Note to readers: This is our very first guest post. As noted in a previous newsletter, a long-term goal of this project is to feature a collection of voices to highlight the many perspectives, developments, and dare I say, “takes,” of modern parenting. If you are interested in contributing to Millennial Dad Journal, check out our submission page.

Fatherhood has brought about a beautiful ego death, but that ego death has taken me to some disgusting places.

My wife Katelyn and I welcomed our first child Zeke into the world last Christmas. The shepherds were out of town—something about an Airbnb in Shenandoah with a no-cancelation policy—so we relied on our awe-struck parents to spread the good news. Zeke has an older canine brother, Karl the mini schnauzer. They don’t have all that much in common.

Except, as I’ve learned, an inability to defecate in a sanitary manner.

My journey towards fatherhood was filled with excitement but also a curiosity about what, exactly, it was I would be doing. Among our new-parent friends, there were relationships where the mom was the head chef and the father was a line cook. There were others where both parents seemed to be trying to outrun each other at a dead sprint as though the finish line were 18 yards away and not 18 years. I didn't know where we would land.

Pregnancy wasn’t the best way to practice, either, because the kid is entirely inside your partner and your partner is experiencing a lot of things and all you’re experiencing is that person describing the experience and vomiting during your entire babymoon. So I hoarded sick bags and kept them ready. And, when we were home, I cooked dinner a lot more, but not with mushrooms, because the smell of them cooking (like check-in lines, descending airplanes, and the sight of the ocean) now made Katelyn nauseous. Astonishingly, I did not vomit once.

When Zeke was born, I thought, “At last, my wife won’t have to do everything. Now it’ll be 60/40!” 

I was not correct.

Sure, I could do skin-to-skin with Zeke and gently explain that (sorry) mine don’t work like that. Or I could fail to swaddle him as each nurse patiently showed me their own personal, foolproof technique. Or I could call in the dinner order. I was great at that. But I ended up feeling like a drone ant to a queen, bringing and taking a baby for feeding, a cup for drinking, or a pill for swallowing as Katelyn both recovered from a major physical undertaking and provided our baby with sustenance.

This made perfect sense. I had made a one-time biological contribution and was still around now out of love and commitment, not physical necessity. Katelyn was the one designed to get Zeke from conception to solid food. 

I was just hoping it would be clearer what I was designed to do.

Genetically, it does seem like I am designed to play with Zeke. One game that makes my wife, mother, mother-in-law, and all onlooking women physically uncomfortable (and Zeke and me delighted) involves standing Zeke up on my lap, letting go, letting him fall in one of 360 directions head first, and catching him before anything bad happens.

Beyond that, I have learned to relish being a supporting player, somewhere between Taj Gibson and Dennis Rodman, taking care of the little things so the star can provide Zeke with gallons and gallons of milk. Dennis Rodman is no one’s drone ant; it’s a team game. My job involves cooking (now with mushrooms again), cleaning pump parts, changing diapers, singing “Hot in Herre” by Nelly when I take off all Zeke’s clothes on the changing table, and, of course, caring for Karl.

Because someone had to. Karl never could’ve had enough of our attention, but getting him during the pandemic did not set expectations accurately. And while any dog would want more of our time in the first months of a child’s life, the flurry of baby-related activity and guests in our house made it prudent to isolate Karl for longer stretches. 

Still, Karl and his stomach know how to demand attention.

Karl’s habitually weak belly entered an era of omnicrisis in the months following Zeke’s birth. We always needed to transition between bags of kibble slowly so Karl could adjust; now if Karl looked at kibble funny it led to days of diarrhea. He previously had to be induced to eat before noon most days to prevent him from throwing up (he does not understand cause and effect very well), but to celebrate his 11th birthday, Karl moved V-hour closer to 11. 

And Karl, who always preferred to drop his diarrhea on our wool rugs rather than hardwood floors, apparently especially loves leaving poop puddles on Zeke’s new nursery rug.

But out of every omnicrisis is born a fathering opportunity. Someone needs to scoop up the poop, use soap and water to gently clean the rug and then, when that never works, apply toxic chemicals to get most of the poop out and scrub too hard and damage the rug. Someone needs to wake up in the middle of the night to heed the siren call of our dog—not our baby—alerting us to a bathroom emergency. And someone needs to boil the chicken-and-rice combination that settles Karl’s stomach. 

That someone is me.

None of these tasks were new, but as a busy parent, I did them swiftly, without negotiation or second thought. I was really zeroing in on whatever fatherhood is.

Then one night just before Zeke’s six-month birthday we realized Karl hadn’t pooped in three days. I was at the end of a tough 7 weeks at work and Katelyn was back at her job, so we knew Karl was dealing with an upset stomach, but we had not been monitoring closely. That night, we smelled him entering rooms and saw some unwelcome marks when he sat on our rugs (an opportunity for me to clean!).

So we looked closer.

There is a Jewish custom where parents wait until their son’s third birthday to cut their son’s hair. We had no plans to follow that tradition with Zeke, but apparently we had decided that Karl would observe it on Zeke’s behalf and had not gotten Karl groomed since early in the third trimester. And Karl had not been brushing out his own butt hair. 

I took Karl for a bath and, over 20 minutes, repeatedly forced his butt down into the water, used a kitchen-gloved hand to loosen the matted, compacted days of butt-vomit, threw what I could in the toilet, cleaned out the tub, and started again. I dug like a paleontologist until I hit the prize: a clean, pink butthole. After applying a fistful of shampoo, I grabbed kitchen scissors and got Karl ready for bikini season. 

And that was the night my ego fully died. I transcended my previous existence as Mitchel the man or Mitchel the new, Dennis Rodman-esque, father. 

One day, being a dad may involve modeling values, teaching Zeke how to throw a baseball, or exposing him to Nelly’s deeper cuts. In the meantime, I’ve discovered that I am not a line cook, a sprinter, or merely a team player. I’m something far more straightforward.

I am he who cleans the poop.

If you enjoyed this piece, the best way to support our work is to:

-Subscribe for weekly emails straight to your inbox. It’s free, we never spam, and guarantee we are much better than most stuff that finds its way into your email.

-Share this article with a friend, family member, or enemy.

These actions enable us continue develop our voice and vision without having to devolve into shortsighted algorithmic incentives (and TikTok dances). We appreciate you reading and thank you for being here!

Men's skin ages hard once collagen drops. Particle is a 6-in-1 formula built for it — reduces eye bags, dark spots & wrinkles. Trusted by 1M+ men. Try risk-free. 20% off, code BH20. 20% Off With BH20.