A lot changes when you have a kid. Many of those changes are absolutely wonderful and I wouldn’t trade them for the world. But others are sad. Namely, as a guy, there’s a stark realization that when one of your friends has a kid, there’s a definite chance you’ll essentially lose him as a friend.

There are several factors at work. First of all, having a kid is the ultimate time-suck (and I mean that in the best way possible). Getting into a routine, diaper changes, midnight feedings…it’s exhausting and takes maximum effort. Then they become mobile and require even more looking after, then toddlerhood and finally onto youth sports, drama club, music lessons, etc. It is truly all-consuming. But there are other reasons too.

Some wives use a baby’s arrival as an opportunity to cut “undesirable” friends out of her husband’s life.

Protest all you want, but it’s true. I’ve seen it happen. She makes him feel guilty the minute he says he wants a night out with his friends. She tells him he’s a father now, he shouldn’t be going out, he’s irresponsible, etc. All of his friends call him and invite him out at every turn, but he never comes. Then he stops returning calls. Then the friends stop bothering to invite him. In the blink of an eye everyone has lost a good buddy, and that’s not right.

Much is being made of “dadchelor parties” for men but it’s much more than that douchey name implies. I probably shouldn’t let you behind the Man Curtain, but I’m going to because I think this is important.

I love my friends. They’re extremely important to me. Before I got married and had kids I spent every single weekend with them. We’d gather at someone’s house, drink, eat, talk and have fun. Sometimes we got a little nuts and it turned into a mini bachelor party (no strippers, just booze and girls and fun), but for the most part we just hung out.

And despite what all the sitcoms would have you think, we didn’t just have farting and belching contests. We talked. A lot. We talked about our girlfriends, our jobs, our successes, our failures and where we were headed. I’ve had more meaningful drunk 3 a.m. front porch conversations with my friends than I can count. And sure, while we might spend the majority of our time hurling finely crafted insults at one another, there was some important stuff mixed in there too.

It was so important to me that when MJ and I started talking about marriage, I told her I’d still need a decent amount of time with the guys. Thankfully she understands completely and has no problem with me going out from time to time. Not a lot, but enough. But some guys have far less understanding wives and aren’t so lucky. And that’s too bad.

Men won’t often admit they need their friends. That sounds weak, or even “gay.” And when we get married or have a kid, there is a genuine fear we’ll lose our friends. And therefore a little bit of ourselves. And that’s a valid worry because it happens all the time, made worse when a wife decides it’s irresponsible or disrespectful for him to spend any time at all away from his family.

But for guys like me, there’s no line between good friends and family. And there’s no doubt I’m a happier man—a better father and husband even—when I can carve out a little time with the people I love without being made to feel guilty about it. And yes, sometimes that time could include going on a bender and getting juvenile and stupid. But so what? As long as I’m giving my wife the opportunity to do whatever makes her happy on her own, and as long as I’m not consistently shirking my duties as husband and father, the occasional party binge with friends is just fine.

But ladies, rest assured that what appears to be a regression back to our college frat days has deeper meaning. Sure we’re drinking and carrying on, but we’re also reconnecting and renewing our male friendships. Like any relationship, it takes effort to maintain them. We wouldn’t deny you “Girls Night Out,” so stop getting all bent out of shape about our guy excursions.

Men need friends too.

But most notably, it’s a day off for most people. Including me.

Instead of watching a bunch of Kenyans run 26.2 miles in a ridiculously short amount of time, or taking in the game at Fenway, I decided to accompany my cousin to North Adams. What’s that? You have no idea where North Adams is or why it’s significant? I don’t blame you. But allow me to help you out.

North Adams is where I went to college. It used to be North Adams State College. Now it’s Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts. It’s a sleepy little city located in mountainous western Mass., in an area known as The Berkshires. Three hours away from where I grew up, it’s crammed in the upper left-hand corner of the state between New York and Vermont. My cousin, as a junior in high school, is looking at colleges and this one is on his list. Since MJ was working and I had Will all day, I decided to go with him to give him a behind-the-scenes peek at the place I called home for four whole years.

