MetroDad

Wouldn't it be cheaper to get a vasectomy?

I've noticed that many of my parenting brethren have wholeheartedly embraced the concept of the minivan and some quick google research reveals that minivan sales in the U.S. are up by almost 11% this year. And though I'm sure that this is a fantastically convenient way to transport kids around town, let's make one thing perfectly clear...MINIVANS ARE FOR SOCCER MOMS!!!

Gentlemen...I'm not saying that Real Men don't drive minivans. In fact, a man who drives a minivan is most likely a very caring father with only his children's best interests at heart. So, in one sense, I think it takes a real man to drive a minivan. It's just the emasculating image of a man driving a minivan that I find amusing. Actually, I find it hilarious. I literally start chuckling out loud every time I see a guy drive a minivan. (I know most of you do too. It's ok. You don't have to admit it.)

Ladies...when I say that MINIVANS ARE FOR SOCCER MOMS, that's not meant to be a sexist statement. There's really no way to be politically correct about this whole matter. But I think you all know that I love women. I love moms. And I love women who are moms. (Shit, I even love women who are dads.) But, here at MetroDad, I just want to tell you some things that your husbands might not want you to know.

First of all, if your husband has agreed to buy and drive the minivan himself, there's a good chance that he's actually a soccer mom trapped in a man's body. Because, as convenient as minivans may be, they scream "I am woman! Hear me roar!" So if your husband truly enjoys driving a minivan, I would check his briefcase for eyeliner and lipstick. You might also want to check his credit card receipts for any purchases of XXL-size lingerie at Victoria's Secret. (Be extra wary if he ordered the minivan in Indigo Girls Fuschia.)

Secondly, you should know that many men who have agreed to get a minvan may actually have ulterior motives in mind. In the back of their minds, they're thinking that they'll earn some future goodwill credits by agreeing to purchase the minivan. In the guy's mind, these credits can be applied anytime in the future for such things as a pick-up truck, a Harley motorcycle, a trip to Vegas, or oral sex.

Thirdly, you should know that a small minority of men are buying minivans to appease their wives. But like Picasso, they see the minivan as a blank canvas to be used as a starting point for their mechanical artistry. This is especially prevalent in Southern California, where it's not uncommon to see cherry red minivans, pimped out with customs rims and spoilers. These men are dangerous because, before you know it, you're going to the grocery store in a low-rider Chrysler Voyage with neon fenders. Bitchin!

Really, I don't mean to make cracks at guys who drive minivans and I certainly don't mean to question their masculinity. BUT I JUST CAN'T HELP MYSELF! (Sorry..hahaha) I just wouldn't want a minivan for the same reason that I wouldn't want to drive a pink Mary Kay Cadillac with bunnies all over it. Being a modern man who doesn't hunt or chew tobacco, I've got to hold on to every last vestige of masculinity that society is still allowing me. And sure, I love nice clothing, fine dining and spa days. But I've got to draw the line somewhere! And right now, the line is at minivans.

(p.s. the inspiration for this post came because I was walking downtown in Soho the other day and saw a minivan with a bumper sticker saying, "if this minivan's rocking, don't come knocking." Needless to say, I thought this was pretty fucking funny. I waited around to see what the guy driving it looked like but I couldn't tell because his skirt was in the way. Hah!)

A Remembrance of Thanksgivings Past

Having grown up as a child of immigrant parents, I always eagerly anticipated celebrating the holidays like most of my classmates. Not that I knew how they actually celebrated the holidays but my perceptions were based on all the novels I'd read or films that I'd seen. In my mind, everyone was celebrating Hallmark-type family holidays except us.

Especially not us. And especially not on Thanksgiving. I do give my mother credit one year for giving into her child's desires and attempting to give me and my brother the Thanksgiving that we always wanted. I was about 6 and had been begging for a real turkey with all the trimmings. My mother, either in a fit of sympathy or a desire to end this whining once and for all, somehow decided that the best way to cook a turkey was to boil it. Needless to say, it was completely inedible. Of all the possible ways to cook a turkey, I think it's pretty safe to say that boiling it is definitely not the way to go. And I'm no gourmet chef but I'm pretty sure you're supposed to remove the feathers first.

