I'll Mature When I'm Dead

by Dave Barry

  Q. Is that also why men refuse to ask directions?

  A. If Man A asks Man B for directions, Man B, realizing that Man A is a weak, direction-asking type of male who probably also reads owner’s manuals, could decide to attack Man A’s village and plunder his women. Man A is not about to run that kind of risk. But there is more to it than that. Men are explorers. They do not follow the herd. If “everyone” says that the best way to get to a certain mall is to take a certain road because that is the road that the mall is located on, a man wonders if there might be another, better, as-yet-undiscovered route to that same mall. If Columbus, back in 1492, had taken directions from the so-called “experts” about how to get to India, he would never have set out in the opposite direction across the Atlantic Ocean, and today there would be no such thing as Microsoft, Dairy Queen, or syphilis.

  Q. So are you basically saying that all of the things that women perceive as flaws in men are actually virtues, without which the human race would today be facing widespread misery, destruction, death, and possibly even extinction?

  A. Also, no Dairy Queen.

  Q. I never realized any of this. Now I feel so guilty for all the time that we women have spent thoughtlessly carping about men. I feel terrible about our insensitivity, and all the pain we must have caused you. I feel . . . Excuse me, are you listening?

  A. What?

  The Heart of Dadness

  A Letter to a First-Time-Father-to-Be

  So you’re about to become a dad! That is wonderful news. As the poet Wordsworth once said, “Fatherhood is truly the most . . . HEY! You kids put down those hatchets RIGHT NOW!”

  The poet Wordsworth’s point was that, although fatherhood is a rewarding experience, it’s an experience that you will sometimes wish was rewarding somebody else. Nevertheless, if you ask any dad if fatherhood is worth it, he will immediately answer yes. Why? Because his wife might be listening.

  No, seriously, he will answer yes because fatherhood is a great thing, for reasons I will attempt without success to explain later. But you need to be prepared for some big changes in your lifestyle.

  To begin with, for a while after the birth of your child you will have the same sex life as a waffle iron. This is understandable, considering the physics of childbirth. Imagine that you have spent seventeen straight hours trying to push a mature grapefruit the entire length of your urinary tract, and you have a rough idea of what your wife goes through when she has a baby. You will be as welcome in her private region as German troops are in Paris. She may sleep with a Taser. But rest assured that, in time, she will come around. And by “in time” I mean, “in a really long time.”

  The other side of that coin is that for a while you might not feel quite as attracted to your wife as you used to. For one thing, she’ll have gained some weight, and she’ll tend to dress in “post-maternity” fashions purchased from The House of Tarps. For another thing, milk will be squirting out of her breasts. This is perfectly natural; when you think about it, this is the actual reason why your wife has breasts in the first place. But it’s still going to seem weird to you, because like most men, you have always viewed breasts as fun recreational items existing purely for your personal enjoyment. Now all of a sudden they’re producing dairy products! It’s as if a tennis racket suddenly started dispensing ketchup.

  Very Important: During this sensitive postpartum time, you must be very careful not to say anything negative about your wife’s appearance. On the other hand, you must not say anything positive about your wife’s appearance, because she’ll know you’re lying. And whatever you do, do NOT give her the impression that you’re deliberately avoiding talking about her appearance. This might be a good time to enlist in the navy.

  I’m just kidding, of course.3 You’ll want to stick around so that you can experience the first amazing weeks of parenthood, a magical adventure during which you will discover many wonderful things, such as what is on TV at 3:46 A.M. You’ve probably heard that newborn babies sleep an average of sixteen hours per day. What you may not have heard is that, rather than do all of their sleeping in one big chunk, babies divide the day into roughly two hundred seven-minute naps. This means they wake up roughly two hundred times a day, and they always wake up cranky.

  So as new parents, you will spend the first few months, day and night—especially night—doing virtually nothing except trying to de-crankify your baby. This is where it is critically important that you and your wife function as a team. Your role on the team, when the baby cries, is to say to your wife, in a loving and supportive team-player tone: “I would get up and feed the baby myself, but unfortunately I do not have milk squirting from my nipples.” Try not to resume openly snoring until your wife has left the bedroom.

  If feeding doesn’t work, or if your wife, needing a little personal time, has burst out of the house and is sprinting off down the street in her nightgown, screaming, it’s your turn to try to quiet the baby. Here’s what you do:1. Go to the baby’s crib and locate the baby’s head and the baby’s butt. In a standard baby, the head will be crying, and the butt will be leaking.

  2. Slide one hand under the baby’s head and the other under the baby’s butt, then gently lift the baby to your shoulder. If you’re holding the baby correctly, there should now be vomit on your shoulder. If there is poop on your shoulder, you are holding the baby upside down.

  3. When you have the baby oriented correctly, walk around in a circle while jiggling the baby and singing, in a gentle, soothing voice, this traditional lullaby:Hush little baby, don’t say a word

  Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird

  And if that mockingbird don’t sing

  Papa’s gonna put it in the food processor

  This lullaby will help relieve some of the tension you’re feeling as you—only recently a normal person, now a sleep-deprived zombie staggering around in circles while a tiny human barfs on you—begin to truly understand how much your lifestyle is going to change.

