I’ve been meaning to do this ever since my daughter, Vivienne, was born more than two years ago. Not just because stay-at-home dads are pretty trendy right now, and not just because a stay-at-home dad who gets paid to drink probably has some commercial possibilities — that’s why my wife wanted me to start a blog. But more than anything, I want to record for posterity all the ridiculous shit Weevy (that’s her nickname) and I do every day, so that one day when she’s the one wiping the drool off my bib I can show this to her. I don’t want all the amazing things she’s doing to slip from memory and disappear completely. So think of this, in part at least, as a big dustbin into which I throw the detritus of Weevy’s and my life together. Or something like that. And if anyone else wants to read it, that’s fine too.
It only makes sense to start at the beginning. I know so many people who told me, when the missus was pregnant and I was freaking out about impending fatherhood, that “as soon as you lay eyes on her you’ll totally fall in love.” Well, I’d like to just say for the record that it’s not the case. When they pulled my bloody, slimy, wrinkled daughter from out of my wife’s genitalia — doesn’t birth sound like something straight out of a horror movie? — I did NOT fall in love. It was more like “Nice to meet you,” combined with “So let me get this straight — I’m going to be obsessing about your welfare pretty much constantly, certainly for the next couple of decades and probably until the day I die. Alrighty then!” And of course there was a soupçon of “Holy shit, what do I do now?” The love came later.
I’ll probably jump back and forth chronologically, since I’ve got two years and change to catch up on in addition to the day-to-day stuff. Just warning you.