After a pampering three-night stay at a pricey out-of-town spot a few weeks ago, my wife, Heather, asked me how I enjoyed my vacation.
"It was great," I said. "And we're taking home quite the souvenir."
Well, souvenir is one way to describe the new and adorable (trust me, I'm not at all biased) little addition we got last month at American Fork Hospital.
Eating machine is another.
Just when I thought my pregnant spouse was going to replace me as the Genessy Household Chow Hound — my apologies to anybody who had hoped to buy Dreyer's pumpkin-flavored ice cream in northern Utah this fall — a 6-pound, 7-ounce beautiful boy/miracle child/munching mouth arrived with jaws wide open.
People told me once I became a father that my life would never be the same (usually said with an evil laugh), that I'd get less shut-eye than a No-Doz-pill-popping truck driver and that I'd change more diapers than sweaty sumos at a wrestling meet.
What they didn't tell me is that my impressive and insatiable appetite would meet its match. It has, and oddly enough with somebody who weighed less than my Thanks-gorging Day meal.
Our baby's name, for those keeping score at home, is Ethan, which coincidentally rhymes with all of his favorite hobbies: eatin', squirtin', snoozin', feedin', fussin', spewin', chuggin', nappin', tootin', suckin', messin', sleepin' and, yes, more eatin'.
I'm still not sure whom he looks like, sorry, but I can certainly tell you whom he eats like.
Yep, pretty much all he does is sit there and look cute, eat (every three hours OR ELSE!!!), sleep and trick his dad into taking off his diaper before the sprinkler system has completely shut off. (It's during wet and wild moments when I'm glad his name also rhymes with tax deduction.)
The real reward is simply holding him, thinking of playing catch in the yard, brainwashing him into liking my sporting teams and pretending that the facial expressions he makes while passing gas are indeed real smiles.
Of course, my patriarchal gig is much easier than my wife's duties. At first, I wasn't too sure because she got all the good medication, she got to lounge around all day and nurses catered to her every need, including stopping by with a mother's menu for every meal. (FYI, there is no father's menu, and the nurses don't find it funny when you joke about it.)
But since leaving the comfy confines of the hospital, my sleep-deprived wife has had to recuperate from a major surgery (they wouldn't perform the C-section laparoscopically as I suggested); learn how to decipher all of her motherly intuitions; spend time worrying about every move he makes (or doesn't make); and try to catch a few winks before the next feast. (I'd love to participate in the latter process, but my overly plump chest only provides our son with false advertising.)
This experience has given me a new appreciation for my wife — an amazing mommy despite her ridiculous claim of being the worst mother in the history of humanity — for my mom (the world's greatest up to this point) and really for all mothers (a few of whom still have dishes with their last names on them in our dishwasher).
It's also motivated me to take control of my eating and exercise habits. A year ago, I wrote about wanting to lose weight so I wouldn't die like my dad. Now I'm determined to shed pounds so I can live for my son. I rejoined Weight Watchers and have lost as much weight as he weighs.
It's about time I got rid of this old Cottonwood Hospital souvenir anyway. I've had my baby fat far too long, and it's not nearly as cute as Ethan's.
Jody Genessy's weight-loss column runs the first Friday of every month. E-mail: jody@desnews.com