It happened two months ago that our lives changed drastically. We were two Dads and a beautiful five-year old boy. Two and a half men. We were way passed diapers and pre-chewed food (sometimes that stuff smelled as bad going in as it did coming out). Things were moving along rather smoothly and we had finally found our rhythm. Our son was graduating from preschool on Friday and the Wednesday before was his last day of “class.”
There I was, a grown man standing in Starbucks after dropping him off for the last time at our beloved preschool, tears coming down behind my Wayfarers ( a retro-nod to the days when I thought I was cool…I never was BTW). Friday’s graduation was going to be embarrassing. An Irish-like Keening seemed inevitable.
To keep me from losing it over that milestone…at 5 a.m. on Graduation Day, the phone rang. It was our surrogate. Her water broke. The room started spinning. My husband asked something. I answered something. He showered. I googled…
1. Is it safe to deliver a baby at thirty-seven weeks? I think I already knew they’re considered full term. I just needed thousands of people I didn’t know to back me up.
2. When the water breaks, how long until the baby is born? I should’ve just googled how many grains of sand are there on earth? (Turns out there are approximately seven quintillion five quadrillion grains of sand…counting only beaches).
3. Is there irreparable, therapy-riddled damage to a five year old if his parents aren’t at his preschool graduation because his little sister is being born? I think because I posted the question, I also answered it.
I am generally not the calm one (see Starbucks above). When my husband emerged after getting ready, I asked if he would go to the hospital and assess how much time we had. I would stay with our sleeping boy and hopefully meet my him at graduation…to preserve the mental health of our son. Hopefully, I would NOT miss the birth of our daughter. I was semi-calm, but on the verge of an emotional break. ***See Starbucks above.
Not wanting to let her big brother outshine her, but being sensitive to his place in the family, our little girl waited until almost 3 pm to grace us with her presence. We both made it to graduation, saving thousands in therapy (even I don’t think it would have been that awful). Our son spent the day with his little best friend and his family, completely oblivious to our absence throughout the day.
Later, he was brought to us at the hospital to meet his little sister. I drove him home, gave him a bath, tucked him into bed and scurried back to the hospital after our Aunt arrived to watch him. I handed off the baton to my husband who went home to sleep while I spent the first sleepless night of many at the hospital with our new beautiful little girl. While our son’s world was revolving as smoothly as always, our’s was changing with every tick of the second hand. 
People kept telling us “front to back” whenever we told them we were having a girl. Some made it seem like they had been holding onto this secret for years, just foaming! to tell us. It was like going to a live performance of the “Vagina Monologues” every time we went to dinner with friends or family. Even our straight male friends told us. I heard it in my sleep. Front to back, front to back. It was like being let into a club we didn’t know existed. And let’s be honest, as gay men we hadn’t been near one in quite a while.
They made it seem like if any poop got near our baby’s private area, we were screwed. We were FREAKING OUT! (Read: I WAS FREAKING OUT!) On our first “well-visit,” the doctor gave me a tour of her private area. I’m not kidding, there was a headset and a map. It’s been a while for me so while I appreciated the information that was being lobbed at me, I couldn’t help but think, “What are you doing to my daughter!”
As it turns out, all she does is get poop in there. And in her belly button, too. It’s phenomenal that most times she miraculously misses the bottom of her diaper entirely. One time it was so bad that my husband commented that “they” need to invent a diaper that separates the private area from the tushie area. As exhausted as I was at the time, even I knew that didn’t make sense. It took me a minute to roll my tired eyes. So we cleaned it. Thoroughly.
I’m not exaggerating when I tell you I can go through an entire box of non-alcohol wipes cleaning her diaper area. And I live in fear of reusing one, lest some poop make its way back inside. Sometimes we bathe her right after she poops. Or, we use the sink attachment to rinse her. Actually, we are getting pretty good at it. But I probably won’t use our sink to rinse any food until we buy a new sink.
We love having our new addition so much that we are considering a third. My husband just doesn’t know it yet. He’s too tired to read this so my secret’s safe. Turns out it’s not as bad or scary as people made it out to be. She’s just as easy as her brother. Just a little different. And that’s awesome. And so, we are now Three Men…and a Little Lady.
{{{Gush}}}}