New father makes good housekeeper

Jon Rabiroff’s son may look angelic, but he can get pretty cranky when it comes to getting fed, and especially by whom. / Courtesy of Jon Rabiroff

By Jon Rabiroff

In the months leading up to the birth of my son, I did all I could to make sure I was fully equipped to become a great father. Turns out, I forgot one thing. Well, make that two — breasts.

Don’t get me wrong, as a first-time father at the age of 55, gravity and life experiences have led to my development of quite a saggy upper torso.

I’m no Phil Mickelson, but my “man boobs” would be the envy of most 13-year-old girls.

The problem is, they do not produce milk, making me a very distant second to my wife when my seven-week-old decides which parent on whom to lavish his affection.

In fact, thanks to my lack of functional mammary glands, as a new father I have become quite a good little housekeeper.

Oh, in between feedings, I change my son’s diaper, play with him and get the occasional smile in return for my futile efforts to get the same kind of attention he gives to his mother.

But, when the boy gets hungry — which these days seems to be every hour, on the hour — I am as useful to him as a set of power tools.

So, into the fray comes my sleep-deprived wife, who nurses our son while I make myself at least marginally useful by folding the laundry, cleaning up around the apartment, unloading the dishwasher and doing assorted other oh-so-vital household chores

Given the fact that I have more than five decades of life experience behind me, I had dreams of using that knowledge to become some kind of “Super Dad” — sharing equally in all the nuances of child-rearing, and serving as some sort of model for husbands and fathers everywhere.

Well, I am pretty sure the “Father of the Year” trophy does not feature a statuette of a guy sporting an apron and carrying a laundry basket, but it appears my primary role for the time being in our little family is similar to that of Alice on “The Brady Bunch,” sans the plain blue dress.

For what it’s worth, I do occasionally get to feed my son, if nothing else than to give my wife time to herself to do such “exciting” things with her brief periods away from the boy as grab a nap or take a shower.

Nevertheless, even though — thanks to the wonders of the breast pump — I am bottle-feeding the child the exact same stuff he is getting from my wife, he still sees my loving attempts to nourish him as something akin to an older child forcing down vegetables so he qualifies for dessert.

In those 10-minute stretches when I am feeding my son, I can see why women talk so much about the bond they develop with their babies while breastfeeding — that look of affection and dependency you get from the child as you provide him sustenance and give him your undivided attention.

But, as my son sucks down the last drops of milk left in the bottle, I brace for the trauma that now almost always comes next.

There is that moment he realizes the bottle is empty that he gives me a look, like that of a poker player about to turn over his cards to reveal a straight flush.

He knows what he is about to do, and that I am powerless to stop it.

“Waaaaaaaaaahhh! Waaaaaaaaaahhh!”

He cries not only as if he has not yet been fed, but at such an ear-splitting volume you would think I was tattooing my housekeeping to-do list on his backside.

And, if my wife happens to be out of the room or, gasp, out of the apartment, my angelic little son turns his wailing up to 11, apparently experimenting with the sounds made by people being eaten alive on “The Walking Dead.”

When my loving baby finally does find his way back into his mother’s arms, the crying stops, his face lights up and he quickly latches on for what to him must be the equivalent of a hot fudge sundae.

When I sometimes get in close to see my son’s face to get an idea of what real contentment looks like, he will sometimes flash me a look as if to say: “Hey Bottle Boy, isn’t there some vacuuming you need to be doing?”

Jon Rabiroff is a copy editor at The Korea Times. He writes an occasional column about the challenges he faces as a first-time father at an age when others are welcoming their first grandchildren into the world.