The Prettiest Baby

My baby is prettier than yours. I don’t feel guilt when I say that. There is no remorse, there are no second thoughts. It is ludicrous however. Babies have no specific looks other than a squid like appearance. The statement makes no sense, there is no logic behind it. It is incredibly selfish and uber comparative parent. Yet I seem to be completely ok with that.
That is what I have learned about fatherhood in the last year. When you have a daughter, your plans change. You may have thought you were going to be strict, stern and provide a good morale upbringing. The first time your daughter looks at you and recognizes who you are, the rest goes to crap. I would give her my wallet, no questions asked. I just took out a loan to get her that pony that I know she will ask for. I am shocked that the national news doesn’t print when she does something new, like standing for the first time. I truly believe that my daughter is a genius. I base this on the fact that she has discerned that there are different kinds of paper and each tastes different. She is a paper connoisseur, pure genius.
So in the first year of fatherhood there are a couple of truths that I have come to terms with. I honestly believe that my daughter is the prettiest baby there ever was. I have no doubts. That scares me. I know that I am not objective, I know that there is no scale to make judgment. I write that and think that if there was a scale, she would be tops. It’s not even close. You would think that this would embarrass me. Not even close. She is like a new religion, requiring that I sign over all my assets and financial means to her.
I have also learned that I will talk about my daughter to anyone at anytime. I do not care if you listen or not. I have actually thought that this must be a beatdown for the one I am talking to. I do not care. Pre-squid, I didn’t think much about babies. They made me uncomfortable, somehow finding a way each time to find my weaknesses and exploit it. When I held them, they screamed like I was Chester the Molester. Very embarrassing. It got even worse when the parents would laugh, then take the kid away like I am defective. They were loud, uncouth, smelly and pukey. When someone talked to me about their kids, I’d nod my head along, buy the right amount of candy from the coworker, and move on. Never gave it much thought and IT WAS A BEATDOWN.
But now I understand the other side. They never cared if I listened or not. They knew, just knew, that their child was the most gifted anywhere, ever. That is me. These pages will be filled with stories about my child and I will judge you if you do not read them and appreciate the greatness that is Little Hoss. I try not to rehash the same subject over and over again but it can be quite hard. I have about 10 working tittles involving my daughter, everyone will be written but I try to space it out.
It can be tough though, being the father of the prettiest baby in the world. I am constantly on the guard against random lady snatching her. Walking through the mall, each grandmother gets the steely “back off” glance from me, they are perps in blue wigs. In the store when someone asks to “touch the baby” my initial response is “back off baby stealer.” One look at her and I know that they are going to pick her up and head for the hills, I have to be vigilant. I want her to be treated like my cat who loves to be looked at and noticed, but god help you should you try to pick him up. It usually ends up as Scratchy MacScratch time.
When she was born I wheeled her out in her little baby cart to all my family there, waiting for the crowning of Pretties baby. My first response was not come look at the baby. It was “Dear God, they are a mob. They are a mob and they are going to trample my prettiest baby”. I swelled up like a puffer fish, hovering over the cart. Touch her and your fingers get broke was the message I was sending. I almost hit my mother. I like when we go out to dinner with my brick salesman Brother in Law so he can provide extra security. He is a big dude with bricks in his car, what more could I want?
Which brings me to my last lesson of fatherhood this year. I am completely insane. I am certifiable. I am that weird guy that you see walking in the parking lot that you take the long way around to avoid. I need a big Indian guy to stuff a pillow over my head. I have lost more IQ points than I did my first two years of binge drinking college. No one is going to steal my baby, she is not the prettiest in the world and she is not the best behaved. I see the logic, but I don’t believe it. Of course if you say this to me, I will have you deported to Russia with the rest of the communist bastards. I work for the government, I can do this. Especially my mom.