What happens when you don’t wear your ‘jimmy hat’. 

Taking care of baby... Edging out fixed-gear bikes, giant squid and stunt kites, babies have emerged as this season’s must-have accessory.

Unfortunately, unless you’re really up on your shit, you’re going to be like, nine months behind the times.

But don’t worry, if you get started now, before long you’ll have your very own adorable poo-machine to dress up in tiny little red Pumas. When all your drunken friends who couldn’t remember to feed their goldfish somehow became parents, you start to look at parenting a little differently. And moms are still super hot.

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A few months ago, I was a just a dude with a weak-ass beard, a hangover and a dream of riding my motorcycle to the tip of South Africa. Then, through the magic of alcohol, my wife got pregnant.

There are typically several stages of acceptance: Panic, denial, alcoholism, grudging acknowledgment and finally, elation. All of these, except for the last one, typically don’t go over so well with the wife. I learned this the hard way. Regardless, she was sure it was mine and honestly, there’s no point in arguing that sort of thing. It was now baby time!

The next few months were a blur, with the wife and I taking turns throwing up in the morning. I painted a huge mural of Eddie from Number of the Beast in the nursery and scheduled guitar lessons to prepare my spawn for a career as a mediocre Singaporean rocker. I also planned for karate and archery lessons. When the machines rise up to enslave us, every able body counts. And I wanted this kid to hate and fear our future robot overlords from birth.

Combat training aside, being a daddy is a pretty sweet gig. Your life has unalterably changed, but this doesn’t mean you have to buy a minivan and move to Novena. As a dude, your responsibilities are limited to holding, playing, bathing and occasional picture taking. It’s mom (or the wet nurse) who gets the raw deal.

She’s the one with the boobs. If the kid is crying, just tell the wife you think he’s hungry. It’s like a get out of jail free card. Get back to bed and thank your pals at Think as you enjoy those precious extra hours of sleep.

Of course, there will be some tense moments. Take bathtime, for example. The wife seems to think he needs one every day. What the hell? He’s a baby, he isn’t dirty. What the heck has he been doing? I’m the one out there working for the weekend and you don’t see me showering every day. And as much as you think you can handle the whole diaper thing, babies, despite being tiny little people, produce a mind-altering quantity of poo. Be prepared.

Once the kid gets old enough, it’s fun taking the lil’ dude out with you. A baby is an attention-grabbing accessory, and it will inevitably bum you out once you notice how many gorgeous women who normally wouldn’t give you the time of day start hanging around the kid. This goes double if you splurge on that $45 Snake Plissken onesie or if the kid rocks a babyhawk.

Bring extra bottles, because even the coldest ice princess will melt at the chance to feed an adorable baby. This leaves you a free hand for drinking. Stay away from live music and obnoxious assholes. Even though they say it’s all ages, this means no Emo’s! No exceptions!

You might be able to get The Great Spy Experiment to turn down for a lullaby, but otherwise you’re going to get some weak-ass fey indie pop that has been scientifically proven to turn infants deaf and/or gay. It’s amazing how much your life improves when you can entertain yourself for hours watching a kid drool and put things in its mouth instead of going to some lame rock club.

Bonus Think fact:

Parents learn that “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” has more than one verse. Verse six is about whaling. And the eighth and ninth verses are about Satan, which is actually pretty bitchin’.

Lastly, don’t be an asshole yourself. If you’re out partying and the kid starts crying, get the hell out of there. Unless you’re at some kind of momfest, no one likes a crying baby, even if he is the cutest damn thing ever. Just get home, put the kid to bed, jam some mellow Neurosis record and pop open a cold one. You’ve earned it. You’re a dad, after all.


– From Misprint Magazine Vol 3, No 1

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