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!

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.

Traveling to Netroots Nation this year was a ton of fun and as always an educational experience. I'm sad to see that Gina is retiring as director, but hopefully there will be much fun next year in Pittsburgh. Things I learned at the conference:

• Being away from my kid and wife now officially is a bowl of suck.
• Joe Trippi can look un-disheveled.
• I miss my kid.
• Old friends are good to catch up with.
• I perpetually wonder if I'm missing something cool that my kid did every minute I'm away from him.
• A lot more people than just my immediately family read this blog. I had no idea that many people were interested in poop.
• I can not handle booze like I used to.
• I can beat the smartest lawyer ever at poker.
• I often miss my wife.
• The Alamo Drafthouse is everything I hoped it would be and more.
• I like not being peed on.
• I was really excited to get 5 full nights of sleep. Too bad I still only got 1.
• I can not handle booze like I used to.
• Sometimes things I think will be exciting are in fact incredibly boring.
• Sometimes things I think will be boring are in fact incredibly exciting.
• Tearing up after watching a video of my kid yawning does not make me lame...I think.
• Sometimes, there can be such a thing as too many parties.
• I really can not handle booze like I used to.
• Austin is a awesome place.
• If you sponsor an event, the chance of you hearing your company get a shout out works in direct correlation with your inability to hold you bladder. The more you leave an event to pee, the more they will say your name without you there. If you stay in the room they will conversely refrain from mentioning you at all.
• Charlie and Heather can apparently function without me. That's disconcerting as everything is supposed to be about me.
• Everybody wants an Advoshirt.
• Being away from my kid and wife now officially is a factory of suck.

Can't wait till next year.

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.

This post is totally irrelevant for all you non breeders out there.

For those of you curious as to how you too can be as perfect of a parent as me, the kind that allows their child to pee on their own faces, I have put together a collection of videos and equipment that have been lifesavers for our sanity.

With these items you'll get more sleep, your baby will be happier, and you will clearly be a flawless parent. You'll make absolutely no mistakes. Except for a lot of them.

My buddy Frank just had his kid yesterday, Freddie Robbins (we had the same due date), and he's gonna need help. So I thought this compilation might help him. My 8 days as a parent will clearly aid Frank in his quest for parental sanity.

Our Recipe for success:

"The Happiest Baby on the Block - The New Way to Calm Crying and Help Your Baby Sleep Longer (DVD)"

The doctor who came up with this is a friggin genius. Or some kind of voodoo witch doctor. He has a 5 option solution for calming a crying baby. His moves have helped every time Charlie cried, without fail. It's weird, and creepy and accurate.

"Dunstan Baby Language -- Learn the universal language of newborn babies"

Calming your baby is one thing, but understanding what they need is another. This brainiac australian lady has some sort of creepy baby whisperer gift that allows her to understand baby cries. She teaches you to understand them. Also creepy accurate. It will blow your mind. Seriously.

"Miracle Blanket - Green with Beige Trim"

As you'll learn in Happiest Baby, swaddling is key to being a way awesomer parent than everyone else. If you are lazy, or unskilled at swaddling like myself, this blanket will PWN the baby. This blanket makes it easy to bind your baby up like Hannibal Lector being transfered, sans bite protection mask. It's very miracley.

"Baby-Gami: Baby Wrapping for Beginners" by Andrea Cornell Sarvady

If you are brave enough to do your own swaddling, this book has all kinds of variations of swaddle to aid you in your quest to make the baby stop with the crying and fussing. We've found quite a few of these quite useful.

The rest of the stuff I assume you already have. Good luck people, and happy hunting.

So I realize that on this blog I will become the thing that so many people are wary of. I will eventually start boring people to tears with play by plays of every little thing Charlie does, ranging from fascinating essays about his poop, to dissertations on how when his little hands grab on to things it's clear that he's a supergenius (its obvious, you guys, he clearly is showing signs of advancement far beyond his age because he managed to pull his pacifier out of his mouth with his hand. He'll be using tools very soon.)

So acknowledging that ahead of time, I want you to know, I understand, that I am becoming boring parent guy. I have no control over it. It's a genetic thing that happens when you pro-create. I'm gonna start a separate blog about politics and other stuff, and leave all the boring family stuff on here, so the two never have to intersect.

In the interim, allow me to regale with you a nightmare horror story. About poop. Just because I can. (Charlie is gonna hate me later, but whatever.)

After Charlie's meconium phase he stopped pooping at all. We went 96 hours of nothing but pee. In exchange for no poop, we were given the gift from Satan himself, Sulfuric death farts that could kill all animal and plant life within a 10 mile radius. These things were more than toxic. They could put you on the floor. So after 96 hours of this we were starting to get nervous that Charlie would be that embarrassing smelly kid at school who all the other children shunned for fear he might make them smell like sulfur too. Finally after 4 days of nothing, he crapped all over himself. It was a glorious and victorious night, simultaneously thrilling, and disgusting. It's an amazing moment when you come to the realization that you are getting excited about poop. You become conflicted with feelings of relief that your kid can poop, and horror, that you get excited by such things.

The next night, I heard him pooping, and being the proactive guy I am, I grabbed him out of his crib before he started crying. I popped him onto the changing table, checked out his diaper, and sure enough, there was a nice big watery poop all over his little diaper. I proceeded through the motions of changing him, wiping him down, grabbing the replacement, when to my horror, the apocalypse came forth, because God apparently hates me.

Ever go to a fancy party and see a chocolate fountain? Now imagine that but with runny baby poo. Endless baby poo. I tried wiping the second round, but it just kept coming. Nothing would stop it. I screamed for backup. By the time Heather got up there I was on wetwipe #5 and frantically trying to stop the madness. 6 wetwipes and 2 diapers later, things were back under control. I now have Post Tramatic Stress Disorder, but that's a small price to pay in exchange for my kid being socially acceptable when he grows up.

The farts have gone. And now I bore my friends with poo play by play. Good times.

Charlie is mad, originally uploaded by Advodude.

We've made it home in one peace, and Charlie's grandparents gave us a 0 birthday BD cake and some champaign to celebrate the occasion. The pediatrician gave him a clean bill of health (other than the jaundice that is clearing up) and Heather seems better as well. I've learned alot in these first 72 hours, and I thought it might be good to share them with you.