Despite my (mostly) cheery posts, transitioning into parenthood is the most insanely difficult thing we’ve ever done. Yes, Owen’s worth it. But we often find ourselves in a funk. Frankly, we miss being child-free, and not giving a damn about anyone but ourselves. There have been times -- usually in the wee hours of the night -- when Michelle and I look at each other and wonder what happened to our lives: our nightly outings in the city, our leisurely dinners with friends, our lazy afternoons in front of the television, our spur-of-the-moment trips out of town, and our precious, precious sleep. For months on end, we’ve rolled out of bed several times each night to trudge over to Owen’s room, hair dryer in hand and impatient frowns on our faces, trying our best to block out the frantic screams of our gas-blasting baby. During the day, my exhausted wife is left stranded alone at home (by me) to contend with an infant who refuses to nap unless he’s sprawled out on top of a warm human body. When I call Michelle from work, she usually tells me that Owen is: (a) fussing; (b) screaming; or (c) expelling goopy orange jelly from his butt. She also tells me that she hasn’t had a chance to eat or even drink a glass of water. “I guess that’s a good thing,” Michelle adds, “because our baby won’t let me go the bathroom, either.”

The only thing that’s worse: Other new parents who feel compelled to share with us how their perfect, zero-maintenance babies already sleep through the night. I’m pretty sure I hate these Stepford parents, so please tell me you’re not one of them.