She went out with two of her friends to this fantastic restaurant called the Brazilian Grill. They serve Churrasco a Rodizio which means Rotisserie Barbecue, and basically that translates into an endless supply of every kind of mouth-watering meat imaginable. Not to mention MJ and the girls also savor the Brazilian hunks of man meat serving them the food as well.

The plan was a good one because the restaurant is less than a half mile from the newspaper’s main office, and I work until 11 p.m. on Saturday nights. So we had our cousin babysit Will, and I told her to let loose and drink as much as she wants because I’d just meet her after my shift ended and be her designated driver.

Bad idea.

You see, I wasn’t thinking clearly. Because if I was paying attention, I would’ve remembered there is nothing more dangerous and intimidating than being the stone cold sober husband walking into a group of girls who are loaded and have been sharing stories with each other for hours.

They weren’t quite done with their night when I met up with them at a local bar, so I volunteered to hang out until they wanted to go home. Big mistake. I knew I was in trouble right away because after I finished saying hello to everyone, they immediately went right back to the conversation that was in progress before my arrival. So for the next five minutes, I tried to contain my shock when they talked intimately about g-spots. Where they’re located, how guys have trouble finding them and a detailed recounting of their best g-spot related encounters.

But what was really shocking for me was listening to a conversation between MJ’s friends about how their husbands expected them to be home already. One was supposed to bring her husband dinner, but decided to stay out late with MJ instead. The other was in the same boat. Then, one of them said something I will never forget.

“Yeah, he’s pissed at me tonight. I’m gonna have to perform for him tonight to make up for it,” she said.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up the bus. I asked her if I heard her right and if she meant what I thought she meant by that. She nodded and said of course. That when she’s in hot water, she uses her sexual persuasions as currency. Her other friend concurred and said it’s common practice and the easiest way to get out of trouble immediately.

My head snapped around to MJ, who was giving the other two women the stink-eye and shouting “SHUT UP, SHUT UP!” with her eyes. Could this be true? Is it possible? Was I not aware of the unwritten rule that when the wife screws up, I’m supposed to reap the sexual benefits? I cocked my head to one side and raised an eyebrow, and gave MJ an inquisitive glance.

“Sssshhhhhh,” she told her friends. “He doesn’t know these things. Don’t put ideas in his head. Honey, forget you ever heard that.”

I was flabbergasted. Floored. Bamboozled even. All those times when MJ was legitimately in the dog house, it appears I was missing out on a husband’s God given right to make up lovin’! MJ told me to forget I ever heard the conversation, but that’s never gonna happen. This kind of life-altering accidental discovery is right up there with Scottish scientist Alexander Fleming, who accidentally discovered Penicillin because he was sloppy in his lab work and accidentally left a sample of Staphylococcus out in his work area. Asking me to forget that conversation is like telling the caveman who first saw fire to just put it out of his mind.

I feel like Jim Carrey in the movie “The Truman Show.” I’ve been kept in a protective bubble and only fed information others felt was necessary for me to have. I think I should be able to take this to a marital court of law and sue my wife. But instead of trying to get financial reparations, I’m seeking sexual backcharges. A judge or jury would sentence MJ to so many hours of sexual community service, only I’m the community.

As if MJ could sense every single thing I was thinking, she simply looked at me and said “Nope, don’t even think about it.”

The point is, nothing good comes out of being a guy and gaining a peek behind the curtain to see the great and powerful Oz. And on an unrelated note, it seems nothing positive comes out of being at a certain Hyannis bar around midnight on a Saturday night. A decent band was playing, but a 60-year-old woman who was flashing everyone in the bar tried to pull me out on the dance floor and would not let me go. Even when I was ridiculously insulting to her, she never relented. She asked why I wouldn’t dance with her and I told her I was far too sober for such an undertaking. Then she said it was for a bet, so I told her I’m a journalist and I’m not allowed to partake in illegal gambling, especially when the payoff is likely herpes. Eventually I simply hid behind MJ and shouted “HELP ME!”

So even though I’m not entitled to the same rights as other husbands out there, I want to say happy birthday to my lovely wife. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to Google “g-spot” to see what all this fuss is about.

With the exception of the Derek Zoolander quote, I’m still all those things. But on April 3, 2008, I gained a new and more important identity: Dad.