Family lore has yet to decide whether she really was that bad of a cook or perhaps, in a move of cunning genius, she was feigning ignorance to ensure that she would never be asked to cook on Thanksgiving again. Either way, her cooking skills led us to decide to have Thanksgiving catered the following year. Apparently, my father had a good year at work and, in his usual manner, decided he could solve all our problems by throwing money at them. This worked out semi-ok. We actually had a real turkey with chestnut stuffing, cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie. On the surface, everything was great. But the sad thing was that all this food was prepared for only the four of us in my immediate family. And my parents not being great conversationialists, we mostly ate the meal in an awkward silence as complete strangers served us our meal. I think I spent most of Thanksgiving dinner under the kitchen table talking to one of the busboys. And I don't even speak Spanish.

After that Thanksgiving, we pretty much gave up. The holiday became just an excuse to have a week off from school in November. We celebrated the holiday by taking short vacations or ordering in some Chinese food (because they're the only ones open on major holidays). My brother and I usually ate quickly and retreated into our rooms to read together. And soon after, it became apparent that we might as well just give up on Thanksgiving. It wasn't really working out for us.

Now, I don't know if any of you have friends of Korean ancestry. But let me tell you something. Koreans hold grudges like elephants. If you cross one of them, they'll put a Fatwah on your ass faster than you can say Salman Rushdie. And family members are no exception to this rule. So growing up, my brother and I pretty much never had any interaction with relatives on either side of the family. Everyone was estranged from everyone! I bring this up only because my next Thanksgiving memory occured in my late 20's. By this time, we had renewed the annual dinner and our parents informed us that a few people would be joining us this year. Naturally, we asked who specifically would be joining us. Imagine our surprise when we learned that it would be my father's brother and two cousins WHOM WE NEVER EVEN KNEW EXISTED! Not only did we not know of their existence but it turned out that they lived about 20 minutes away from us and had been living there all of our lives. Since we were so used to the family dysfunction, this didn't really faze me or my brother. We were curious and looking forward to meeting these newly-discovered blood relatives.

Well, it became clear from the start that though we shared the same genetic code, our cousins were much different from us. We were all in our 20's then but that was pretty much where the similarities ended. Somehow, our cousins had become born-again Christians. They were newly bathed in the Glory of God and could not have been more different from me and my brother. While they were good-hearted people, we couldn't get them to open up or talk about ANY other subject besides church. Finally, my brother and I gave up and we started drowning ourselves in one of God's better creations...double scotches.

It was around this time that my brother and I decided to start our own annnual Thanksgiving celebration. We decided to have small post-Thanksgiving dinner parties at our apartment for any of our friends who were free to come by. And since there are more than a few dysfunctional families living in Manhattan, we'd usually end up having about 6-8 friends come over every year. Everyone brought over a bottle of wine or booze, and we'd just hang out and party until the wee hours of the morning. And like they say, friends are the family you choose. So for my brother and I, these were fun-filled festive Thanksgivings that we'll always cherish.

But now, life has changed. I have the greatest partner in life, the BossLady, and every day I realize how lucky we are to have found one another. Together, we're raising a beautiful, healthy 7-week old daughter who can melt the Devil's soul with her smile. And finally, after 36 years, I'm realizing that Thanksgiving isn''t about the turkey, the Pilgrims or a 4-day weekend. It's about taking time to realize all the things we really need to be thankful for. And with a loving wife and a new baby daughter, I realize every day just how much I have to be thankful for. By understanding this, I've learned that every day is Thanksgiving (just with less turkey and Pepto Bismol)

So from myself, the BossLady and the Peanut...Happy Thanksgiving, Internet! What are YOU thankful for?

We interrupt this workday (and ignore my previous post)

It's another fucking Monday and I'm exhausted from the weekend. The Peanut woke me up last night at 4:00 am. And due to the short week, I've got a mountain of work to plow through and not much time to do it. As always, stress and exhaustion are a debilitating combination. But right now? I'm ready to rock!