  I distinctly remember when this really sunk in for me. It was 1980, and I, a brand-new father, was at some friends’ house during a New Year’s Eve party. The party was going on downstairs; I was upstairs with my two-month-old son, Robert, who was lying in the exact center of our hosts’ bed, taking one of his two hundred daily naps. I was watching him, in case he woke up crying, or suddenly figured out how to play with matches.

  From downstairs I could hear the roar of the party. It was a major party, the kind of party where some of the guests could very well wake up naked in a foreign country. A little before midnight I took a quick peek downstairs, and I saw that the party had reached Gator Stage. This is the point a party reaches when certain guys, having consumed perhaps eight or nine more shots of tequila than they really need, find that two things are true:1. They wish to dance.

  2. They cannot stand up.

  The solution is for these guys to dance in a style known as “the gator,” which is when you lie on the dance floor and writhe around to the music in what you believe to be a rhythmical manner. You run the risk that the vertical dancers will step on you, but if you’re truly in gator mode, you wouldn’t notice if a UPS truck parked on your head.

  So there I was, peeking down at my friends having crazy fun—fun that, the previous New Year’s Eve, I had been part of. I went back and sat on the bed with Robert, and it hit me: Not only was I not going to be gatoring this New Year’s Eve, but I was never going to gator again. Dads don’t gator. Oh, you might attend a party where gatoring has commenced, and you might even consider joining in. But as you start to get down on the floor, some part of your brain—the Dad Lobe—will kick in and remind you that you need to relieve the babysitter. And you will step over your friends (or on them; it doesn’t matter) and head for the door.

  So you will not be partying as hard. Here are some other things that will change:When you’re part of a group of guys who are arguing about whether it’s possible to jump from a given roof or balcony into a given swimming pool, and the
group finally decides that the only way to settle it is to have one guy actually attempt it, you will find that you no longer volunteer to be that guy.

  You will also set off fewer fireworks than you used to, and virtually none indoors.

  You will learn to do everything with one arm, because the other arm will be holding the baby. You will, at some point, go to the bathroom while holding the baby.

  You will have frequent daytime fantasies—elaborately detailed, very explicit fantasies—about napping.

  You will reach the point where you will, in the same perfunctory manner that you now check your text messages, pull back your baby’s diaper and peer down to determine the status of the Poop Zone. You will be able to do this in a restaurant while chewing your entrée.

  You will exchange your sporty fun car for a practical seventeen-cupholder vehicle with a name like the Nissan Capacity, the interior of which, over the next five years, will gradually become coated with a quarter-inch-thick layer of a substance consisting of Cheerios, Juicy Juice, and spit.

  Over the next five years, you will spend roughly forty-five minutes, total, listening to songs you like, and roughly 127,000 hours listening to songs exploring topics such as how the horn on the bus goes.4

  You will attend far fewer movies with plots involving sex and violence, and far more movies with plots involving talking raccoons trying to find the Magic Pine Cone.

  Am I saying that, once you become a dad, you’re never going to have fun again? Yes.

  Wait, I mean no. You can still have fun; you will just have to make some adjustments. For example: One Thanksgiving I was at a gathering of families at the home of Gene Weingarten and Arlene Reidy. It was traditional at this gathering for the men to help the women prepare the food. We did this by leaving them alone and going outside to play a game of touch football in the backyard, from which Gene, the thoughtful host, had removed approximately 60 percent of the dog turds.

  One of the regulars in this game was a guy I’ll call Bob.5 This particular year, Bob had a problem: His wife, whom I will call Mary,6 had asked him to watch their infant daughter, which meant he was stuck on the sideline holding the baby in one hand and a beer in the other.

  And then, at what is known in sports as a Critical Juncture, one of the players on my team had to leave the game. We looked at Joel.7 Now, as a dad, he had to make a decision, weighing various factors. On one hand, he was responsible for his infant child, a precious, irreplaceable human life, utterly helpless and totally dependent on him. On the other hand, it was third down.

  “You cannot tell Mary,” he said, setting his daughter down on the lawn. (He also—and this is a measure of how seriously a man takes a third-down situation—set down his beer.) We huddled and came up with a play, diagramming it so that none of the pass routes went too close to the baby, because that is the kind of responsible adults we are. I don’t remember what actually happened in the play. All I remember is that it was crucial.

  The point is that Joel was able to fulfill his parental responsibilities and have carefree guy fun for a stretch of nearly forty seconds. I realize this doesn’t sound like much compared with, say, a weekend in Vegas. But as a dad, you will learn to take what fun you can get.

  What’s more, in time you’ll discover—and here we are getting to the Message—that the fun you’re missing out on is more than made up for by something new—something you’ve never known before; something wonderful.