We didn’t know if you were going to be a boy or a girl when you were born. Well, scratch that. MJ didn’t let the ultrasound technician or the doctors tell us the sex, so technically we didn’t know. But I knew. I knew I was having a son. I was on record from the very start that I’d have a boy and I never wavered. But because we suffered through two miscarriages, I didn’t really care what you were as long as you were healthy. And a boy. So when MJ delivered, I honestly forgot to check whether you were a boy or a girl. I just stared slack-jawed at the doctor holding you, desperately trying to process what had just occurred, while simultaneously being extremely thankful there was a guardrail on MJ’s bed because that was the only thing holding me up after my knees went weak.

The doctor’s voice was the only thing that snapped me out of my trance as he said “Congratulations, dad. It’s a boy.”

Dad? Dad. Whoa…that’s me.

Time passes strangely in a house with a baby. Sleep comes in two-hour intervals. Parents walk around like the  Thorazine-riddled patients in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. It’s a confusing time when everything is in flux. So despite not knowing what the hell I was supposed to do with you, I did the only thing that came naturally. I loved you. Deeply. Like crazy. Sure I made some mistakes, but I dove into fatherhood head first and I never looked back. Because the feeling that swept over me when I watched you sleep or played with your little hands and feet, was something otherworldly.

As you grew, so did I. Six months brought crawling, mimicking and general joyousness. In my brief stint as a dad I gained confidence and skills. I could change diapers like a NASCAR pit crew. I could dress you with ease, although matching your outfits was a different story. I had no problem taking you in the car or out in public, just the two of us. Looking back I realize what a great age that was, because you could only crawl a little and there was no walking. No opening doors. No climbing things. But despite being limited physically, you were gearing up toward your first word and discovering new things about yourself everyday. And getting a front row seat was the most entertaining thing on the planet.

When you turned 1, your accomplishments were coming fast and furious. You had already been walking for three months. You were talking and signing up a storm. And you were frickin’ fearless. Seriously kid, nothing scared you. You may look like me, but I was petrified of everything when I was your age. If something was difficult or scary, I would run away or return to something familiar. But not you. You have your mother’s tenacity and determination. Sure you get frustrated when faced with a difficult problem, but you stare it down and concentrate until you solve it. I admire that and it makes me so proud I could burst.

No longer a baby, but a certified little man. Talking in short sentences, gaining dexterity and hand-eye coordination and grasping concepts left and right. You became decidedly more difficult to contain as you raced to explore the world around you, but I relished the fact that you did it with reckless abandon and without an ounce of hesitation. Not to mention you were the cutest goddamn monkey on the planet for Halloween.

On Saturday you turn 2. Two years old. In some ways it doesn’t seem possible that that much time has gone by. A tick of the clock ago you were a fragile newborn who threw my entire life into upheaval. But in other ways, it feels like you’ve been around forever. Because I truly can’t remember what life was like before you, nor can I possibly picture it without you. When I started dating your mom I fell in love with her instantly. I asked her to marry me because she was the only woman I ever met who made me feel like she had been there all along, and without whom I would cease to exist.

That’s what both you and your mom — who I’m also wishing a happy birthday to on April 4 — are to me. You’re air. You’re food and water. And while it’s not all flowers and pie, being a dad has been the experience of my life so far. Both the good and the bad. But there’s been so much more good. And the gifts you give back to me only increase as you get older. The smiles, the laughter, the “Hi Dadda” comments and the random hugs and “Love yous” are what keeps me going on a daily basis.

I know it’s corny but you’ve made me a better man. And while I’m not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, you make me want to be the best dad possible. You bring joy to everyone you meet. Even strangers. You’re only 2, but I’m so proud of you. I’m in awe of you everyday. And I love you with a depth I didn’t know was possible. And even though I don’t deserve you or your mother,  it is a privilege to be your father.

Happy birthday buddy (and MJ). You’re the best.

CHECK OUT FATHERHOOD FRIDAY OVER AT DAD-BLOGS AND IF YOU’RE LOOKING FOR A BIRTHDAY GIFT FOR WILL, HE’S ASKING FOR OPENING DAY TICKETS TO THE RED SOX ON SUNDAY!

–> I don’t think I’ve ever been excited about anything in my life as much as Will nowadays when Mickey Mouse Clubhouse comes on TV. As soon as he sees Mickey he lets out a ridiculously high-pitched scream, then runs in circles for 10-15 seconds around the room with a huge smile on his face. This morning he got so excited he ran into the wall.