About 15 minutes ago, my co-worker Michelle comes running into my office screaming, "Bono's outside! Bono's outside!" We run over to the window, look down and right below our eyes...U2 IS ON TOP OF A FLATBED TRUCK GOING DOWN SEVENTH AVENUE AND GIVING A FREE CONCERT!!!

We all run downstairs as fast as possible so we can catch up to the truck. It was amazing! U2 was on a parade float, slowly moving down the street with a full police escort. They were giving a free concert as hundreds of people were screaming on the sidewalks and walking down the street with them. People were hysterical! I felt like a little schoolgirl watching the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show.

It's days like today that allow me to remember just how much I love living in New York City. I mean, this shit just doesn't happen in Topeka, does it? For a brief shining moment, New York was the greatest small town in the history of the world. Total strangers were laughing with one another and singing in unison with Bono. 50 year-old women in high heels and business suits ran down the street. College kids, who weren't even born when U2 first appeared, sang along and knew every word. I even saw some wanna-be gangstas lose their cool and run alongside the truck. White, Black, Yellow, Brown or Purple...today, we were all NY'ers who realized that we were enjoying a special treat and we were unified by experiencing it collectively.

So as for my previous post about possibly moving out of the city to get some fresh air? Forget about it! Unpack the bags. Call off the movers! Because you can get fresh air anywhere! But having U2 perform outside your window at work?

Only in New York, kids! Only in New York!

Is Fresh Air overrated?

For the past few days, I’ve been out in Denver, Colorado for business. And though many of you may know me as a former card-carrying denizen of Manhattan’s nightlife, you might also be surprised to know that I spent a lot of time in Colorado as a teenager...skiing in the glades, biking in the hills and rafting in the rivers. I bring this up only to let you know that the incredible beauty of Colorado has never been lost on me.

But today, my friends, is different. Today is the first time that I looked at Colorado’s beauty through the new spectacles of Fatherhood…and boy am I depressed. Getting out of bed this morning and looking out at the snow-tipped mountains, I couldn’t help but think that I'm short-changing my newborn daughter by continuing to live in New York City. What am I doing putting Sharper Image Ionic Breeze Air Purifiers all over my apartment when I could just bring my daughter out here to breathe the fresh mountain air? Surely, my little Peanut deserves more than this!

Needless to say, people generally don't live in Manhattan because of the air quality. We live here because we're restless and neurotic misfits, unsuited to live in any other part of the country. We live here because we love the fast pace, the opportunities and the convenient fact that you can get any food delivered to your house when you're drunk at 2:00 am. We also live here because we love the museums, the arts, and complaining about traffic. But air quality? Nope. Never been very high on the list of reasons for living in Manhattan.

But I have a 6 week-old baby girl now who has stolen my heart and completely changed my life. So, needless to say, all of my lifestyle decisions are currently being reevaluated on a regular basis. And most of these decisions are being reassessed with only one sole criteria in mind...what's best for my little Peanut.

I have to warn you though; I'm a little crazy. When I think about my daughter and what's best for her, all rational thought can disappear from my body. I'm so instinctively protective that I can get practically manic. If I think my daughter needs fresh air, then I'm going to get her that fresh air as fast as humanly possible. So don't just stand there, dammit! Quick. Hand me that phone! I've got to call the real estate broker!

But then I stop and start to think. Do you think my daughter might want to have some fresh air? What if she doesn't like it? After all, it's not for everyone. BossLady and I love breathing in fresh mountain air while skiing or snowboarding. But to tell you the truth, every time we drive out to the suburbs and smell the freshly-mowed grass, we end up with terrible allergies that practically require bedrest, IV drips of Benadryl, and piles of Kleenex. Last time we drove out to the country, we returned to Manhattan sniffling so badly that people must have thought we spent the weekend partying with Robert Downey Jr., Tara Reid and the Dallas Cowboys.

