Aw crap, I've got poop on my hand

Quick hits from five days of being a dad:

I was sitting in Jason's Deli the other night, waiting for a to go order. I had poop on my thumb. Six days earlier, I would've been disgusted. This time? I smiled.

I smelled like babies the other day at work.

There was something pretty great about that celebratory cigar.

My favorite picture taken so far is the one of Julia and Maxson, the first time she held him after he was weighed and swaddled. I'll definitely admit that at first glance, it's not the most flattering picture of my wife. But the more I look at it, the more I can't help but notice the look in her eyes. She's seeing her son for the first time. That, and she's totally looped out on drugs.

The nurse tech that was screaming for Julia to "GET MAD! GET ANGRY!" has obviously done this before. I think that was way more useful than my, "You can do it honey!" approach.

Babies apparently follow similar physical laws as buttered toast Alanis Morisette's "Ironic." Little man wasn't making us change his diapers as often as we thought, so we took him to the pediatrician. In the waiting room, he decided to show us that we're a bunch of worrying idiots by peeing then and there.

As a corollary to that, it's entirely true that all new parents find an appreciation for counting the number of dirty diapers. And then talking about it with each other.

As another corollary, I now worry. A lot.

I'll level with you. He doesn't do much. He sits, looks around, does his business, sleeps, and cries. But I've never been so entertained by someone that doesn't do much. I could watch him for hours.

This morning, I spent almost two hours staring at him. Instead of sleeping. What the hell is wrong with me?