As you probably know (from knowing me in person), I’m a very recent father of twins.  I’m a bit of a planner, so in the last stages of my lovely wife’s pregnancy, I tried to imagine what life would be like and the types of interactions I’d have with people as Daddy P-Dawg.  This one never crossed my mind though:
 
My son had a circumcision on our last day at the hospital.  It wasn’t the easiest thing to watch, but I told him that he’d never remember it and that he was now “part of the club.”  It’s a shitty initiation to be sure, but whatever.  After we left, we realized that the hospital staff forgot to give us the petroleum jelly we’d need to clean his currently-tiny member.  So I hopped in my car and took a quick trip to the store to get some (along with my required tortillas and cheese).
 
I walked up and down a few aisles before I asked an employee where I might find some petroleum jelly. “What?” she asked, with a face that couldn’t have been more confused.  “It’s like Vaseline,” I said, hoping that a name brand would help her recall its location in the store.  Instead, she said, “Oh” and looked at me like I was a pervert.  I briefly thought about explaining the real reason I needed it but figured that might actually make things worse.    She told me that aisle 6 would probably be the right place for it because “that’s where those sorts of things are.”  I walked over there and quickly saw a grouping of condoms and various sexual lubrications.  I kept walking past that section, hoping that my product wouldn’t be stored there.  I looked around for a while but didn’t see it, so I asked someone else.  “Oh yeah, aisle 6 about halfway down on the right side by the Band-Aids.”  I was pleased to hear the “right side” part, since the Trojan and KY products were on the left.  I went back and found the little tub I’d been seeking.  I paid, came home, and made a quesadilla before attending to my little guy’s little guy.
 
I certainly didn’t expect anything to play out quite like that in the first few days of fatherhood.  I should’ve known better though; you can’t spell “petroleum pervert” without Peter Peter, after all.

p.s. I also never expected to have this thought:  “I think I’ll wear that shirt, since spit-up would blend in pretty nicely.”