So maybe fresh air isn't all that it's cracked up to be? Hmmm...I'm going to have to think about this one for awhile. As usual, it fits into the larger argument about whether BossLady and I are doing the right thing by raising our daughter in New York City. Kids here grow up fast. Most 16-year old girls here don't ask for ponies on their birthday. They ask for credit cards and a boob job. No way am I going to let my daughter turn out like that. But can I raise her to be a caring, well-adjusted child while living in Manhattan? That remains to be seen.

Stay tuned tomorrow where we'll discuss Little League, Norman Rockwell and the 86th Street Gang.

But at least they'll be able to share diapers

By now, I'm sure most of you have heard about the 57 year-old woman from NYC who just gave birth to twins, making her the oldest American woman in history to do so. As Conan O'Brian said, "the mother and twins are doing fine. However, the doctor is still recovering from nausea."

I'm surprised more people in the parenting blogosphere haven't been talking about this. Am I the only one who finds this a little creepy and ethically ambiguous? And don't get me wrong. I'm not claiming a double standard just because it was a woman. I have the same reservations about Tony Randall (who had a child at the age of 79), Warren Beatty (63) and Saul Bellow (84). Of course, those guys only agreed to be elderly parents because their 25 year-old wives demanded it.

Ultimately, the libertarian in me says that it was the woman's own personal decision. Who are we to pass judgement? Being a firm believer in individual rights, I can only say "more power to her." But in a way, it seems sort of selfish of her. Even the woman's own doctor said that just because you CAN have kids at such an advanced age doesn't necessarily mean you SHOULD. After all, by the time her kids graduate college, she's going to be 80 years old! But who knows? Maybe what she lacks in energy, she'll make up for in wisdom.

I do feel badly for the kids though. Can you imagine the ribbing these kids are going to take when they get to school?

"Hey Johnny. Does your mom have incontinence or is she just happy to see me?"
"Man. Yo mama's so old, her social security number is 1"
"Hey Johnny, is it true your mom farts dust?"

Ok...somebody stop me!

But again, I'm not going to pass judgement. I just have these images in my head of running around as a little kid and having my mom chase me for hours. Or playing soccer in the backyard with my dad. I sincerely wish her the best of luck. She's going to need it. Anyway, she seems more than capable of loving and caring for her child. She's got an army of nannies to help her out so I'm sure she'll be just fine. In fact, in many regards, I'd rather see an older woman caring for her newborn children than a young teenager.

Personally, I can't picture dealing with a newborn baby when I'm 57 years old. At that age, I have visions of being retired from the rat race. I picture myself sitting on a porch with the BossLady, sipping lemonade while gazing at our trout-filled stream and listening to the pattering of our horses. Of course, the reality is that I'll probably be working at McDonalds or greeting people at Wal-Mart ("Whazzup! Welcome to the Shizzy"). But regardless of the reality, the idea of changing diapers and chasing around twins when I'm 57 is a little frightening!

Maybe it does take a village...

My wife, porn star

Don't tell anyone but I think my wife has been abducted by aliens. Since the birth of our child 5 weeks ago, I believe that aliens have replaced BossLady with a woman who looks strikingly similar and sounds eerily the same...except for the fact that she has ENORMOUS boobs. Seriously, these are not normal boobs. These are EXTRATERRESTRIAL PORN STAR boobs.

Yes, of course they were large during pregnancy. Like many other women, the BossLady's mammaries were abundantly engorged while she was pregnant. However, since she gave birth and started breastfeeding, she's already lost quite a bit of her pregnancy weight. In fact, she looks fantastic and it's hard to believe that she gave birth only a scant 5 weeks ago. Not only has she lost her pregnant pot belly but she's also regained the ability to bend at the waist. Even her pregnancy Hobbit feet (which caused endless nights of tears) have returned to human proportions! But, Good Lord, have I mentioned the BOOBS?

It's so strange to see them. I've never been much of a breast man. I was always a firm believer that anything over a handful or a mouthful was just plain excessive. Both my parents were quite frugal so I've always been a "waste not, want not" kind of guy. Besides, my lovely BossLady always had beautiful, normal-sized boobs. I was always extremely pleased with them before and I'm not exactly sure how I feel about her new friends. They're so big, I feel like there may not be room for all of us.

