by contributor Mike Rehfus

Parenthood brings about many epiphanies. One is, “I’m never going to get to go to Vegas again, am I.” Another is, “Manufacturers of baby gear hate us.”

About that first one: there’s still a decent chance your company will send you to a conference in Las Vegas, so just relax, okay?

About the second one? Baby gear manufacturers don’t actually hate you; but sometimes it sure seems like they have it in for your single and/or childless friends. Evidence: a whole class of baby gear with almost zero practical function, but unlimited, mind-clouding “AWWWWW” factor, guaranteeing these pointless, yet irresistible items an unwelcome place on a gift table at a baby shower somewhere in the world at this very moment.

One example: the PEE-PEE TEEPEE by Bebabean. Price range: $11.50 wrapped in cellophane; $13.30 in a mini laundry bag; $23.75 Gift Set.

Yes: it’s a terrycloth cone available in a range of amusing designer patterns, designed to be placed over a baby boy’s wiener during diaper changing to prevent—I hope you’re sitting down/haven’t eaten within the last eight hours/aren’t prone to night terrors, heart palpitations or vertigo—accidental contact with a stream of urine!

Let us recover.

Okay, thinking back to how I saw the world from the other side of fatherhood, I can imagine how being peed upon by some guy would seem like a nightmare scenario. But honestly: before you even leave the delivery room with your first child, you’ve already been up to your wrists in Cronenberg-grade gore for hours. And the carnival of horrors only follows you home. Newborn tar poops. Calcifying umbilical stub. The very evidence of a scalpel to the wing wang. Heck: after a few rounds of curdled breastmilk down your shoulder, you’ll welcome a golden shower.

Okay, so let’s assume you can’t accept the fact that all animals urinate, and that fresh urine is as sterile as that bottle of Gatorade G2 Glacier Freeze Thirst Quencher you bought from that dude on the way to work. And let’s assume your little slugger is just holding it in anticipation of a diaper change from soakable old dad. How will you ever shield yourself from that relentless torrent of shame?

Well, chances are good that if you’re tasked with diapering a child, you already have a piece of highly absorbent material ALREADY IN YOUR HAND. Drape the new diaper over your little guy’s junk until he’s cleaned up, then lift, wrap, tape and roll. Done. Even if he unleashed on you, you’ll probably never even notice. Especially if you’re tired enough. And you will be.

Okay the niceties: are Pee-Pee Teepees cute as all hell? Yes. Does it seem to have a trace functional benefit? Perhaps. Did humans survive for millennia without it? Sure, but those poor saps also missed out on Maclaren folding strollers and the Graco Pack n’ Play.

The reality: Will junior lie in his own filth while mommy sends daddy out into a blizzard to acquire a fresh pack of Pee Pee Teepees? I sure hope not.

The verdict. At upwards of $24.00 for the Gift Pack, the Pee-Pee Teepee is why the Lord God our Creator invented gift receipts (He really is all-powerful). $24.00 buys a decent six pack and bottle of wine. You’ll need it after junior nails you with his first salvo of projectile diarrhea.

Cheers!

Mike Rehfus was raised by parents raised during the Great Depression, and will use this fact to ruin his kids’ lives, too.

If you’re a dad and have been dragged to see Strawberry Shortcake: A Berryfest Princess Movie, we want to hear from you.

Seriously, how did you have the strength to make it through? As a soon-to-be father, I believe I’ll have the courage to watch my child be birthed, but I don’t think I’ll have the stomach to watch the kinds of movies they’ll beg to see years from now.

Below, I’ve posted not the trailer, but a portion of the actual movie. I challenge you to watch the entire clip without audibly groaning in pain (unfortunately, you first have to sit through a :30 Google-served ad, the bastards):

So dads, step forward and tell your story of sitting through the entire 90-minute movie. Were you drunk? How did you get through it? These are things the Band of Fathers needs to know!
NOTE: Any fathers who want to write reviews of children’s movies, we’d love to post them.

The Chuck E. Cheese’s at the Atlantic Crossing Mall in Brooklyn, NY is not just one of Dante’s circles of hell, it is all of them jammed together.

If you’re a parent, you’ve been forced to bring your kid to many a fellow-toddler’s birthday party. You grin. Bear it. Grind your teeth. Cry a little inside. Suffer the gift opening. Choke down the cake. And leave as quickly as possible.

I accompanied my wife to the mall on a recent Saturday, and while she waited in a lengthy Target returns line, I wandered around and spotted crowds of people on the floor above. Curious as to what the commotion was about, I investigated: they were all waiting to get into Chuck E. Cheese’s. It was a cold day, so every kid’s birthday party in Brooklyn seemed to be happening here at once.

I decided to walk straight into the mouth of hell to prepare myself for the eventuality of having to go to these birthday parties. A kind of “boot camp” to discover if I could handle the stress.

The line just to get inside was intense and long. Not one of the parents looked amused, nor psychologically prepared for the onslaught. When they did reach the interior, they were jostled by stressed-out parents trying to escape–but first they had to exchange their children’s tickets for trashy, plastic gifts at the redemption counter.

These were good parents who were simply giving in to their children’s constant demands to hang out with an anthropomorphic rat. But their patience was being tested to the limit, and the milk of human kindness was scarce.

I could not investigate further because the place was at capacity. They weren’t letting any more people in until more folks left. Lucky me.

Chuck E. Cheese’s has always had a place in my heart. It’s where I took my wife on our first date. And where my best childhood friend had his bachelor party. While Chuck E.’s animatronic band will always have a place in my nightmares, I know that in the near future it will all become a very real nightmare: my kid on a sugar-high, bouncing around in what is basically a grimy indoor playground.

Questions:

a) How do they clean the “ball pit”?

b) DO they clean the ball pit?

c) What does the “E” stand for? Excruciating?

d) What’s your worst “kid’s party” memory?

From New York magazine’s “Grubstreet” food blog, we learn that chef Daniel Angerer is making cheese from his wife’s breast milk.

You heard that right.

Does this gastro-gaffe seem like a blatant stunt to you? Oh no, Monsieur Angerer claims the idea stemmed from his natural inclination to explore:

“Being a chef, you’re curious about anything in terms of flavor — you look out for something new and what you can do with it.”

Mmm hmm, by the same logic, he could make “Sweat Soup.”

Speaking of human food: some cultures eat the mother’s placenta after the baby’s born. That’s a fine thing for him to experiment with next at his restaurant–since he’s all about about curiosity and flavor.

Sure, there are some foods that are inherently delicious, but we shut ourselves off from liking them because we know what they are. Say we ate head cheese or sweetbreads without being wise to their provenance–it’s possible that we’d like it. But most of us like to know what we’re eating. Yeah, that can be prejudicial, but hey…I’d rather not eat haggis.

I’m sure the whole experiment was designed to garner publicity for his restaurant. It certainly got my attention: because now I know which eatery to avoid.

Angerer’s wife is clearly onboard the stunt-train. After all, she has to pump for hours to get the requisite amount to make the cheese. Angerer calls it “My Spouse’s Mommy Milk Cheese,” and has written about it on his blog, but we’d rather not help send him any traffic.

(If you must read more about this culinary misadventure, check out the full story at New York magazine’s Grubstreet blog.)

How about you: would you try cheese made from your own wife’s milk? How about a stranger’s cheese?