Obi-Wan never told you what happened to your father…

I’m still getting used to this whole fatherhood thing, but considering my child seems to be deliriously happy even with a load of shit in her pants I must be doing something right. Happy Father’s Day, everyone!

That's not true! That's impossible!


Train of thought: derailed.

I had a fantastic, brilliant idea for today’s blog post.  It would have been great, too.  Unfortunately I changed my daughter’s diaper prior to sitting down to work on it, and she promptly shat all over me in a flatulent shotgun-blast of baby poo that not only violated my very being but required a judicious amount of mouthwash as well.

I have since completely forgotten what I was going to write about.

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How I learned to stop worrying and love the bowel movement.

My new daughter poops.  This is, in and of itself, nothing special; she was born with a fully functioning gastrointestinal system, and that includes the emergency egress at the tail end.  It’s an elegant, well-designed system – food goes in, waste comes out – and I thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster every day that she came out completely and utterly normal, albeit a bit on the small side.  All that being said, the kind of waste my child eliminates on a daily basis (oftentimes twice a day) could easily precipitate the kind of clean-up efforts that would make the Exxon Valdez look like a spilled bottle of soda.

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No plan ever survives contact with the enemy.

The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men / Gang aft agley.

– Robert Burns, To a Mouse

I kind of accidentally became a father this weekend.  Well, “accidentally” might bring up the wrong connotations here; this was coming eventually – everyone knew it – I just wasn’t expecting it to happen in the middle of nowhere, Pennsylvania!

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