I’m new to this. Parenting. Not blogging. I’ve got a two-month old boy.

Because I’m in advertising, I took it upon myself to brand him. He’s The Boy™. Everyone else calls him Ferris, and he is adorable. He grunts and squeaks, reels unsuspecting strangers in with gummy smiles, and sleeps so soundly that I wake him up just to make sure he’s still breathing.

My wife insisted we get a video monitor. Now we stare at it like a late-night soap opera. And wonder if he’s breathing. Every episode, new suspense. Was that a grunt? Is he choking? Was that a seizure? No. He’s pooping. Roll credits.

I’m also convinced that The Boy™ is the vortex of a wormhole in time; everything I do, all the seemingly simple things I took for granted – shaving, reading the paper or writing my insanely popular blog over at bthesite.com – take 300% longer to complete now. And they involve spit-up.

Everything is a production. Getting him ready to drop off at the grandparents’ house is like staging for some elaborate bank heist. What time is it? Do we have the diapers? What about the bottles? What about the lock pick and dynamite?

It’s an embarrassing learning curve. I’m not too proud to admit it. Despite the fact that I can orchestrate one handed football holds and 25–second diaper changes with pit crew precision, I’m acutely aware that, at any given time, I’m doing a half-dozen things wrong. But I’m coming to grips with that. Because there’s Mom. And she makes everything okay.