By Dave Yoo
With our first child on the way this spring, I’ve been devolving into a crotchety old man. I suddenly have the mindset of a 90-year-old, and seem to age in cat years by the day. Which is weird for me, given that I’ve always been immature for my age. And horrifying because the one thing I vowed, once my wife got pregnant, was that I would never become one of those grumbling, anal parents that everyone hates when they’re kids.
With my wife’s belly ballooning as she hits her third trimester, the visage of my very pregnant spouse has done something to my brain. Oh, and for the record, if you want to maintain the guise that you are, as requested by your wife, diligently carving your way through the stack of baby books she’s placed on your bedside table, do not, under any circumstances, casually ask her when the fourth trimester starts.
The inner crotchety old man in me emerges whenever I find my wife doing just about anything these days. When she’s on the phone, I automatically pinch my fingers together to make the “lower the volume” signal. When she pours herself a second bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats, I find myself asking her, in a decidedly crass tone, “Haven’t you had enough sugar today?” Or there was that time in the grocery store parking lot last week when, in a spontaneous burst of playfulness, she whispered, “Race you!” and took off for our car. I couldn’t help but scream, “Slow down!” She turned red, and looked like she was about to cry for a moment, before another expression passed over her face, one that betrayed a deep, hidden desire to maim me with the shopping cart. In my defense, there were patches of black ice on the ground, and lately I’ve noticed damn teenagers peeling out of spots without bothering to check their rearview mirror first.
My other defense is that, technically, my wife is an extension of our child. She’s carrying it to term (I think I’m using that word correctly), and therefore, the sugar she eats is the sugar our baby eats, and if she slips and falls, our baby does the same. But I do feel flustered when she accuses me of turning into a hovering “helicopter dad” before our son is even born. My worst fear about parenthood is that I become one of those insane dads who literally hold their arms in a protective circle around the child as it attempts to frolic with other children at wedding receptions and stuff.
One night, after complaining that I was tired of having to discipline her, my wife repeated her claim that I’m turning into a crotchety old man, and I set out to prove her wrong.
“Look, I can see where you’re getting this idea, but you’re overreacting,” I told her. “I’m going to be a fairly casual dad, trust me. I read in one of your books that right now your hormones are going berserk, so I’m pretty sure you’re just being incredibly over-sensitive about everything.”
Important tip for fathers-to-be: The “crazy-hormones” factoid is another thing never to mention to your wife in conversation.
Ever.
