Well my goodness, y’all. Here I’ve already posted three different times on DisneyBaby without even introducing myself. Leave it to some of the DisneyBaby ladies to show me up. What with the many wonderful and clever introduction posts (see related posts at the bottom of this post for a run-down). Appreciate that, y’all. Making me come off super rude and all.
Anyhoo, most folks would probably log onto a site like DisneyBaby and expect to find proud mamas authoring cute posts sprinkled with even cuter pics of their little ones. Posts to amuse, posts to inspire and posts to inform. And, right most folks would be. But in addition to them, there’s also…me.
So what’s up with this dad, y’all? And why should you read him?
Well, first, diversity makes the world go round, my friends, so it might be nice to mix it up a bit and read about the baby experience from the male perspective, no? After all, many of you have these things called husbands and unlike (most of) the previous generation’s model, yours does more than simply channel his inner Ward Cleaver while reading the paper as you wrangle the kids and fret over what you hope is the perfect pot pie.
Dads of this generation are more involved than ever before, and, what’s more, many of us are taking to the Internet to chronicle that experience. So perhaps you could consider me the DisneyBaby torch carrier for all the dad folk out there — an ambassador of sorts, representing any and all.
OR, you could just consider me the poor fool who has five kids, including four-year-old triplets and an infant. Because that’s truly what I am. A dad. One who loves to write. And one who’s not afraid to take it deep from time to time.
But enough about me, y’all. Actually, check that. Not enough about me. Because I want to tell you how I became the man whose words you’re currently reading. (You are still reading, aren’t you? Bueller? Bueller?)
So, anyway y’all, there I was, minding my own business, ripping through a reasonably impressive string of consecutive dysfunctional six-month relationships, slowly but surely embedding myself further and further into the cliched category of consummate bachelor when I re-met a woman I’d gone to high school with named Caroline. A woman I’d not seen in a good 15 years.
Now, back in the day, Caroline was kind of a big deal. And to see the 34-year-old version was to realize that some things never change. She was just as lovely as ever. But what would she want with a clown like me? A guy who lived with a brown dog in a house which featured a refrigerator that never once contained milk?
Well, your guess is as good as mine, but it didn’t take long for us to fall for each other. You can tell in this pic because she’s sitting sorta close to me.
Anyway, my reasonably impressive string of consecutive dysfunctional six-month relationships was about to come to a crashing halt, because I fell in love with Caroline. So I asked her to marry me. And she said yes. (I know. Your guess is as good as mine.)
Only, on the day I married her, I married someone else, too.
Because Caroline was a single mom, y’all. And when I made a lifelong commitment to her, I made the exact same one to her little girl. And I have to admit, I’d long wanted to be a dad. And by marrying Caroline, even if she and I weren’t able to have children, at least I’d always get to be a stepdad, right?
Well, it turns out I had nothing to worry about. Because, you know I’m a bit of an overachiever and all. So I decided to go from carefree bachelor to father of four in 13 scant months by marrying a single mom, then quickly conceiving…
triplets. (Hello? Try to keep up, please.) Because that’s the kind of guy I am. POW, y’all. I get stuff done. Fast. And I don’t know if you’ve ever gone from kicking it solo, 24-7 to becoming the father of five in just 13 months, but it’s a touch tricky.
And triplets are tricky in and of themselves, too, so Caroline and I decided we were good to go with four kids. And never were we more certain of that decision than when our tumultuous trio turned three. My. Goodness. Take it from me — triplet toddlers are a train wreck, y’all. Delightful, but tough, tough, tough.
It was a difficult year to say the least, and at it’s very hardest point, Caroline and I learned that we were gonna be…
parents again. At age 42. (Surprise!) Yes. That picture was taken moments after my wife gave birth. (I told you I was an overachiever.)
Anyway, that’s me in an 800-word nutshell. A recovering bachelor / step-dad / father-of-triplets type who just added surprise love child number 5 to the mix. We were gonna name him Grand Finale, but we settled on Luke.
And I really look forward to telling y’all all about him. You’ll be reading, right? I hope so!