Which is a significant distinction. Most of my 42-year-old friends are veteran parents they’ve been doing this for years. They have stories of war, tales of glory, and flashes of madness. They have
seen things. Things you can’t unsee like epic, vomit-inducing diaper blowouts or bloodshed moments over who gets to pick the next show.
But that’s not me. When I pull up to my son’s daycare, I’m a rookie in every sense of the word. In the past 24 hours, I have googled “is that a tumor on my baby’s balls?” only to learn that I am just getting a different vantage point of his testicles. I am still terrified to let him try peanut butter, and I still cut his food into bites so small that there is a chance he may tire before he gets full.