You’re a Liar


There’s two types of people in this world:

  1. People who claim the birth of your child is “the best day of your life”
  2. People who aren’t horrible fucking liars


I promise future entries in Philyodaddyblog will be more upbeat, but this needs to be said.  Let me drop some nuclear truth bombs:

My son was born on April 22nd.  April 22nd sucked.  The night before sucked.  The night after sucked.  In fact, I’m going to go out on a limb and say if my child had not been born on April 22nd, it would be in strong contention for the WORST 36 hours of my life.  Even worse than being forced to watch a 36-hour Real Housewives marathon (jk that’d be great).

Here are the facts, using the uncommon 2nd person, because Philyodaddy can speak for all persons:  You sit at the hospital for awhile in an uncomfortable room while your wife is in a lot of pain.  You slowly watch your iPhone battery die while pretending it’s NBD.  Night comes.  You don’t sleep.  You try to sleep for 2 hours in an uncomfortable recliner while nurses check on your wife’s pain.

At some point, the pain becomes too much and she has to take an epidural.  She’s pressing that button more than Pookie in New Jack.  Then it’s waiting.  Lots of waiting.  Oh and the TV in the hospital fucking sucks.  They have one of those hotel-style tv guide systems that takes 20 seconds to load each channel, no DVR, no premium channels, and the only speaker is on the remote, which makes no sense when you’re in a room by yourself.  Philyodaddy is used to a multi-tv set up with so many channels you haven’t even heard of half of them.  AWE, GSN, ESPN The Ocho: Check, Check, Check.  I’d rather lose permanent use of my limbs than be stuck with 1996 basic cable.  I digress…

What to do?  Do you pull your kindle out and read?  Of course not, because that would make it seem like you were bored.  How can you be bored during such an important event?  What kind of selfish piece of shit are you?  Instead, you play on your phone awkwardly while putting on a show of attending to all your wife’s needs.  How many times can you refresh instagram in 5 hours?  More than you previously thought.  Who needs more jelllllooo?  

Skip forward past a couple wife vomit seshes, and almost 24 hours after you got to the hospital, you get to start pushing.  Let me tell you, this is really fun.  Your wife tries to push a watermelon out of a hole the size of philyodaddy penis (large but not off-putting).  Try not to look down.  Some things can never be unseen.  Seriously, try not to look down.  It’s nearly impossible when the nurses are yelling “Yes, yes, yes.  But don’t do it.  DONT. LOOK. DOWN.  Maybe when the baby is coming out, but not before that.  Actually, I take that back.  Never look down.

Anyway, we needed a c-section after all and Mrs. Philyodaddy was spent.  And that’s the end of 2nd person because it was getting tiring, just like all the pushing.  Which was for nothing.  Not sure if I made that clear.




Obviously I know that circumstances vary, but one thing doesn’t.  The day sucks.  Each one is uniquely horrible.  At least we didn’t get to the point where an episiotomy was necessary.   You probably should definitely not google that.

Nothing more fun than staying in the hospital afterward.  No sleep, blah blah…

Some hipster bitch from Brooklyn actually had the gall to have her dirty hipster partner/husband/sperm donor shh us because “she had a rough morning”.  YOU DONT FUCKING SAY?  Not us, we just got back from the Giants ticker tape parade and are prepping for our dinner at Dorsia, sorry for disturbing your perfectly coiffed armpit beard.

I’m not saying people who claim it’s a wonderful day are exclusively BAD people, assuming you don’t mind associating with dirty liars.  People feel the need to say ridiculous things because of societal rules that also include not shaming fat people and sluts.  Nothing worse than a fat slut who claims that her child’s birth was the best day of her life.  Can’t beat that.  See you soon Amy Schumer.  Come at me Bro.

To avoid getting kicked out of Casa de Philyodaddy, I’d like to add that I love my son.  I could not be happier to have him, even if he won’t let us sleep.  He’s almost 9 pounds of pure stud and I wouldn’t trade him for anything.  My kid is cuter and better than yours at everything.  Not to brag, because I wouldn’t want to be one of those dads…


Anyway welcome to philyodaddyblog. Future planned entries include:

  1. Me lashing out on the facebook mom groups for using absurd acronyms like LO (little one), DH (dearest husband), SO (sig other), etc. which make me want to vomit.
  2. Trials and tribulations of getting your baby to sleep
  3. The absurd cost of baby items (I’m comin at you Uppababy, watch yo self)
  4. Tasting breast milk (maybe a blind taste test if I can get Mrs. Philyodaddy to allow it).


Hopefully when this gets (t)rolling, Philyodaddy Jr. will be playing for the Knicks and I won’t be divorced.





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