And do I even need to mention the size of her nipples? her enormous larger-than-life nipples? Last night, she turned towards me without a top on and I thought it was a stick-up! I instinctively put my hands above my head and threw my wallet at her. (As usual, she just shook her head and looked at me as if I was crazy.)

It must be the strangest feeling for women. To wake up one day and have these enormous cantaloupes sticking out of your chest? I can't even envision a similar analogy that I've experienced in my lifetime. I guess the closest one would be if I woke up tomorrow and my testicles were the size of bowling balls. I shudder just thinking about it.

But BossLady has taken quite a liking to her new boobs. I don't think she wants to return them. She's been dropping a few hints lately about getting breast implants sometime in the future. I told her she could save up for the surgery by renting her boobs out to feed all the neighborhood kids. Either way, if her boobs continue to retain their gargantuan size, I think I'm going to have to give her a porn star name.

Or maybe I'll just call her BossLadies.

Got milk!!!

The BossLady and I went out to dinner tonight in Tribeca. One of our neighbors had opened a new restaurant across the street that we wanted to try so we hired a sitter to watch the Peanut while we snuck out for a quick meal together. Clearly, I was excited by my brief re-entry into adult civilization so I ended up having a few scotches at dinner. Now, having a few scotches during dinner is one thing but it's usually the scotches I have during dessert that get me in trouble. The BossLady is a smart woman and knows this about me. So it should come as no surprise that during dessert, it "somehow" came up that we should go home so I could drink some of her breast milk.

Now before I go any further, let me just say that this is not normally our idea of weekend fun. Due to our newborn baby's sleeping habits, I think the wife and I are a little delirious from lack of sleep. But in our previous life, we probably would have enjoyed our dinner together and then gone out to join some of our friends for an evening of cocktails and conversation. Maybe even some dancing.

But things are different now. Very different.

So where was I? Oh yes, the breast milk drinking story. Well, I'd like to say that it was truly in the interest of science that compelled me to drink some of the BossLady's breast milk tonight. But really, it was just sheer curiosity. And let me tell you something else. I'll be damned if it wasn't the some of the best milk I'd ever tasted!!! Seriously! It was fucking delicious!

It helped that I was a little buzzed from dinner but it was exactly like some of you said it would be...sweet and tasty. It tasted like the sugar-flavored milk at the bottom of the cereal bowl. I don't think the melted ice cream analogy was accurate. It was kind of like if you had taken regular milk and added a few packets of Equal. Mmm mmm. Milk. It really does do a body good.

FYI...I didn't drink it straight from "the tap." We thought that would be a little disturbing. I drank it from a porcelain sake glass. And I had a Snickers bar afterwards. Quite a nice combination.

Stay tuned until next week when we determine whether it's true that you can shoot breast milk across the length of an entire room! (See comments in the post below). That's right, folks. MetroDad...not just parenting humor but science too!

High stakes gambling at home!

BossLady and I aren't stubborn people. Nope. Not us. We prefer to use the term "strong-willed." Sounds much better, doesn't it? Anyway, us being two "strong-willed" people, it's not uncommon for us to get into an absurdly ridiculous debate over some trivial matter. Without fail, the debate usually evolves into a triple-dog dare or a high-stakes bet. And since BossLady already owes me over a million dollars from lost bets, we've been forced to come up with alternative stakes.

What kind of stakes you might ask? Well, past losers have had to do the following:

1. Walk around completely naked in the apartment for 24 hours.
2. Lick the other person's foot from top to bottom.
3. Run in front of our apartment building with your arms above your head and repeatedly scream "I'M A LOSER!"
4. Take all the leftover drinks from a cocktail party (wine, vodka, tea, juice, coffee), pour them into a giant pot, stir it all up and drink an entire glass of the ensuing mixture.

(Mature of us, isn't it? Hard to believe that the hospital actually let us leave with our newborn baby. Really, nobody even flinched!)

Anyway, ever since we've had the Peanut, our bets have been modified to the more mundane stakes of such baby-related chores as changing the diaper or doing the 4:00 am feeding.

