I’m fairly confident that my son is eating diapers. Though I have yet to prove this, I have no reason to believe otherwise, as I only lie to myself on occasion.

Before Liam was born we acquired thousands of diapers. None of which were black market. They consumed entire closets in our house, displacing far more interesting and equally unimportant things that needed to be stored in those closets for us to never use. I thought this was excessive, yet practical, as one can never have too many diapers. Or at least that is what we were told by pretty much everyone we met prior to June 17.

Now a scant two months in and I’m left scratching my head. We’ve had to buy diapers. Twice. How this is possible I am not sure, and the logistics leave me scratching my head (I said this before, but I really mean it. I hope I don’t have lice instead). The only plausible explanations for how our government-sized stockpile of poop pants have dwindled can be reduced to:

1. Jonas is selling them on eBay. Entirely within his realm, yet I checked his account and he has no recent sales. (Great seller rating, though.)
2. Diaper fairies exist. I am willing to return to my childlike belief system, but The History Channel has not covered this on an episode of Monster Quest, ergo I have no reason to continue to believe it’s validity and have abandoned it as a theory entirely.
3. Liam is eating the diapers. The reason that this is hands-down the most believable scenario is that all evidence is destroyed. The perfect crime, if you will. And seeing as there have been a recent uptick in number of soiled diapers, my theory grows stronger each day, all while he plays the cute angle. I just have to figure out what the little man’s motives are.

So tonight I begin the surveillance. I’m not completely sure how it’s going to go, but I reckon it will involve a webcam, some duct tape (to hold the flashlight to Jonas’ head), peanut butter (to coax Jonas into helping) and some No-Doze (to keep Jonas alert). I figure it’ll be pretty hands-off on my part and should go smoothly.

I just hope Jonas doesn’t get a wild hair and eat the diapers instead. Wait…

1,300 miles and 24 hours in the car and he made nary a peep. But when we returned home the floodgates opened. All in all, I’m so thankful it ended up as it did.

Our first vacation with Liam went well. We learned that, like his papa, he’s a beach kid who is mesmerized by the ocean. With the magic of the Gulf air comforting him, we rested and relaxed and enjoyed having family help take care of him at times. The greatest gift was that we got record sleep stints out of him. It truly was the first point since his birth that I felt like we had hit our stride and that everything was manageable.

And then there was the beginning of a growth spurt. Or at least that’s what we can determine. The night we returned home, the inconsolable waterworks began. Eating is the only thing that will calm him. He sleeps less than before and needs to feed every hour. His wailing is the most horrible, gut-wrenching, pathetic thing I’ve ever seen, his eyes red and puffy, tears streaming down his scrunched-up face.

But timing again plays evident as this is also the point in his development where he’s learning to smile. As a mimicking behavior, he smiles if you show him how…and Lord don’t you know that this single facial expression alone erases the other 23.995 hours per day of crying that he does. It makes my heart stop. I’m fairly sure that The Wife™ or I would do anything for the kid if he just flashed us those pearly pink gums of his. He’d be dangerous if he realized what kind of emotional weapon he possessed.

So while we try everything to console him, all hope is not lost. I pray the growth spurt only lasts a few more days, but I hope he never forgets how to smile. Even when he’s a teenager.

Recently I was talking to a good friend of mine. This in and of itself is amazing because I suck at telephony. All my friends know this, yet for some reason they stay friends with me. These people are going straight to heaven.

So at one point in the conversation, I asked my friend if he was tired. He sounded worn-out, which is not unusual for him as he is a doctor and hyperactive like a Welsh Terrier hopped-up on Horse Mumpy. He’s a busy dude.

As he sighed, he explained that he was indeed tired, but not because of hospital duties. “I was on a stakeout last night,” he confessed. “I spent two and a half hours crouched in our bushes trying to catch the little bastard who keeps stealing our Obama signs.” He went on to tell me about how they’ve had three stolen thus far, and that he had done some detective work and found fingerprints on one that had been deposited in a neighbor’s trashcan. “I think I’m dealing with a junior high punk. And I’ve got my running shoes on to catch their ass too.”

When I asked him what he planned to do if he caught them he responded, “I’m gonna march their ignorant ass to their parents house and have a little chat with their father about responsibility.” I rejoined, “so you’re putting another sign out tonight?” “Yea, but this is my last one. If they take this one I’m seriously going to take the 6-foot by 10-foot Obama barn sign that we have the garage and bolt it to the damn house. See if the little bastard can steal that!”

And while I had previously been stressed out and cranky, thinking about our upcoming road trip with The One Who Takes No Naps™, I was now rolling with laughter. The same kid who took me to Meijer at 2 a.m. so he could find some way to put a screen door on his apartment, the same man who at the age of 28 bought Wheelies to wear around the hospital so as to see patients faster — he’s ready to give lectures on civic responsibility to delinquent adolescents.

I should keep my phone on me more often. I have some pretty amazing friends that do a great job of cheering me up.

One month in to this “parenting thing” and I feel the need to confess that it still doesn’t feel real. This stresses me out. I’m embarrassed to admit it. You would think it would sink in after four weeks.

I suppose it doesn’t help the fact that my son, while surprisingly cute, does not identifiably look like either my wife or I, which depersonalizes things a bit. Had I not seen him as he came out, I’d wonder if he was actually ours. It also doesn’t help that he is only mildly aware of us. Or at least me. Despite his tireless efforts to prove me wrong, I do not supply milk and therefore am relegated to the status of “that thing that holds me whilst The Food Source does something else.” We’re still in the “getting to know you” phase with one other, so I expected things to be a bit rocky, but our jobs really are fairly simple to define. His role is to poop and cry. Mine is to not over-analyze. I’ll let you figure out who’s failing and who’s doing a bang-up job.

I am also pained with guilt over the fact that I cannot do much to help. My wife, God bless her, nurses him, so my nights are not terribly disturbed as most would expect (and certainly ask me about). There are only a handful of duties that I can assume control of in order to pull my weight, and because I’m not up with him every two hours I feel like a schlep. I feel like less of a father. I feel like I’m letting my wife down, despite the fact I can’t do much else.

I suppose it’s expected to feel that my life has been switched with someone else’s life, someone way older turned upside down, that every facet of my former life is scattered about aimlessly. But combined with the odd disconnect that I sometimes feel with Liam, it makes for a much more difficult transition than I expected.

Sure, it will all fade with time as his personality emerges and he recognizes that he’s stuck with his ridiculous father for at least 18 more years. It certainly doesn’t diminish how much love I hold for him in my heart. But no book, no person could have prepared me for the odd emotional limbo that I seem to be drifting in and out of right now. Or how much gas a nine pound being could hold.