But even though it was my cousin’s trip, I couldn’t help but reflect on my own journey.

Driving through the mountains and the Mohawk Trail, I kept glancing at my cousin’s face. He looked puzzled. And slightly concerned. I recognized the sentiment.

It’s 1996 and I’m in the middle of my own college search. I don’t know where I want to go or what I want to study. All I know is I’m looking for a small school that’s not in the city. I chose to tour North Adams because it was the farthest away from home I could go while still paying in-state tuition rates.

But we’d been traveling for more than two hours and it didn’t look like there could possibly be a college anywhere in the area. We were deep in the mountains and there was NOTHING around. Then I saw my first “Bear Xing” sign. Don’t get me wrong, it’s beautiful country, but it was safe to say I began having second thoughts.

Up and up we climbed while my doubts also escalated. But just when I thought about telling my parents to turn the car around, we reached the summit and North Adams appeared in the valley below us.

I hadn’t even stepped on campus yet but I fell in love instantly. This was my college.

Yesterday, as we cruised down Church Street, I pointed out the Berkshire Towers, where all the freshman used to live. I’m not sure if there’s anything more daunting to an incoming freshman than housing. Will I like my roommate? How do I get along with my roommate if we don’t like each other? Who will I eat meals with? Are people going to like me? Am I going to like them? It’s a genuinely nerve-racking experience.

Fourteen years ago I entered the Towers a naive, scared kid. Unsure. Hesitant because I spent all of my high school years in the shadow of my friends who were all varsity athletes, honors students and did well with the ladies. I, on the other hand, was completely average at sports, wasn’t an Honor Society kid and had had one girlfriend. Most of my time was spent as a buddy to girls. A chum. A non-threatening, non-sexual eunuch if you will.

But on my way up to my room, I passed a cute girl. As per usual, I checked her out. But when she walked down the hall and turned around to check me out too, my heart soared. And in that moment I realized this was a fresh start. A new beginning. A chance to find myself and become my own person. Whoever that person might be.

Yesterday’s tour took us all around the postage stamp-sized campus, and finally down by the townhouses. The townhouses are basically like apartments, with four bedrooms that fit a maximum of six people. Although we didn’t go in them, the group of prospective students and their parents peppered the tour guide with questions. Who can live there? Are they co-ed? Is alcohol allowed? What kind of supervision is there?

Townhouse #69. Chosen because we were 19 years old and saying “we’re in a 69″ made us chuckle. If freshman year was about feeling things out, sophomore year quickly became all about testing my limits. And exceeding them. I drank more beer than humanly possible. I fooled around with more women than I care to admit. And that meant I was going to fewer and fewer classes.

Straight Cs and a D. The worst grades of my life. While I had more fun than I might ever have in my life, I lost my scholarship. And for the first time in my life, my parents were disappointed with my grades. I knew what happened and so did they. My priorities were way out of whack, mainly because I never partied in high school and was literally overdosing on freedom and fun. I had to learn how to create a work/school/social life balance. And eventually I did.

Murdock Hall is the oldest building on campus. It used to be an absolute pit of hell, but recent renovations have it looking spiffy and new. Top of the line computers and technology fill the sparkling new rooms now, but a decade ago things were different.

The basement of Murdock Hall is nearly windowless. It’s not pretty, but it’s where I’ve spent the majority of my time lately. I’m an editor on the newspaper’s staff and I’m really starting to like it. I’m a good news writer and it comes naturally to me. I’m interested in what makes a story worth telling. How do I hook the reader, keep him interested? What makes for a good headline? How do you design a paper so it jumps off the news stand?

My geeky, like-minded journalist friends spend these long hours with me. We pull overnighters and help each other put the paper together. When we take breaks, we play our own version of “Whose Line Is It Anyway?” Some of it is even funny.

To the untrained eye, we were a bunch of dorks in a basement. In hindsight, we were two award-winning journalists, a radio talk show host, a sports editor and a successful TV personality in training, having a great time. Looking back on it, it marked some of the happiest times at college. Not to mention the start of my passion and career.

