How to Be a Father

These instructions are for me. Your mileage may vary.

In some particular order:

You are officially no longer priority #1 or even #2. First rule about fatherhood is you never come first anymore. Thems the breaks, breeder.

Baby first. Mommy second. You third? Hahaha. No. You: last. Dead last.

Snacks. Always have snacks. Never in the entirety of my adult life (calculation pending) have I even used the word as much as I have in the past two years.

Breathe. Take a second, you only have one, but take it. Use it to breathe.

Allow for traffic. Getting out of the house takes at minimum (it’s never minimum) 10 minutes. Begin 5 minutes ago.

Hugs. Stop everything for hugs. Pee yourself, burn the toast, you’ll find the cat later. Don’t be the first to let go. Enjoy that moment. Savor the love now.

Go to bed. You can stay up and watch TV or write if it helps you feel person-like again, just know there will be consequences in the morning.

Your body is a wonderland. Swinging your child, doing airplanes, silly dances, horsey-rides, leg-hug walking, silly faces, the fake walking-down-the-stairs, row-your-boats, leg slide and, of course, the daddy shimmy.

Your body is a punching bag. Side effects of above: bit tongues, head bonks, nose crushes, groin hits (always groin hits), stubbed toes, much more. Stay in shape.

Make voices for everything. Story time is obvious but don’t underestimate how much conversations with Miss Foot can be essential.

Feed and water. Very much like plants, provide them with food and drinks— occasionally spray them down. (Michael Jackson said it: “If you can’t feed your baby, then don’t have a baby.”)

Carry all the things. You will learn to get everything (bags, clothing, toys, food, drinks, animals) in one trip + hold the kid too. And open doors with the free hand.

Parks and playgrounds. Your child expends all their energy, gets exercise, sunlight, and they sleep hard. Bonus: you see how terrible other kids are and feel grateful for yours.

Wipes. Always have wipes. Butts, boogies, every et cetera. Also: Invest heavily in paper towels.

Tantrums, tears and terror. There will be moments you can’t handle. Know they will pass. Let it get to there. (See above: “Breathe.”)

Small, simple moments. There will be moments you can’t be without: waking up from naps, clinging to you around strangers, screaming “Daddy” and running to you, conversations with and between toys, laying on you as you watch a movie, telling you to not sing, snoring beside you, yawns, giggling, kisses, thousands more.

Tickles. They don’t want it, but they do. They run, but they laugh.

Impromptu dance parties. You don’t want it, but you do. You resist, but you move.

No participation award. You get no points for just showing up. It’s not enough to just be there. Your job is done when they’re President of the United States.

You have one job. Make your kid laugh every day.

Time travels. Remember when she was swimming in her onesies? Feels like just yesterday, right? Well, tomorrow she’ll be a teenager. Enjoy her in the now, it’ll be gone before you look up.

Suit up. You’re pitching again tomorrow. The team needs you. No sick days.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat. (please, whenever humanly possible)

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This originally appeared on Medium.

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