How do you make a newborn dad feel extra special after his wife just squeezed out a real-life Mr. Potato Head? Because let’s be honest, folks, newborn dads, regardless if they’ve provided the love gun blast power for previous babies over wearing pajamas at 5 already the way Miley Cyrus is over trying to please her pan-sexual critics. Newborn dads aren’t given special gift consideration after they become a born-again newborn dad, despite the likelihood of them losing everything including the house and custody of their kids in New York State, the moment the wife decides to leave him for an eventual in-house replacement dad. The odds of Dad coming out on the winning end are low, knowing woman today expect husbands to do more than just bang out the bills and more kids every other 2 years, whether they’re planned or not. So, make a born again newborn dad feel less isolated, less depreciated and less taken for granted, by helping him drink in the occasion of becoming a born again newborn dad, by doing more than giving an all-star addition baby bib, gift store flowers and semi succulent, edible arrangements for his wife.
Likes on Facebook for new baby announcement pics are nice. But what makes a born-again newborn dad feel extra special is a sumptuous, American made Bourbon with balls. Assuming, he pours himself a generous pour of love in a paper cup without his wife’s permission 1st. Once newborn dad comes home from the hospital, he can pour himself a second generous serving of soul glow love, relishing the start of his newborn’s short lived stint of 20 hour naps, taking in the pure beautified gleam of his newborn baby, thinking, drinking alone when mama’s out of the house eventually, is no longer an issue.
I’m reflecting on gifts for born again newborn dad’s, for a couple of reasons. First, my family of 5 just adopted a cat, Woodstock. She was seen hitchhiking on Woodstock Street. Haven’t decided whether I should start a YouTube Channel dedicated to me reading chapters to it from Trump’s Art of The Deal, so I can go viral already. Similar to 2 out of our 3 kids, this new family addition wasn’t planned nor was the new family addition proclamation received with too much emotive glee from our absentee out of state, baby boomer parents either because baby boomer arrogance never dies. And if we don’t raise a family the way they did, we’re the delusional, deplorable, crazy ones for not insisting on sucking off the weird, creepy, alleged all-knowing aura of Bob Dylan for all it’s worth. Despite the Grateful Dead turning Dylan down after he asked to play with the band on a full-time basis. Jerry was like, “Yeah Bob, we love your songs and everything, with your permission I’d love to sing Visions of Johanna solo, but we already named our last album Dylan and the Band, despite us selling out major league stadiums versus barely filling out minor league ones on your Rolling Thunder Tour. And let’s be frank Bob, do I look like I’d ever rock the Mascara look with a feathered boa hat to downplay my folksy, homely Jewishness? Despite your train hopping, man of the literate Steinbeck book people cred. Granted, we let Robert Hunter write some our star songs, but he never asked us to replace Pig Men on the harmonica either.” I took my 1st born child, Matilda Singing Rose Kornbluth, to a Further show, new version of the Dead at Bethel Woods, site of the original Woodstock days after her 2nd birthday. After taking her for a regretful lap around the grassy filled parking lot scene, taking in dinged up hippies zapping whatever brain cells remained left from more nitrous balloon hits, she points at one of the nitrous balloons on display and says, “Dada, birthday, and I say, no, burnout day.” Material, I’ve heard of worst reasons to have unplanned kids.
But let’s get back to my mom’s reply via text to a video showing our new adopted cat scurry behind our couch in her new home as my now eight-year-old daughter’s eyes flicker with newborn, endlessly curious, anticipatory delight on par with her tingly embrace of her baby brother on the forehead for her 1st joining together with her younger brother in the hospital with such graceful, delicate, love at 1st sight splendidness. So, to receive a meh, less than enthralling reply from my mother in relation to our new family addition announcement video only illuminated what a sucky feeling it was after my 3 kids were born, to never receive any special gift shout outs from my younger brother, parents and friends for becoming a born again newborn dad, which is a blown opportunity if you want to talk deplorable.
In the end all my mom could muster to this once in a lifetime moment video from her Arizona estate home was, “I’m happy for Matilda and your family.” Translation, my 1st born identifies with sexless, isolated cat ladies on the Upper West Side. And I don’t see her oversharing at her Bridge Club about re-branding her son as a stay at home cat lady either.
The other reason I’m reflecting on born again newborn dad’s is because my wife’s best friend just had her 1st child at the same hospital she works in the NICU and Labor and Delivery for as the unofficial boob doctor whisper/lactation expert on breasting feeding. Emphasizing how all the long term benefits of breast feeding for your kids far outweighs the minor, short lived inconvenience of turning your bed into an after hours milk bar, all depending on whether the husband get’s permission from the wife to pull the plug on his life blaster for good, sooner than later. But what’s unique about this born-again newborn dad is how he’s a divorced dad who has an 11-year-old daughter from his past marriage. So, he’s a born-again newborn dad with a new lifetime partner in love, reflecting a new lease on life. Because now he can teach his new child better than the last because he didn’t have the weighty life coach musings on MMA and CBD hand creams from the Joe Rogan podcast under his belt yet.
What I’ve developed a heightened respect for since becoming a born again newborn dad 3 times over, is the fleeting specialness of that post birth bliss in the hospital, as you bask in the glorious, picture perfect sight of your new and improved seed with a full set of hair, thank God. Bursting with unlimited potential to outshine any baby boomer claim to fame because baby boomer parents don’t always know best. You do, because you know how it feels to be depreciated, taken for granted and talked to down by self-righteous authority figures, incapable of life altering, introspection. As a result, you dedicate your life to make sure your children received less of the same old situation and do everything in your power to ensure your children feel great about whatever their passionate about doing and never apologize for pursuing their bliss like Miley Cyrus next time she declares to her adoring female fans on Instagram, “You don’t have to be gay, there are good men out there.” I agree Miley, that’s why I got my wife’s best friend, a bottle of 914 Bourbon in honor of his new son, born in 914, under my wife’s steady, loving guidance in the delivery room and beyond. It doesn’t matter how my wife had to fish for a thank you note of acknowledgement out of her best friend via text on the behalf of her born again newborn husband, who I dropped the gift off for while holding my lucky number 3 born in the same hospital, instead of delivering my gift in person because they were sleeping in the 1st place.
In my wife’s friend thank you text, she called it a “mitzvah.” Technically speaking, a mitzvah is a commandment from God. So, in actuality the gift was more an affirmation of Miley Cyrus’s assertion of better men being out there, who continue to deliver generous pours of love when the moment calls for it, despite feeling incredibly shortchanged in return. Because fatherhood wants any good man, the opportunity to do better than before and nothing beats a newborn dad kind of love.
Michael Kornbluth