Yesterday we walked past 60 Porter Street in North Adams. It’s a rundown pit of a house. A two-family, two-story home with eight total bedrooms, a dilapidated deck and a small yard just a stone’s throw off campus. My cousin and my aunt looked at it like they wouldn’t dare go near it without a haz-mat suit. I don’t blame them. If it’s anything like we left it 10 years ago, the Board of Health would have a field day. But even though it was a hellhole, it was also home.

My off-campus apartment on Porter Street. A “big boy” home. No longer on campus, this was an actual apartment. And although I wasn’t close with some of my actual roommates, the house was a central meeting point for all my friends to congregate.

It was located less than 100 yards from our favorite bar, the Pitcher’s Mound. Easily within drunken stumbling distance. If you wanted to find me between Wednesday night and Sunday, I was likely “Mound Bound.” Simply put, there should be a holocaust museum set up there to commemorate the inordinate number of brain cells that died there between 1999-2001.

When we weren’t at the bar we were at the house. Darts was our game of choice. Also, everyone had BB guns. I forget why. The upstairs window was nicknamed the “Sniper’s Perch.” If you didn’t take cover coming home from class, you were bound to be tagged with a one-pump pellet at some point. But when we weren’t opening fire on each other, we were having fun. Tons and tons of fun.

One sunny afternoon, after a few of my friends who had already graduated came back to campus, we were all relaxing on the front porch. The beers were flowing and, as usual, the stories were too. It was warm, and we were pre-gaming before the bar. Soon someone broke out a guitar. Then, as was the norm, the Irish songs started. Specifically, we sang “Share the Darkness” by the Saw Doctors.

Ah life’s too short for wasting
For ifs and might have been’s
Life’s too short for wondering if
You could have lived your dreams
And its way too short for loneliness
We don’t have to be
Now that we trust each other
Why don’t you stay with me?
Why don’t we share the darkness tonight
Make it warm and burning bright
I’ll not say nothing
I’ll be polite
Why don’t we share the darkness tonight

Most people are unaware when they’re in the middle of a defining moment. It’s only afterward, in hindsight, they realize how good they had it. How happy they were. How perfect and exquisite the circumstance. But in the middle of that song, I looked around and took stock. I saw every face and every smile. The future was wide open, nothing was decided yet and anything was possible. We’d all end up going on our separate ways, but we were together right then. And it was great.

A decade removed from graduation, the strains of that Saw Doctors song have long ago drifted off into the ether. But yesterday, as I brought Will around with me to see the campus, I realized it’s closer than I thought. I sing that song to Will every single night before he falls asleep. The sound of the past, very much present, echoing into the future.

I’m not sure it’s possible for my 16-year-old cousin to grasp the importance of the opportunities college presents, but I told him it’s just as much about what happens outside of the classroom as inside. Learning to live on your own, making friends that last for life and creating memories you’ll talk about forever are what made college college for me.

Even if some of those memories can’t quite be remembered!

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.

I won’t say it got heated, but a commenter named “Fuck You” advised the author to “leave his crotchfruit at home.”

There are really two factions doing battle concerning this issue. On one side you have drunk people at the bar. They want to get plastered without dealing with children. Hell, half of them probably came to the bar to escape their own offspring. They want to smoke outside and not feel guilty when strollers go in and out of the bar. And if someone is going to be crying, screaming and vomiting, they want it to be them and not a kid.

But young parents see it a different way. They see nothing wrong with having 1-2 beers at a family-friendly watering hole. As long as their kids aren’t creating a disturbance and they’re not getting sloppy drunk, why shouldn’t parents be able to get together at a local bar and shoot the shit over a pint?

I don’t think it comes as a surprise to anyone, but I see nothing wrong with it.

In fact, I took Will to an Irish bar called Tommy Doyle’s in Hyannis on Wednesday night. It’s not the first time he’s been there either. I was meeting a group of friends to celebrate a buddy’s birthday and the bar is on the way home from work for MJ. It was 5:30 p.m. and the bar was sparsely populated to say the least. We were there for about an hour, during which time Will said hi to everyone, hit lots of buttons on the Big Game Hunter video game and randomly played “Whiskey in a Jar” on the jukebox (for which I was immensely proud).