–> A friend of mine from high school is a TV reporter at Fox news in Boston, and he and I were working on the same story Saturday night about a shoplifting ring run by a mother and daughter. My buddy told me when he tried to talk to the daughter, her boyfriend told him to get the hell out of there and then yelled “Suck my left nut!” Which begs the question, why, when people say that, is it always the left nut they want you to suck? Why not the right one? And for that matter, how is that an insult? You’re a heterosexual who’s mad at another man, so you tell the person at whom you’re angry to put one of your testicles in his mouth? Something is very off there.

–> I know I was a little hard on MJ last week with the whole farting thing, but yesterday I was reminded why she is the coolest chick on the planet. She told me how appreciative she was that I’ve picked up the majority of household chores and the responsibility of caring for Will almost by myself everyday, so she surprised me by signing us up for the HBO and Starz channel. Hello True Blood, Curb Your Enthusiasm, Big Love, and movies with swears and no commercials!!! For a couch potato like myself, it’s a dream come true.

–> Even though Will’s birthday isn’t for another week, we had a family party yesterday. It was great and once again, friends and family were way too generous with the gifts. And they also paid no mind to me and MJ when we said go easy on the gifts and avoid the big ones that make a lot of noise. EVERYTHING he received is loud. A remote controlled forklift that plays rock n roll music? A Chuck the Truck that responds to voice commands and also talks? Books that speak to you and make weird sounds? I swear to God, I’m pretty sure even the clothes he received have buttons that make noise. This is Karma’s way of getting even for all those years I was such a prick.

–> Went to a Boston Celtics game last night, and watched as the 20-something guy in front of me nearly got in a fist fight with an old guy there with his 3 kids. The father was mad because the younger guy swore at Rasheed Wallace for being lazy. So the dad, still in front of his kids, turns around and yells “If you don’t stop swearing I’m gonna turn around and punch you in the fucking face!” Hello pot, this is the kettle calling…

–> My son looks like me, but he’s got MJ’s personality. When he plays with his trucks, they all need to be lined up neatly in a row. When he eats, all of his food needs to remain separate on his plate. God help us all if the food touches. I, on the other hand, would be perfectly content eating my mashed potatoes, turkey, stuffing, corn and gravy all mixed together in one delicious lump, and my play time is decidedly more unorganized. Living with these OCD nutballs is going to be interesting.

–> What’s up with cell phones these days? If someone calls me and I don’t get it right away, my phone alerts me. Perhaps too much. First of all it flashes. Then when I get to it there are a plethora of icons to deal with. One shows me that I have a missed call. The other tells me what number it was that called. Then there’s an icon to let me know I have a voicemail. My only real incentive to answer my phone is so I don’t have to spend 10 minutes making sure all the annoying icons aren’t cluttering up my screen afterward.

–> I always hear people say they don’t trust the media, and some even accusers reporters of making things up. Yet I fielded a half dozen angry calls from readers this week concerning a picture we took of a memorial at a crash site set up by teenagers because one of their friends died. And included in the memorial was a full can of Budweiser. The angry callers wanted us to either Photoshop the beer can out, not include it in the picture or not run the picture at all. I repeat, they wanted me or the photographer to alter reality by taking it upon ourselves to change the scene. Do these people really want their local news media screwing around and doctoring photos?? Yet they accused me and the paper of promoting underage drinking and I was lambasted for days. Yet if someone found out we interfered, we’d be accused of doctoring the news. We can’t win.

–> And finally, my son reached a milestone of which I’m very proud. If you ask him about the New York Yankees, know what he says? “BOOOOOO Yankees!” I admit, I shed a tear when he mastered that phrase. He is now part of a family history that goes back many decades and generations, and from this point on he will proudly wear the badge of being a pinstriped Yankees hater.

Happy Monday guys, and remember it’s only six days to Opening Day at Fenway!

First of all, MJ’s mystery behavior was for a reason. A surprise party. She planned the whole thing out in advance and even enlisted the help of my work friends to get me the day off, have someone cover my Saturday shift, etc. I went to work like usual on Saturday night for the first two hours of my shift. Then, around 5:30, my editor got a phone call and got all excited. Apparently Vice President Joe Biden was having a drink at the Irish pub directly across the street. Biden, Oprah, Stevie Wonder and tons of other celebrities were in town for Eunice Kennedy’s funeral so this kind of made sense. But when I went over to check it out all of my family and friends were there.

It was really great and it meant a lot to me. But what really got me was the gift from my brother and his girlfriend Melissa.

