bath time. I have no idea why because she doesn't do a whole lot in the tub. She splashes some, giggles a lot, and then plays the "I can stand in the tub" battle with my wife. My wife is certain that she will slip and knock some teeth out. I approach it like my dad did. Let her fall, smack some teeth out, they'll grow back, then she won't stand in the tub anymore. I know, kinda harsh. But it is the logical approach.
I am dad's superdad
The first step in bath time is the taking off the clothes. That's what I usually do. I strip her down and then put her on the floor. She hears the bath going and walks to my wife in all of her glory. It's quite cute and I think that this is the video I'm going to show on her graduation. I took her shirt off, so far so good. The pants go next. I let her take her own socks off as she loves to do that. My girl is self sufficient. I am superdad.
The diaper is next. Normally, this is no big deal, a little wet but manageable. Take off, throw in trash can, perform exorcisim, send to wife. I undid the two sticky holder and pulled it off like a magician sweeping off a table cloth.
I am efficient superdad.
I was holding her up by the shoulder when I noticed it. A 2319. This is our code for when poop has gone beyond the legal border of the diaper. Our immigration policy on this is quite stern. usually, we yell "2319!" when we see this. Of course, I normally notice this before I actually take off the diaper. I may have been a little lax this time because a 2319 was staring me right in the nose. It was a nice consistancy, with a few carrot peices mixed in. What I did next was a complete reflex, but logical. I yelled. Yup, just like her. "Woa!" escaped my lips at the exact minute I dropped her from my grasp. Don't call CPS, she was standing her own. Of course, when she falls, she lands on her butt, which is not how I would have planned this.
I am shocked superdad.
This time she decides to land square on the two books that she happened to be standing on. Down she goes, poo and all. I'm sure there was some sort of sound made but I can't remember hearing anything other than the shock and awe of the diaper. I do realize that now she is sitting in her own poop, on a couple of books, stark naked. That's when my logical mind kicks in.
I am logical superdad.
Bath is running. Kid needs bath. Kid has poo. Poo must come off. Poo+kid+smear=Bath. That was my mind set. So we do what comes naturally. I put her up on her feet and say "go get bath" and she proceeds to happily trot off. There is poo but it is sticking to her, no need to clean the carpet.
I am fixing superdad.
That is when my wife pulls the curtian on my one man show. "What are you doing" she lovingly asks. "Peanut is going to the bath" I answer, failing to see how she can not follow my logic. Ms. Hoss trots after Little Hoss to the bathtub. My daughter has already made it and is waiting to be put into the water of clean. This is where I fail to see some possible obsticles to my plan. When a kid hears running water, what do they usually do? Yup, they pee. Usually my wife is in the bathroom waiting for her. But due to my incompetence she was trying to help me before trotting after the kid. She didn't see me send my daughter on her way so this is somewhat of a shock. As if planned, that's when my daughter, little hoss that she is, decides that she is going to mark some territory. She lets go with all the water and milk she has drunk in the last day. AND she's laughing. This is 3 am feeding all over again. It's like I"m being punished for not meeting her at the tub. Now we have a new problem. Pee+Poo+no diaper+trailing mom=superdad kryptonite.
I am superdad without Ms. Tessmocker.
The pee mingles with the poo, says hello and asks if they should go on a holiday down the leg to my floor. They argue a bit but come to an understanding and start on thier merry way. Stright down my daughter's leg, stopping for lunch at the knee, before settling in at thier new home, Mt. Saint Carpet. It circles the town and finds a nice place not to far from the city. My wife is running to avert disaster but I can already see this is to late. Some sort of weird poo paste hits the floor and settles in guarenteeing that I will have to disclose this when I sell my house as a past biohazard problem we may have once had. My wife scoops up little hoss and in the tub it goes. I am standing there watching, frozen if you will. That is when I notice the books. Perfect, right in the center, is her butt print in a brown mosiac of smelly colors.
I am art dealer superdad.
I can hear my daughter laughing, my wife cussing my name and that is when the special gueststars arrive. Cue dogs please. Whenever they hear a commotion, they must come. Whenever they smell pee or poop, they must eat. Galloping like a horse and a fat rat, my two dogs attempt to go the bathroom. That's when my wife uses her "angry voice" which they know means to hide behind dad's leg. They assume that I am in as much trouble as they are and will thus take the brunt of the fury. I usually kick them out in front and it is a mad scramble at who can get away the fastest while sacrificing the others. I am also holding the Di Vinci my daughter made on the book. It's time to own up, it's time to make amends. I look at my wife, I look at my daughter, I look at my brand new 2007 poop stain on the carpet. My work is done.
I am coward superdad.
I mutter a good luck to my wife as the dogs and I make an exit worthy of Kiaser Sose. Poof, just like that, we're gone. My wife may have yelled for me to "get my chicken butt back here" but I didn't hear that, even though that is what she said and that's why I put it in quotes but I couldn't testify to it in a intergaltic court of law. I'm gone but I did take the poo books. In the kitchen, the dogs and I come to an understanding. We are all buying flowers for mom tomorrow. We all look at the books and decide that we will not hang my daughter's first attempt at artwork on the fridge. In the trash they go. Destroy the evidence and play dumb, that's my whole plan. I went Nazi on the books and took them to the outside trash knowing that they would never be found. The dogs stood guard for mom. The deed was done.
I am genius superdad.
Later my wife would explain how I should have NOT dropped the baby, how I should have NOT let her walk to the tub with poo on her and how I should have NOT high tailed it out of there. She would further explain that she had to drain the tub twice because there were chunks of my daughter's art supplies still floating around and how I will have the very nice job of cleaning the tub and carpet with bleech tomorrow. That's when I point out that our dogs have gone back upstairs to the poo stain. She hurries after them.
I am scape goating superdad.
For my wife.