I bring all this up because the BossLady and I got into another one of our debates the other night during dinner. I'm not even going to tell you what it's about because it's so ridiculously idiotic. But as I said, we're two "strong-willed" people so it was clear that, sooner or later, a bet was going to have to be made. While we were discussing possible stakes, the lovely BossLady suddenly blurted out, "I know! LOSER HAS TO DRINK MY BREAST MILK!" (Do you see why I love this woman?)

Loser has to drink her breast milk!!! Brilliant!!! I was all ready to take the bet. After all, how bad could it be? I drink regular milk...and that's specifically made for baby cows! My little Peanut likes the taste of breast milk better than formula and I'd already tried formula. Not too bad! Besides, the BossLady said she'd read somewhere that breast milk tastes like melted ice cream. Mmmm...ice cream!

We started debating whether the loser could (a) drink directly from the "tap", (b) pour it into a glass, or (c) add a drop of Hershey's syrup. But just as we were about to shake hands on the deal, I saw one of my wife's tells. She twitched her right eyebrow ever so subtly. And instantly, I knew right there and then that this was a sucker's bet. She had the inside scoop and there was no way I was going to win this bet. So I pulled my hand back and decided not to take the bet.

However, I'm sure that these stakes are going to come up again. And it's inevitable that one of us is going to end up with a breast milk moustache while the other one is going to be laughing his/her face off.

What I want to know is...do other couples do this sort of thing also? or are we both really just insane? Also, what kind of cookies go best with breast milk?

Human Sacrifice!

No. Not that kind of human sacrifice, you sick fuck! I'm talking about the heartfelt sacrifices that parents make for the unboundless love of their child, not sacrificing female virgins or making little effigies out of fish bones in voodoo rituals. (And for all you weirdos out there who are finding this entry because you're googling "sacrifice female virgins fish bones", please wipe off the black lipstick and leave now!) Anyway, as usual, I digress.

The thought of sacrificing for your child has been on my mind a lot today. According to this past week's NY magazine, the national average cost of raising a child to the age of 18 is $323,975. Since the cost of living index in Manhattan is approximately 3.2 times the national average, the child-raising cost for us could easily reach the $1 million mark. Holy Bling Bling, Batman! Are you fucking kidding me?

$1 million!!! That figure is so staggering and unrealistic that it would be absolutely comedic if it weren't so fucking terrifying. It reminds me of that old saying about Congressional funding, "a billion here, a billion there. Pretty soon, it starts to add up to real money."

Anyway...as I was telling my foodtaster the other day, it's quickly become quite evident to me and the BossLady that some changes are going to have to be made in our household's status quo. The birth of our young heiress is going to force us to seriously alter our lifestyle. No more bathing ourselves in champagne. No more caviar for the dog. And definitely, no more drunken games of "pin the tail on the servant." (I swear I think I saw a tear in the chauffeur's eye. He used to love that game.)

But seriously...I'm so in love with the Peanut that I'd sacrifice everything for her. And although there was one moment last night where I looked in her crib and saw a Porsche and a ski cabin, I would do anything for this girl. The question is HOW! How are BossLady and I going to make the lifestyle changes that will enable the Peanut to reach the age of 18? without dressing her in burlap sacks and mittens made out of old socks?

Well, for starters, we searched around the apartment last night and discovered that we had a kitchen! It's small but there seems to be one device that allows us to keep food cool, and another device that enables us to warm it up. Fucking ingenious! Next thing you know, they'll invent a machine that will wash and dry clothes!

With the recent discovery of the kitchen, the BossLady and I have decided that we need to cook at home more often. Our problem is that, living in NYC, we're surrounded by amazingly cheap food from every region of the world. And all this food can be delivered to your doorstep piping hot in less than 30 minutes! Where else in the world can you do that? Only in NY, baby! Only in NY. Anyway, sacrificing delivery wouldn't be that much of an issue if it weren't for one other problem....the BossLady and I can't cook!!! Well actually, we can both prepare special-occasion meals but we don't know how to prepare everyday food. So like young cubs being thrown into the wild for the first time, we're now forced to fend for ourselves in our newly-discovered kitchen. And just to let you know how things are going so far, over the past few days, we've had the following dinners:

