It is with the deepest regret and shame that I confess to having missed Miles’s most incredible poop thus far. I was afraid that being at work would mean missing out on significant milestones, and today marked the first time this fear was made truly manifest.
I only barely missed it, arriving home just minutes after the gruesome incident occurred. All that remained at that point was a soiled changing pad and the lunatic ranting of my wife. In a string of lucid, stream of consciousness proclamations, she spoke of “poop everywhere,” and “needing to give the baby a bath,” and “having to just throw out the clothes because they were so stained,” all followed by a refrain she repeated several times: “I had shit all over me.”
“Incredible,” was all I could say. When a baby is born, there is undeniable love and pride that swells within you and threatens to spill out by the gallon. But there’s being told “this is your son,” and then there’s experiencing something so pure and magical that you feel it swelling inside of you… “This…THIS is MY son.”
The Perils (& Pride) of Paternity 