Why I think of my baby like a Hebrew National Hotdog or "If you were a hotdog, would you eat yourself...?" or "Oh I wish I were an..."

I like hotdogs.  They can be pretty great.  And, if I'm in a hotdog mood, they might just be amazing.  For a hotdog you can buy at the store, all beef is definitely the way to go.  That means the Hebrew National just might be the greatest cook-it-yourself hotdog.  Put it in a potato roll and smother it in sauerkraut and horseradish and you're ready to go.

But when it comes to a hotdog's place in the wider world of food, let's face it; it's not that high.  Even a quality hotdog isn't BBQ ribs, or sushi, or duck confit.  It's good for what it is, but what it is is still a hotdog.

That's kind of how I think of babies -- and now, my baby.  I should warn you, this is the part of the post where I compare my child to a tube of meat product (though in fairness, when she's swaddled, she does kind of resemble a tube of human product).  So, let's all just agree to accept the inherent limits of any analogy, and go with it.

I'm not really a baby person.  Maybe it's the fact that I haven't been around babies that much.  Maybe it's the lawyer side of me that makes it hard for me to think of non-language communication as... well, communication.  My mom even says that I was never really a little kid -- always just kind of a small adult.  If I could have skipped straight to a later phase of development with my own progeny, I probably would have done it.  (Jeanette probably would have too.) But, now I have a baby.

And I like her.  She can be pretty great.  And, if I'm in a baby mood, she might just be amazing.  And of course, like a Hebrew National Hotdog, my baby is the greatest baby that the world has ever seen (in every conceivable way).

But looking at stages of life, she's definitely still a hotdog.  I mean, if this is lobster roll, I think I'm in for a long ride.  I imagine I'll look back at this stage fondly in some ways, but I doubt I'll want to go back.  I know the future will hold it's own share of challenges, but I've never had any doubt that I'm more cut out for the go-to-soccer-games, teach-her-how-to-play-chess, or help-her-figure-out-how-to-get-into-college stages of parenting (but hopefully not the let-her-live-in-my-basement-after-college stage).  Then again, if the potent cocktail of smart-ass-ness that Jeanette and my genes could produce comes to pass... Well, a hotdog might look pretty good.  For now, I'll try to enjoy her for what she is -- a little baby, yes, but a pretty great one.

Wyatt.