The Democratic Conventio Podium, originally uploaded by Advodude.

It's clearly stressing Charlie out.

I know I put a ban on all Charlie Daniels name jokes for about 3 weeks now, but this one was so effin awesome that I must allow it to happen. My friends at Chapter Three got together and sent Charlie a Golden Fiddle.

For those of you too young or daft to get the joke, I offer up this lyric from Charlie Daniels' Band's classic, The Devil Went Down to Georgia:

Johnny you rosin up your bow and play your fiddle hard.
'Cos hells broke loose in Georgia and the devil deals it hard.
And if you win you get this shiny fiddle made of gold.
But if you lose, the devil gets your soul.

Below is the letter they enclosed with the fiddle:

Heather and Adam,

Our best wishes on the birth of your child and our sincerest hope that Charlie Daniel take after his mother in every possible way. With the charm and elegance of the Mordecai's being her fault, he should have no problem being the most stylish kid at his school and sharing in many amazing kisses with cute anarchist vegans.

To celebrate his birth - and to prevent future pacts with the devil - we are including this gold fiddle. May he be the best that's ever been.

Your fans and followers,

Zack, Josh, and Matt

Gentlemen, you are geniuses. My boy will do his best to play it like the devil.

Whoever invented huggies needs to be beaten with a bag of oranges, tied to a table, while 7 babies wearing huggies hang over him while drinking a crapload of milk every hour. Then he can enjoy the water torture of 7 diapers simultaneously dumping urine all over him.

I just don't get it. Every time I put Charlie in pampers, I never get a drop on me. With huggies, not only do I get drops, I get a fountain. It's like the diaper isn't there. It shoots out like he's naked. Napkins would work better.

I'm coming for you huggies. And when I find you, I'm going to pee on you.

That is all. I'm now changing my shirt and going out to buy PAMPERS, BEOTCHES!

This will be brief because it is so gross and so scaring to my psyche.

Want to know how to make a dirty bomb? Take your child's diaper off just after you think they finished pooping. Apparently they can make it explode like a bomb, rather than just a drizzle. All over you.

The more you know. *Cue TMYK theme song*

I'm gonna go scrub my skin raw now.

Things I know about John Elway, The Greatest QB of all TIME:

1. He's extremely fast.
2. He's extremely tricky. Flea Flicker anyone?
3. He's awesome with the pump fake.
4. He's got laser perfect aim.
5. He has two superbowl rings.

So last night, at 3 am I'm all groggy, complacent and feeding Charlie when I discover a stinky diaper. I decided to change it. Then the following happened.

1. I place the new diaper under the old one and clean him off.
2. As I move the old diaper out of the way, he poops again. I rush to make sure there's no blast radius by blocking with the new diaper.
3. I reach for new diaper #2 while suddenly coming to the realization that I have not covered his junk. I reach for a pee pee teepee.
4. I turn back around and he's managed to use his laser perfect aim to pee in his own ear, and all over his pajamas. He got me with the pump fake.
5. I give him a championship ring for fastest pee-er ever.

I'm even more resolved to beat this kid at his game, but you win this time Charlie, you win this time. By the way, when you get older, don't try that on the football field. It could end badly.

While I was gone, Charlie decided he wanted headshots for his upcoming career as a stage baby. While I wasn't comfortable with all the fame I achieved acting, he apparently is hungry for his 15 minutes. I will be actively pushing to quash his dreams of stardom, and encourage him to go into a more subdued and professional career like extreme sports or politics.

Regardless, a new friend of ours, Andrea Johnston took some awesome pictures. Charlie was already cuter than your baby, but she has now turned him into the George Clooney of babies. Suck on that, other parents who reads this blog. My boy just out cuted yours!

This is an Open Letter to my son, to whom I have to apologize for my behavior as of late. Before I get into the actual letter, I'd like to call Sarah Avery, my fellow insomniac who I chatted with tonight, OUT, for declaring that the Beastie Boys suck, when they are indeed RAD, AWSOME and PWN the music scene. They are keeping me company tonight as I write this letter, with their awesome Fan concert documentary, "AWESOME! I SHOT THAT!" Shenanigans, Avery, Shenanigans. In the words of Adrock:

If you try to knock me you'll get mocked. I'll stir fry you in my wok. Your knees'll start shaking and your fingers pop. Like a pinch on the neck of Mr. Spock.

I'm just gonna put this out there now, I nominate Adrock for Poet Laureate of the United States in the Obama Administration. Now to the letter (pardon the morbidity, I just have to get it off my chest):

Dear Charlie,

I'd like to apologize for all the sleep I have been interrupting of yours as of late. You see, for some reason, I can't accept the fact you are actually a functioning normal baby, and as such have to poke and prod you at all hours of the night to make sure you are, in fact, still alive.

You clearly have proven, time and again, that you are totally capable of breathing on your own, without my help. And yet, I still feel the need to poke you in the face to make sure that you are, in fact, still around. You see, I am worried, that you could have SIDS, even though SIDS doesn't even begin to appear until after you are a month old, and even then only happens to .0005% of babies. Science says the odds are clearly in your favor, by a ridiculous margin. But surely, you could be the first case in history of a baby suffering that fate before being a month old. So I have to continue poking you in the face.

