shitting and slinging, but not shit slinging

ah, my first father's day. the event was actually ushered in right on the nose of midnight as my tiny ray of sunshine grunted loudly, dispatching ten pounds of turd into her pants. "happy father's day!" that's my girl. i call her rumblebuttskin. so i changed her. my first father's day, barely five weeks into this fathering business, and here i am, up after midnight being shit upon. ah. and so it begins. so it begins.

so i seem to have struck a chord with the sleep rant the other day. thanks for the tips. many of you suggested a sling. as it happens, we have not one but TWO slings and we love them very much, thank you. actually, technically, they're not slings. they're "new native baby carriers." these are slings for dummies, if you will. between the wife and i, there are two people with master's degrees in this house ... and we only just barely decoded these baby carriers -- which are supposed to be much, much easier to handle than "authentic" slings. which raises the question: how do stupid people pull off parenting, tricky ninja slings and all? anyway, the new native is good enough for stephen malkmus; it's good enough for me.

so, yes, i love my "sling" and, more importantly, so does my daughter. just the other day, i came home from work and mrs nice guy handed me the baby. "i am going to sleep," she announced. so i stuck the kid in her sling and hit the town. it's a very odd sensation, walking around with a baby in a sling. you get a lot of weird looks. the baby is so tiny that she disappears completely into the thing, which makes me look like some new-agey weirdo with a supersized fanny-pack strapped to his belly. oh, the sacrifices i am already making for my child.

but the sling is a wonderful thing. i am strolling around and i run into a friend of mine -- a woman who just broke up with her beau -- and she's on her way to a bar with a friend of hers. they ooh and ahh over my beautiful child. they invite me and my fanny pack along for a drink. and so i took my daughter to her first bar. here it is, my first solo outing with the kid, and two ladies on the prowl invite me along -- and buy me a burbon, no less! "slings are rad!" i am thinking. (yes, i put my five-week-old daughter in a bag and took her to a bar where i drank burbon with loose women. i am a scumbag.)

so after my drink i bid the vixens adieu and head to a bodega where i am supposed to pick up ice cream. the baby is sleeping -- hanging peacefully like a bag of bricks around my neck. my hands are free, swinging at my side. sure i look like someone who hangs out at renaissance faires in my spare time, what with my belly-satchel, no doubt filled with mead or hacky sacks, and people are definitely giving me funny looks. they want to know what Pervy McSicko has in his bag ... is that a tiny lifeless hand dangling out from the side of that satchel? but hey, i just had a free burbon. life is good. "slings are definitely rad," i tell myself again.

at the bodega, i am standing in line behind this guy who was breathtaking in his awesomeness: he's got his hair all slicked back, a pink long-sleeved button-down dress shirt tucked into white PLEATED SHORTS. threaded leather belt. sockless topsiders. who let this guy into brooklyn? he smiles. i suspect he's going to laugh at me and, frankly, i welcome it. instead, he points at me and asks: "hey, is that a little guy in there?!"

me (with as much withering disdain as i can possibly muster): a little girl, actually.
biff: that's great! what do that call that thing?
me: um, you mean the sling?
biff: sling, huh? that's great!
me: yeah. it's pretty useful. keeps my hands free. it may not look that cool, but it's pretty useful.
biff: i think it looks really cool!

great. just great. biff thinks i look really cool. a part of me really wants to like biff all of a sudden. but the rest of me thinks ... maybe slings aren't as rad as i thought.

disclaimer: mr. nice guy apologizes to all readers who currently wear, or may have ever worn, pleated shorts. but speaking from the pinnacle of high fashion upon which i am perched, i feel this blight on humanity must end! who am i to speak? here is what i was wearing when confronted with the wild biff: longish brown denim-ish shorts. black chucks to nicely offset the whitest man-legs on the planet. a too-small hawaiian shirt. very, very big hair. and, of course, a baby-in-a-bag. so, obviously, i am very well-positioned to speak critically on matters of attire.