The Daddification of Todd Thicke by Todd Thicke

I became a father recently. Actually, for the second time, I already planted my fertile seed a few years ago resulting in a gorgeous boy. Now I have a brand spanking new daughter to go with that spanking new son and occasonally spanked wife.

Let me say that having children is the most glorious experience on the face of the earth. Now that that's out of the way, I'll go on.

Somehow, over the course of having two children, I've become... a dad. By that, I mean, I've gotten "responsible." Oh, I can still party with the best of them, but only until 9.30.

Where I could once blather on endlessly about the differences between lager and ale, I'm now an expert on estate taxes, wills and the always fascinating Irrevocable Insurance Trust. (The one issue still up for discussion is who will take the children if something happens to us? Our gardener Carlos was my choice, quickly nixed by the wife.)

The bottom line is the best thing that could happen to my kids is if my wife and I are crushed in some piano-falling-from-the-sky accident.

I know about my bowels. Go ahead, ask me the difference between a colonoscopy and a flexible sigmoidoscope. Just remember to breathe deeply and relax.

I remember I used to be so grossed out by the many liquids that come out of babies. You never really have an appreciation of someone elses' bodily fluids until they're on your shirt. The first few times, you hold the baby at arms length and run screaming for help, possibly even call 911. Now, if my baby drools/spits up/poops on me, I just shift her to my other shoulder and have another bite of nachos. Last night, my son vomited in my hair, and I actually watched football highlights before hitting the shower.

Where the sound of a baby whimpering used to bring me running faster than Tiger Woods chasing an endorsement, now crying is a signal to turn up the tv, and make sure my wife hears so she can make sure everything's okay.

But I think the the most amazing thing of all is the physcial transformation. Not to the babies, yeah, I know they grow up so fast, cherish each moment, blah blah blah. I mean to me.

I caught a horrifying vision in the mirror the other day. Apparently, someone had broken into our home and stolen my rosy complexion and youthful good looks. And what I'm about to reveal next is absolutely true, swear to God. I was wearing my wife's bathrobe, long white socks and black sandals.

It's not like I passed out drunk and woke up like that, some practical joke my friends pulled after burning all my clothes. Although that has happened. No. This was my own fashion choice.

What the hell has happened to me? Aren't I still cool and hip and young and handsome?

Apparently not.

Oh, there are plenty of advantages to dadhood. A constant three year old best friend who still thinks I'm Superman even after watching me clean up dog poop in my wife's robe and long white socks and black sandals. And a beautiful 3 month old daughter who's an easy laugh -- (bug out your eyes and say "A Boooo") That's gotta count for a lot.

But did I mention I've got hair growing out of my ears?