I opened up his gift to find a book. My book, to be exact. He took it upon himself to turn the first year of Daddy Files into a book complete with cover, table of contents, etc. And he wrote a personal message on the front page that brought tears to my eyes. It was the most thoughtful gift I have ever received and it was really cool to see one year of my life in book form. I haven’t stopped thumbing through it since Saturday. I was pretty hungover yesterday, but managed to hold it together and spend the day with my family.

This morning I’m at my parents’ house with Will and my mom, and I’m left to reflect on my life thus far. And when I think back on my 20s, I am absolutely astounded at where I was compared to where I’m at now. And I honestly don’t think there will be a bigger decade of transition ever again in my life.

Turning 20 meant I was still in college. I got my first cell phone 10 years ago for my 20th birthday and I was gearing up to be an RA in the freshmen dorms. I was head over in heels in love with a girl I was sure I would marry, and the ironic part is the girl I actually did marry was right around the corner from me at school.

My early 20s were a dysfunctional blur as I could legally drink in bars. Unfortunately, my transcendence to the legal drinking age coincided with the girl I loved breaking my heart. Two years of drunkenness, debauchery and general idiotic behavior ensued. Even though I had my first job, good friends and supportive family, I was a complete mess.

The silver lining of this time was the Patriots Super Bowl win which I will remember always. Then a few years later the Red Sox broke the Curse and the Golden Era of Boston sports was in full swing. I was living in Boston and I was still a mess. I didn’t know any longer where one night of drinking ended and where the hair of the dog in the morning began. I lived for the weekend and partying with my roommates. I was having a ton of fun, but it had started to lose it’s luster a little bit.

Then came my mid-20s and a fateful invitation to a house party in Foxboro. MJ was at that party, and even though I was THAT close to hooking up with another girl at that party, MJ and I ended up confessing our true feelings for each other despite having known one another since the 6th grade. After one week of dating I told my best friend Craig that I was going to marry her. By the time I was 25 I was engaged.

The age of 26 brought a change of career leading me back to journalism, and also marriage. 27 was a tough one because MJ was sick and the first year of marriage isn’t easy for anyone. But by 28 we had a little bundle of joy.

So there you have it. From a young and wild college student who lived for getting wasted with friends at parties and bars, to a (partially) responsible husband and father all in the span of a decade. But 30?? Thirty is fucking old. Always has been. And since I’m definitely not old, how the hell can I be 30? I’m a 30-something. Now if I do something stupid or humiliating it’s not cute. People no longer shake their head and say “Well he’s young.” Now if I act like an idiot, I’m just an idiot. Because I’m too old to act like an idiot. I’m 30. I’m an adult, whatever that means. I’m a husband and a dad.

I have no idea what my 30′s will bring? Another kid maybe? Will newspapers be extinct forcing another career shift? Will MJ finally come to her senses and find a suitable husband? I don’t know. But I do know there will probably be a few less beers, less stories that begin with “so we were wasted at the bar,” and a few more creaky bones and less hair. But hopefully it’ll also bring a decade of eye opening experiences as a father and husband, and an opportunity to grow into my role as both.

In the meantime, I’m simply thankful for all the wonderful people in my life who cared enough to throw me a surprise party and who have stuck with me all these years. I know I haven’t always deserved your loyalty and love, but I’ve always appreciated it more than you know. I’m thankful for the love of my boy, a feeling truly like no other. Not to mention my wife, who is far too good for me. My parents, my brother (that book is amazing people, I can’t even begin to tell you), my friends and family are all too terrific for words. And that includes my “online friends” who know me from this blog. We may not have met, but I feel your presence daily and I’m better for it.

So here’s to 30 and the ass kicking I plan on giving it.

We are so, so lucky to have the family and friends we have. To my parents who babysit, help us financially and in every other way to my best friend Craig and his wife Kelly who bought and cooked all the unbelievable food to Barbara and Patrick who volunteered their house (because ours is tiny) which allowed us to have the party in the first place…we’re floored by your kindness and generosity. If not for you guys, none of this happens. And as for the rest of our family members, thank you so much for the gifts. Even though we said “No Gifts” prior to the party, you guys were way too generous and Will is one spoiled and lucky kid.

Thank you all, from the bottom of our hearts. You guys are the best and we appreciate everything in a way that you’ll never know. Now, onto the pictures…

A "Handy Manny" toolbox which he loved

Yep, that's a Thomas the Train Engine cake made by my Aunt Val. Unreal.

Will feeding Daddy cake

Will and his godfather sharing a moment

Mmmmm...cake!

On Dad's shoulders

Will's 1-year pictures