1. Grilled cheese sandwiches
2. Frozen dumplings (twice)
3. Cereal
4. Frozen burrito
5. Microwave buffalo wings
5. Cookies, potato chips and ice cream

But BossLady and I love the Peanut so we're going to have to learn to feed ourselves somtime soon. The ironic thing is that we have a huge collection of cookbooks and tons of recipes clipped from newspaper articles and magazines. Unfortunately, I don't think we're going to have time to prepare the roasted squab with the ragout of chanterelles and shallots anytime soon. No, we're a little busy for that right now.

What I really need is a cookbook for new parents. So I'm throwing out a million dollar idea here for anyone who wants to show some intiative. Create a book of receipes where all the meals can be prepared using only one hand. The meals need to be prepared out of whatever leftovers or frozen foods that are readily available without any advance preparation. No timers can be used because they're hard to hear over a baby's screams. Oh yeah...and all the meals need to take less than 15 minutes to be completed. Can anyone help us? Please? Before the BossLady and I become diabetic or collapse from anaphylactic shock!

(In lieu of suggestive recipes, we'll also welcome donations to "The Help Raise a Child to 18 Fund". All checks should be made out to "Manhattan Porsche")

And many more...

Dear Peanut,

Today we had two milestones. You are officially one month old and I celebrated my 36th birthday. With you joining me and mommy in our lives, I can truly say that this is the happiest time of my life. It's hard to believe that you've only been with us for such a short time!

It was a beautiful Fall day in New York today so we took you out for a long walk downtown. You love being in your stroller. Once you're bundled in, you fall asleep immediately. If we stop walking for even a minute, you open one eye and give us the Korean Death Stare to let us know we better keep moving. Though you're only one month old, it's already clear who's going to be running the show. You truly are Daddy's little girl.

You're such a healthy baby. You look much older than your age and sometimes your mother and I swear that you're going to get up any second and start walking. Like all members of our family, you're a true foodie. Though you've yet to experience the joys of sushi or a great steak, you suck down breast milk like the well is going to run dry. Subsequently, you then make me and your mother laugh hysterically by burping and farting like a truck driver. Sometimes, you're so hungry that you don't even bother waking up to eat.

You love sitting in your swing and staring out into space. You like it when Diego comes up to you and licks your ears. You love being held and listening to 80's music. You love taking baths but you hate getting out of the tub. You hate being swaddled. We could wrap you tighter than a Cuban cigar and you'd still find a way to get out. You also love your grandmas. Sometimes when you're crying and your mother and I can't console you, we'll hand you off to one of your grandmas and you'll stop crying immediately. Your mother and I can't figure out how this works. Maybe it's some sort of grandmother pheromone.

Peanut, I don't want to appear biased or swell your head but you truly are a beautiful baby. Your mother and I spend hours staring at you in amazement. The general consensus is that you resemble me but I'm always amazed at how you have the same exact beautiful lips as your mother. Recently, you're using those lips by learning how to smile. It's funny because you usually prefer frowning. Sometimes you look like a grumpy old man. But once that smile comes out, your mother and I just melt. Your smile is the most life-affirming thing we've ever experienced and give us a greater meaning to our lives than we'd ever known existed.

Everyone told us before you were born that our love for you would be unlike anything we'd ever experienced. And though we heard this a million times, we didn't truly understand it until you came into our lives. In fact, I don't think there's any way to ever understand it until you someday have a child of your own. Your mother and I love you with all our hearts, Peanut. We love you so much we could cry. You are the world to us. And I hope you always know how much we love you (even when you're a teenager and we're the bane of your existence).

Anyway, Peanut....we're pretty new at this parenting thing and we're sure to make some mistakes along the way. We apologize in advance. But don't worry. We'll get through it all together. Because with you in our lives, we've come to appreciate that true happiness is not the destination but the journey. Your mother and I are cherishing every minute of it so far and are looking forward to the rest of the trip.

Happy birthday to us, Peanut! Thanks for being the greatest gift a father could ever ask for!