I . Am. SPECIAL.

And by special, I mean in that very very non-PC way. Yesterday was my first day at home alone with Aidan; Mom made her triumphant return to the world of wage slaves, and I embarked on the True Path of fatherhood-- namely, trying my best not to allow harm to come to my son. To all you men out there who aren't dads yet, a word of caution: yes, we all know it's polite to nod at the skirts when they say "Mothering is not only a full time job, it's the hardest one you'll ever do." However, don't believe the hype-- caring for an infant for one day is THE HARDEST JOB IN THE HISTORY OF TIME. Especially if you aren't, shall we say, of the lactationaly enabled gender.

I got one bottle down Aidan in the morning, and half of another at around 11. Then, for what (to my uninitiated eyes) was no good reason, he proceeded to shriek at the top of his lungs until about 5. Oh, yeah, he slept here and there....for 10 minutes at a time. And he would not slowly rouse, oh no, not THIS little future metal singer; instead he shrieked with enough intensity and at such a high pitch that I'm pretty sure Jani Lane, Brett Michaels, Rob Halford, Sebastian Bach, and Vince Neil simultaneously decided to hang up their codpieces. When he was awake, the only way to get him to calm down a little was to hold him upright while walking. Sitting down caused him to have fits, and the whole calming process had to begin anew.

He also managed to blow crap all the way up his back, almost to the tag in his shirt. When I discovered this, I immediately felt relief...surely, this was the cause of his malcontent. I changed and washed him, and he gurgled happily while I put new duds on him. At that point, I felt like Corky after a sharp blow to the head. I couldn't believe the solution was so obvious!

It wasn't.

You see, all this time, I had been trying to feed him bottles. But the fact that he was having a gassy day combined with the fact that I was trying to give him a bottle rather than the ol' milk fountains made him too angry and his stomach too upset to eat. I of course was ignorant of this, and had concocted all manner of things I was sure I had done to him to make him scream like there was a praying mantis clamped onto his sack (odd simile, I know, but I've been there and it hurts more than you can imagine). I decided that at some point, I simultaneously scalded him with a too-hot bottle, pulled both arms out of socket, pinched his peener in the elastic of his diaper, scrubbed his back too hard, and poked him in the eye. None of these were true, but I wasn't exactly in my right mind.

At around 5:15, I finally managed to get the bottle just the right temperature and him in just the right position to simulate nursing, and he fed like a champ. IT was seriously a miracle... INSTANTLY he was a perfect little angel. With 45 minutes to spare before Mom returned home to witness my complete and utter failure, I picked up all the debris from the day's war, threw the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, and did a load of laundry. Of course, all this time he was sitting happily in his Snugli babbling away to me. And when Mom got home, he of course continued to be a little angel, betraying no evidence of the hell he had put me through. Today is my second day, and we're doing much better... you learn lessons quick in this situation. It's either that or throw yourself through a window. I literally, at one point yesterday, put him down in his crib, went downstairs, and screamed. Then I went back up to his crib and continued to comfort. Sometimes, it's not about being the best parent. Sometimes (And let my abject failure serve as example) it's all you can do to just survive. Oops, he's waking up.... time to pray to the Milk Gods that he finds this offering worthy!