So Long, Vegas of My Twenties! Hello, Spittle-Encrusted Parenthood!

Day 45

Without even realizing it, I’ve arrived in a new chapter of life. It’s as though I fell asleep on the plane home from Vegas , and was awakened two hours later by a screaming baby.

I rub my eyes groggily, wander off the plane, and find myself surrounded by young couples with small children.

I could go for a post-flight Cinnabon, I think. I wander the terminal, looking for the ubiquitous cinnamon roll dispensary (a sidenote: I never wander the terminal post-flight, since my primary objective is always to get the hell out of an airport as quickly as possible).

After walking by Babies ‘R’ Us, Land of Nod, Pea in the Pod, and a kiosk selling jars of organic, puréed vegetables, I realize I’ve arrived. Not home, not where I expected to return, but in some weird alternate version of home, where everything, everywhere, is saturated with foamy spittle, the smell of stale breast milk, and people chattering about the merits of hiring a doula.

I don’t mind this new phase, wherein I am a mere two months and change from being broadsided by a wrinkled bag of newborn joy. I am excited. I’m pumped. I’m really not sure what to expect. I’m mostly convinced this is all some kind of elaborate dream, because storks are a lot easier to process than — I don’t know — the idea that my wife is growing something inside her like Ripley in Alien 3.

What father-to-be of about my age hasn’t thought for just a second that his child might, at any minute, tear through the abdominal wall of its mother, screeching a high-pitched, alien battle cry through teeth dripping with acidic blood? Oh, what — just me?

The things the female body does to accommodate this little guy — terrifying or not — are unreal. I spend a lot of time learning about it and listening (mostly with saucer-sized eyeballs) to the countless ways nature prepares mothers for birth.

In my daily life, I find, suddenly, that I am surrounded by friends, acquaintances, co-workers and family members who are eager to talk about this weird phase. It’s an easy topic of conversation — like the weather or complaining about the diddlebrain drivers on I-70 who are so obviously from California — so people bring it up all the time.

I’ve been around friends with children for a while now, and managed to not talk about babies for years. Babies and children were other people’s problems, and I was mildly interested in them at best.

This all changed when I said, “Hey, I want to ride the baby-coaster. Punch my ticket, good sir!” The mustachioed ticket agent, with a wink and a nod, whittled away at my ticket like CGI Tom Hanks in The Polar Express, handed it to me, and shoved me firmly into a seat on the coaster, which was already leaving the station at breakneck speed.

The roller coaster analogy kind of breaks down at this point, but what I am getting at is this: once you decide to become a parent — snap! — your ecology is composed of other parents. The moment before you take that step, babies are something you give about as much attention to as a discussion on Fred Astaire’s performance in Top Hat.

Don’t mistake me. I like talking about babies, and how we don’t know the sex, and how my wife is coping with her heartburn (if the old wives’ tails are correct, we’re having a wookiee). As someone who finds small talk difficult to muster, having a ready topic of conversation is a welcome relief. I can easily pass a few minutes with casual acquaintances by talking about how my baby is now the size of a rutabaga (whatever the f*ck that is), and walk away feeling like I made a real connection with someone.

Pre-baby, I was pretty much limited to the weather, so I spent a lot of time double knotting my shoes or pretending I didn’t see people.

I marvel at the speed of life. It is like a series of plane rides from one destination to the next. My twenties were more carefree, and a lot like Vegas. What happened there, stayed there. I did stupid stuff. I didn’t worry about eating well or sleeping much. I didn’t think beyond a few months. I talked about drinking escapades, and how I almost tried ecstasy one time, and how girls were so damn perplexing.

I took a plane ride and landed in Denver, and now I’m talking about babies and nursery furniture and thinking ten years ahead.

As long as I don’t end up back in Vegas in another decade, I’ll be fine.

Originally written for my daily writing practice on April 29, 2017