The Death of Cool.

by Serge Bielanko

I am hopelessly addicted to wondering if my daughter has poo'd. I know how very uncouth that sounds, trust me. But, I can't help it. Maybe its because at first Violet seemed so uncomfortable around me and I kept burying that reality under the false reasoning of: she's gotta poop. It's a little technique I picked up after years in a band van with four or five other daytime grumps for hours and hours on end. That snarl they were giving me as they fingered a sharp stolen salad fork as I glared at them in my rear view wasn't personal. They were backed up. No wonder they'd been acting borderline postal for the last 1400 miles. Now, as Violet and I are progressing nicely and she seems to be getting familiar with my goofy faces and stuff, I still find myself hoping she'll be dirtying her diaper sometime real real soon, but why?

Have I finally lost my battle with basic coolness? I knew it was coming. Hell, everyone knew it was coming; I've been miles away from the cool pool and drip-drying fast for years now. But this?

Hey folks, Serge here, just pulling back my baby's Elmo diaper corner to see if I hit THE FUCKING LOSER'S LOTTERY! Is this at all natural? This can't be natural. Do lion fathers or elephant dads keep hoping there young will crap? This could even be a crime in some states, who the hell knows.

But maybe/just maybe I am dealing with some kind of bizarre reward system here. Maybe that little poo is actually some sort of prize, huh? If I am feeding her right and treating her right and letting her breath air right, then maybe since she can't say too much just yet, maybe that doodie is her, I dunno, her A-OK sign. All is well over here! Please stop staring at me!

Oh Violet, look at your poor Papa. I mean well, I do. But I am feeling somewhat upset that someday before too long you won't have some chic edgy daddy to talk to, or to emulate. Instead, at this rate, you're going to have a perfectly plotted little journal of all the poops you ever took, and plenty of written accounts of how proud your Daddy was to know you were, more often than not, loose as a goose. I haven't started that book yet, but its coming, I'm afraid.

I'll give it to you for your Sweet 16th, along with a homemade coupon that allows you to hold Daddy's head under water for as long as you need to.