He screeched a couple of times at which point I took him in the other room and told him to quiet down. He ran around a little bit but was never out of control. I got one dirty look from a 50-something uptight bitch, but other than that everyone was very accommodating and gracious. He was out of there by 6:30, well before the bar got crowded, and that was it.

Some jackasses critics out there claim kids don’t belong at bars. Period. End of discussion. They think once you become a parent you should stop “clinging to youth” and, I don’t know, go do “parent things.” Instead of killing brain cells the old fashioned way, they want our minds to turn to mush while listening to the strains of Capt. Feathersword and The Wiggles singing Fruit Salad. Because shit, once you’re a parent you lose the need for adult contact. You should suddenly ignore the happiness you once derived from simply sitting with people who aren’t in diapers and sharing a cocktail. If you have a baby in a sling it might as well be a scarlet letter.

But that’s bullshit. As long as parents use a little common sense, there is no problem with bringing a child to a bar. But there are some rules:

• It shouldn’t be a nightclub or a hardcore punk bar with lots of people and loud music
• It should be early in the evening before people get too trashed
• Your kid needs to be fairly well behaved and if the baby is throwing a fit, take off
• No smoking
• Kids like whiskey in their sippy cups, not beer. It’s something to do with the carbonation.

But seriously, the bottom line is that I like to go out to bars for a beer with some friends. I liked doing it before I became a dad, and that didn’t miraculously change after Will was born. Sure kids change your life quite a bit, but they don’t alter your personality completely. You don’t stop enjoying a beer with friends simply because you have a kid. You don’t stop being yourself and you shouldn’t be forced to feel confined to play groups and parent meet-ups.

Besides, babysitters aren’t always available, and when they are, they’re expensive. So why not take the kid with you? Some of my best memories are from when I was a kid and my dad would let me tag along to the bar after selectmen’s meetings. The town officials would have a few beers and I’d sit quietly and listen, or I’d play video games and the jukebox. It wasn’t weird. I didn’t make anyone uncomfortable by being there. And no one frowned upon it because it was a neighborhood bar and restaurant where families were welcome.

So parents, I say go forth and invade your local corner bar. Pack the stroller, put the kid in the backpack if you’re a babywearer and suck down a beer while your kid knocks back a bottle or a sippy cup. And if a curmudgeon gives you attitude, tell them to go screw. As long as you’re drinking responsibly and looking after your kid, you have just as much of a right to be there as anyone else.

Because let’s face it, there’s only so much Wiggles you can watch before you start considering eating a shotgun.

CHECK OUT DAD-BLOGS AND FATHERHOOD FRIDAY. AND THEN GET DRUNK WITH YOUR KIDS.

But before I get to the wedding photo essay, I want to thank all of our friends and relatives who are the best people on Earth. I realized that taking a vacation doesn’t just involve us anymore. It involves my co-worker Stephanie and her husband Adam who volunteered to take one of our dogs. It involves my parents who have already come through for us more times than I can count. They not only took Will for four days, but they also paid for Fenway to be kenneled in a nice place that socializes the dogs during the day so she wouldn’t have to be penned up all day. Words can’t express how grateful we are to them. And to my father-in-law Tom and his girlfriend Donna, who used their credit card to hold the hotel room for us because we didn’t have one available. And finally, to our good friends Vic and Alicia who were sneaky as hell and paid for the damn hotel room without us knowing. I am absolutely furious at them for doing that, and simultaneously touched and grateful that we have such unbelievable friends. Combined, they have served three tours of duty in Iraq and they are both personal heroes of mine. But as impressive as their commitment to fighting for our freedom is, that’s not why I love them so much. You just won’t meet better people anywhere you go. Seriously, I love you guys. But you’re still dead for paying that hotel bill. We’ll get you back, believe that!

Anyways, with the kid and dogs and hotel room taken care of we were able to enjoy the wedding. Here’s some of what transpired:

The bride and groom

Sober

3 beers deep

6 beers deep

Fully drunk and dancing with the groom

Vic & Alicia sharing an "Awww" moment

That's a groomsman with no pants on in the middle of the reception!