Babies used to be less than a blip on my radar. I didn’t think twice about the contents of strollers as they passed me by. And then I had one. Suddenly, I’m watching “baby plays with dog” videos online. I’m paying attention to commercials that feature the the little tykes. I even have an opinion on Pampers vs. Huggies. Sometimes, I want to kick my own ass.

As the proud Dad of a nearly six month old daughter, I can tell you that this behavior has been grossly mislabeled. I’ve seen tears comes from my baby on only a handful of occasions, but I guess if we called it by its true name, “screaming,” there would be a lot fewer children out there.

Water boarding. Electro-shock. Forced viewing of a One Tree Hill marathon. There is no more of an effective deterrent to swearing than having a baby. In fact, I’ve curtailed my vulgarities so much that I fear they won’t come back to me until my daughter’s old enough to hear them (I figure four years old will do.) Unless … are “shit bag” and “cock munch” appropriate first words? They aren’t? Fuck.

I understand the need for ritual in religion. Catholics pour water over someone to signify their entrance into the faith. I’m cool with that. It’s the cleansing of sin part of it I don’t get. My daughter was four months old when she was baptized. She’s never sinned. Unless crapping yourself is a sin, and if it is, I’m in big trouble.

The insertion of tubes and cameras to probe your plumbing might be as horrible as it sounds if you were awake to experience it. What does suck, however, is the preparation. Any time instruction for a procedure contains the line, “When the diarrhea begins…” it won’t be fun. Bring a book.

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This issue’s take away: Giraffes have no vocal chords.