Like father, like fun

I’ve never been much fun. Whenever I try to be free and easy – foot racing, tickle fighting – a lamp gets broken, an eye is poked.

Now with a baby on the way, it’s likely I’ll never really have a chance at being fun. Gone is my chance at launching into chin-ups whenever a low hanging awning comes into view. Gone are the opportunities to stick my head out the hatchback sunroof while crying “carpe diem.” Mostly, it’s a relief. The pressure’s finally off.

As compensation, my wife has signed me up for something called “Daddy Boot Camp,” a training program for fathers-to-be and it takes place on Sunday at 9 a.m., one of the least fun hours of the week.

Sunday, 9 a.m. Our class, an overwhelmingly stubbled and ball-capped assortment, is led into an amphitheatre. Bearded in a weather-beaten Yankees cap myself, I feel like I’m among my people.

9:03 a.m. The instructor, a man named Chris wearing cargo shorts and flip-flops, explains how he’s not a doctor or a nurse. “Just a dad,” he says.

10:10 a.m. We watch a movie about what happens in the delivery room. It has the production value of a 1980s instructional video for Arby’s employees.

“Stop talking!” a wife yells at her husband as he holds her hand. I break into a sweat. Our wives will be in such tremendous pain that they’ll become unknown to us. I look around the darkened room. All around me, the dads-to-be seem scared.

11:30 a.m. Using dolls, we learn to diaper.

“That might be a little too tight,” Chris says when he walks by to check on me.

My doll looks like it’s caught in the centre of a complicated piece of Origami.

“I just wanted to make sure he was secure,” I say.

“I know,” Chris says putting his hand on my shoulder and, as he does, I feel myself get choked up. 12:00 p.m. At the end of the class, we’re told that if we want them, there are certificates we can take home to prove to our wives that we attended. To a man, each dad-to-be walks up to the front of the room and accepts his certificate.

The last time I received a certificate of any kind was in elementary school. It was for learning to macrame.

12:15 p.m. “It went well,” I tell Emily when she phones. It’s raining outside and I’ve decided to stop at my favourite diner for dumpling soup on the way home. “Have fun,” Emily says. “I will,” I say. And it will be fun. The perfect amount.