  It will happen when your baby is around three months old. He or she will be lying on his or her back, making random baby movements and sounds, as though communicating with invisible space aliens. Suddenly you and your baby will make eye contact, and something will pass between you. Then you will lean over, and—as millions of fathers have before you—you will place your mouth on your baby’s belly and blow in such a manner as to make a sound like a musk ox breaking wind. This will have a profound effect on your baby. This will strike your baby as the funniest thing that he or she has experienced in his or her entire life. Your baby will laugh, and it will be the purest and best laugh you ever heard. You will laugh, too, and you will have no choice but to re-flatulate the baby’s belly, and your baby will think it’s even funnier the second time. So you’ll do it again, and again, and again, and it will get funnier every time. You and your baby will be laughing and drooling like a pair of morons. Which you are, but in a good way.

  You will then begin to understand something that is at the very heart of Dadness: Although your wife is probably a better natural parent than you are when it comes to things like remembering to feed and clothe and provide medical care for the baby, you also bring some important items to the parental table, with Exhibit A being fart jokes. As a guy of the male gender, you are genetically programmed to have superior skills in this area. You will find that you’re also better at, among other things, animal noises, peekaboo, scary stories, hide-and-seek, blocks, water balloons, and anything that involves batteries. Your child will gradually discover your talents in these areas, and he or she will become your biggest fan. In those magical early years, you will be, to your child, the coolest person on the planet, with the possible exception of the Wiggles.8 The two of you will form a bond—a permanent, unbreakable bond that will connect the two of you, powerfully and forever, until your child reaches age eleven and realizes that you’re a dork.

  But you’ll get through that when the time comes. The point is, something is going to happen between you and your baby, and it will be like nothing that ever happened to you before, which is why nobody, least of all me, can even begin to explain to you why it’s so great. But it is; just wait. The longer you live, the more clearly you’ll see that no matter what else you’ve accomplished in life, the best thing you ever did, simple as it sounds, was be a dad.

  And someday, decades from now, when your kids have all grown up and moved out, you and your wife (if you’re lucky enough to still be together) will turn to each other and think back to how the two of you set out, totally clueless, on this amazing adventure. You’ll shake your heads, and you’ll smile. You might even kiss.

  And then, if you’re really lucky, she’ll put down her Taser.

  Dance Recital

  Here’s a simple and fun experiment:

  Select, at random, a man who has one or more daughters. Place a gun to this man’s head and tell him he must do one of two things:1. Have his prostate examined by a scorpion.

  2. Attend a dance recital.

  He’s going scorpion. Yes, he knows it will be unpleasant. But he also knows that eventually it will end. This is not necessarily true of the dance recital.

  I speak as a father who has attended three major recitals, each of which, for all I know, is still going on. Don’t get me wrong: I love to watch my daughter dance. I’m just not crazy about watching the entire daughter population of North America dance. But you have no choice, under the recital system as practiced in my neck of the woods. Here’s how it works:

  Every week, for many weeks, you take your daughter to the dance studio, which is a building in a strip mall almost entirely obscured by a giant cloud of estrogen. There your daughter learns, step by step, two dance routines, selected from the major dance genres: Ballet, Tap, Jazz, Hip-Hop, Modernistic, and Weird.

  Your daughter will perform her two routines at the recital, so she has to practice them at home. This means that she—and therefore you—must listen to the same two songs over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over, to the point where, even if you liked the songs originally, you start fantasizing about getting a time machine and going back into the past and whacking the composers. You might also take Hitler out while you were back there in the past, but your highest priority would definitely be the composers.

  Finally the day of the recital arrives. The morning is entirely taken up with preparation, which is very stressful for everybody involved, by which I mean your wife. There’s a lot to do. For one thing, there are the costumes. Yo
ur daughter must wear a different costume for each routine, because God forbid she should appear onstage twice with the same costume. So for each routine, you are required to buy a costume, which your daughter will never ever wear again, because that is the system used by the dance-recital-costume industry, following a business model originally developed by crack dealers.

  Your daughter will also need makeup, as specified by strict written dance-studio guidelines, which require that, because these are young girls with flawless skin, they must wear a sufficient quantity of cosmetic products to cover a regulation volleyball court, or, to put it another way, Cher. Also your daughter’s hair must be compacted into a bun, and it must be a very tight, dense, ballerina-style bun, held in place by weapons-grade hair gel to keep it from exploding due to the severe pressure exerted on it by your wife, who by this point, trust me, is not in a great mood.

  Once your wife is convinced that your daughter is ready (allow nine hours) it’s time to go to the recital, which will be in an auditorium containing hundreds and hundreds of people who are no more interested in watching your daughter dance than you are in watching their daughters dance. As you enter, you will be handed a program, and when you examine it, you will find that your daughter’s first dance routine is near the beginning of the program, and her second routine is near the very end. In between will be roughly two thousand routines featuring other people’s daughters.

  You would think that, by sheer chance, there would come a time when your daughter’s two dances would be close together, ideally near the beginning. But the dance studio makes sure this never happens, using the same computer scheduling program that the cable-TV company uses to make sure that the technician, for whom you have been waiting eleven hours, rings your doorbell only when you have just commenced pooping.