My protege dons the "sober goggles"

Yes, I, the Unit Parental, have a protege. He is a dude who lives in my neighborhood. His name is Boris (name changed). Boris is a new dad... Condolences, my man!

I met Boris in the heady two months before his wife gave birth to their very own Life Force Sucker. He was the picture of impending fatherhood--flushed in the cheeks with optimism, talking about painting the room, setting up the crib, and all that crap that keeps you too occupied to realize what is happening to your life.

Once, in those dreamyy days before he became a Unit himself, Boris asked me how being a father was.

And I told him the truth: I believe I used the words, completely fucking emasculating...

He looked at me in an appalled way. Then, I could see him narrow his eyes and take new appraisal of me--like he was some FBI profiler and I was a psychopath or, at least, bipolar.

And I heard the wheels turning in his clueless little head. He was deep into the four most popular delusions expecting fathers have:

1. Fatherhood is gonna be fucking awesome.
2. Fatherhood is the pinnacle of all it means to be a MAN.
   
3. My little Life Force Sucker will complete me.
   
4. And last but not least: I will not repeat my parents' mistakes, and therefore, my kid is gonna grow up DAMAGE FREE...

Well, that was nine months ago, and I saw my protege the other day. We were at an event at our local bar--family day. Beer + Face Paint = The Time of Your Life...

And what a difference a couple of months makes. Boris, you see, had gotten over the honeymoon phase... That magical time when his little Life Force Sucker looks like perfection (i.e., a juicy rib-eye) on a plate.

And what Boris said to me was, "I completely don't matter anymore."

He was, of course, talking about his wife. And how she has now focused all her energy on their own Life Force Sucker... He cannot get a word in; he has lost his claim, legal and otherwise, to both her breasts... And, of course, ironically, his wife's breasts are at their picturesque fullest and finest... Their ripest! (...Boris, my man, I am speaking generally about new mothers' breasts here... Not speaking specifically about the breasts of Mrs. Boris... Okay? ...Give her my best... And to the little one!)

Parenthood = less of the above...

But more of the following:

So, to Boris, I would officially like to say:

I FUCKING TOLD YOU SO!!!!!

But I am not without a heart. I will give Boris some advice.

The advice: Lower your fucking expectations, man.

Or else... End up divorced... End up in treatment...

Don't try to get as much as you were getting before... Don't be a big baby about it.

Just try to get a decent night's sleep. Because there is something about the sleep deprivation and your crushing financial obligations from here on in that will bring out the best and the worst in both you and the Mrs... And you two will really see what kind of person you have married... Because you will be looking at each other through the opposite of beer goggles. That's right, you will be looking at each other with sober goggles...

So, Boris, lower them got-damn expectations right bloody now!