Additionally, occasionally, if you refuse to sleep in perpetual motion, I will have to flick your earlobe to confirm that you are still mobile. I do not have a small enough mirror to put under your nose, and you seem to breathe far too shallowly, regardless, for me to prove that you are indeed ok. As such, finger on the ear is gonna have to happen.

Rather than listen to you breathe with a stuffy nose, which is clearly an indication that you are about to collapse, I plan on staying up late at night and get even less sleep so as not to disturb your slumber. This will occasionally cause me to be slightly irrational and grumpy, and I apologize for that ahead of time, but if I don't, I will slowly go crazy with the not knowing if you are indeed still acting like every other baby on the planet.

Also, every once in a while I am going to have to shake your foot. Sorry, but you have no LCD screen that tells me your current status, so that's the only way I have of knowing that you haven't forgotten to breathe. I know you aren't stupid (in fact you are probably the smartest baby ever if my instincts are correct), but there's a part of me clearly screaming that you are incapable of doing the most basic human things for yourself.

I am a new father, and as such, I'm not terribly bright. The sleep deprivation and mother nature have conspired to make me worry 24 hours a day that you will never get a grasp on that whole breathing and surviving thing. Science is just a theory and not a fact, so there's a chance you will fail at these things and prove me right. As such, I will continue to not sleep, and interrupt yours, just to make sure I am not insane.

Again, my bad. I have no control over this.

Tired and awake at 3:07am.

Sorry,

Your Dad.

Mission Objective: Keep Paternal Needs Conceirge (PNC) awake so as to meet my needs.

Mission Report:

8:10 am: Maternal Needs Conceirge (MNC) delivers me to PNC at NC slumber location, so that MNC can manufacture more liquid food that I ordered her to provide me.

8:12 am: PNC's eyes remain closed. Commence mission objectives.

8:13 am: I hit PNC in the face with hands. He remains undisturbed.

8:14 am: I kick PNC in the chest with hands. No response.

8:15 am: I grab PNC's lower lip. He opens his eyes. They then return to closed position.

8:16 am: Drastic measures required. I commence pants poop.

8:17 am: PNC wakes. Sighs in disappointment. Goes back to sleep.

8:18 am: I grab PNC's lower lip and poop my pants again simultaneously. He grumbles, wakes, then goes back to sleep.

8:19 am: I punch PNC in face, and poop again. Still no response.

8:20 am: I grab PNC upper and lower lips. I then kick him in chest. Then I poop. He wakes up. Pats my head. Goes back to sleep.

8:24 am: I poop 3 more times. Insolent PC disregards.

8:25 am: I commence measure of last resort and proceed with operation cry. PNC finally rises to do as I tell him.

End Report

You know your life has changed when you are sitting outside a hospital and your wife is inside at a lactation support group discussing mamory glands with other women, all of whom have sore nipples. I watched as almost every one of these women was dropped off by tired men in cars. And even though nobody else on the street knew anything about these ladies nipples, I was in on to their little secret. It made me feel sort of guilty that I had this knowledge. But the guilt is currently being overwhelmed by the sleepiness that I feel.

The first week of having a kid, we had a fabulous night system worked out. If it was feeding time, Heather would get up and feed, and I would sleep. If it wasn't feeding time, I would get up and figure out the issue and Heather would sleep. Fortunately for me, Charlie mostly only woke up if it was feeding time, leaving me to enjoy my slumber, while Heather slowly grew more tired and exhausted. It was great. Until this week.

Charlie, you see, has been a very bad boy. We explain to him over and over again the proper way to latch on to Heather's breasts, and yet he seems stubbornly determined to do things his way. And though we have repeatedly lectured him on manners and good behavior, he ignores us completely. Kind of reminds me of my brother (please let that not be true.) So thanks to his shoddy attitude, Heather has had to pump rather than feed, which means I have to feed rather than sleep. Which means I get tired and exhausted and Heather gets some rest. How is that fair?

Last night I got 2 hours sleep. And while getting to feed your kid from a bottle while he stares at you as though you are the king of all yummy milky goodness is a wonderful feeling, the shine has sort of wore off, what with my newfound irrational grumpiness, blackouts, paranoia and brain delirium.

Now I know what you are thinking. "Poor Adam. Heather has it so easy now, and you have it so hard." You are insensitive for thinking that. The truth is, its getting even worse for Heather, because even though she is getting more rest, she is now subjected to the inhuman requirements of a breast pumping machine. They attach to both your boobs and suck for 15 minutes. For that 15 minutes you don't feel sexy. You feel the opposite of sexy, you feel like 1970's vegas Elvis. Heather was used to feeling sexy about 99% of the time, or 1960s Elvis. And now she's having a 4% per day reduction in feeling sexy, all thanks to the little rhythmic noises of a breast pump. But do have pity on me as she gets 4 HOURS OF SLEEP a night, to my 2.

Go to hell, soul & milk sucking machine, go to hell. Nobody messes with my Heather.

I spoke yesterday about chocolate fountains, and last night the inevitable happened.

As the father of a baby boy, there is one perpetual fear one has when changing diapers.

Every single time its like looking down the barrel of a loaded gun. Charlie's little one eyed monster starting at you, mocking you, waiting for that open window to expel all over you and then laugh as you miserably end up somewhere public reeking of urine.

I'm pretty good about covering him up with a wipe or some other piece of cover to protect us both. Last night, however, I got lazy and complacent. And Charlie got hit in the face by friendly fire.

Guilt is a good motivator.