At Boot Camp for New Dads, the soldiers are dads-to-be; the veterans are brand new fathers who dole out basic training.
By RON MATUS
Published May 7, 2004
Carter was crying. Julie was in a fog.
The moment of truth had arrived.
A few hours after Carter was delivered by C-section on Jan. 29, I checked his diaper for the first time.
This was not in the script.
I mean, I had resigned myself to a thousand diaper changes before Carter hit his first home run and reeled in his first fish. I had visions of him laying the big lick on a cocky wide receiver and hunting rare plants in an African rain forest. I saw him with a cello.
But the reality of that first dirty diaper? Nope. Didn't see that.
But there it was.
I'd like to think instinct kicked in, that the father in me emerged in the nick of time like Superman from the phone booth. But it wasn't instinct that made me reach for the wipes.
It was basic training.
* * *
Julie signed me up. The women always sign the men up.
Maybe that says everything about the need for Boot Camp for New Dads.
The program started in California in 1990 and since then, 120,000 men have been put through the paces in 200 communities in 38 states. In Hillsborough County, boot camps are sponsored by the Fathers Resource and Networking Center, known as FRANC, on Azeele Street, which also offers courses on how to be a nurturing dad.
The soldiers are dads-to-be; the veterans are brand new fathers. When the grunts become fathers, they bring in their babies to train the next batch in the basics.
Burping. Diaper changing. Burrito wrapping (for the baby deprived, that's the technique for swaddling a newborn snug in a blanket.)
For a lot of men, this is uncharted territory. As FRANC director Justin LaRosa likes to say, "Babies don't come with a manual." (Even if they did, would guys read it?)
There's no reading required for boot camp.
Each session lasts three hours, just long enough to plant a few seeds.
One for responsibility. One for confidence.
One for mom.
* * *
I think the youngest guy in the room was 18; the oldest, in his 50s. About 15 men in all.
They were black, white, Asian, Hispanic.
Some wore T-shirts and baseball caps; some, Polo shirts and loafers.
Before we got to the scary stuff, we talked about everything and anything: Living without sleep. Techniques for calming baby. Which strollers are the best.
Heavy stuff too, such as our relationships with our own fathers.
Expect the unexpected, I learned. One veteran told us his bundle of joy cried through the night, every night, for months, because of stomach problems.
Oh man.
I asked about money. "If you haven't started saving," a veteran told me, "you better get a second job."
Oh man again.
Eventually, it was drill time.
We split into small groups, three or four guys to each veteran.
"Here," the dad next to me said, as he prepared to hand over his son. "Take him."
Take him? "Okay, but ... "
Before I knew it, a baby was cradled in the crook of my arm.
I had never held a baby before. But here I was, holding this baby, and the baby wasn't crying.
Imagine that.
* * *
Boot camps can't teach you everything.
I wonder: If I read Ten Little Dinosaurs to Carter when he's 3 months old, is he more inclined to blossom into a paleontologist?
If I play him Sweet Home Alabama every day, will he grow up partial to smoked mullet?
Our first night home with Carter was a train wreck.
He didn't sleep. We didn't sleep. Eventually we figured out we weren't feeding Carter enough, but that night, we were clueless and frustrated.
We thought the unthinkable.
Maybe we aren't cut out for this.
Maybe we should return him.
At about 10 a.m., Julie, in pain and punch drunk, looked down at Carter, still crying, and told me to call President Bush.
She said: "I think we found a weapon of mass destruction."
Of course, life with our Little Man of Mystery has gotten better. Now we wonder how we survived without him.
When Carter smiles, his eyes scrunch up, his arms flail, his mouth stretches wide. He turns his head like he's blushing.
We melt.
* * *
Only dads go to boot camp. But everyone knows it's for moms, too.
For months, Ray Natour figured he would coast until his son was born. He tried reading a book about babies but couldn't get past the first chapter. And since his wife Mary was reading it anyways ...
Then reality bit: Friends with a new baby came to their Westchase home and Natour's wife turned out to be more nervous than he was. In fact, she refused to hold the baby.
"That scared the hell out of me," Natour said.
He returned from boot camp determined not to be a slacker. His wife saw his confidence. "It put a smile on her face," he said.
Natour's wife had a C-section, too, giving birth to William on Dec. 10. When the first dad moment arrived, Natour didn't miss a beat.
He rolled up his sleeves.
* * *
When it was my time to return to boot camp two weeks ago, I tried to weasel out.
I thought I had a good excuse.
Two months after Carter was born, Julie weaned him off formula. So now Carter can't go anywhere without Julie because if he starts crying, a bottle won't pacify him.
Carter and I had a test run a week before camp. Ten minutes after Julie left the house, he started crying.
I fixed him a bottle. He rejected it.
Somehow, I didn't panic.
Since there was no other solution in sight (meaning no Mom), I kept the bottle in Carter's mouth and offered my first half-baked batch of fatherly advice: "Boo," I said, using his nickname, "sometimes you have to make do with what you got."
Carter's first response was to churn like a windmill, but eventually his idealism cracked and he began slurping.
Good boy.
Right then, Julie drove up, having picked up distress signals from a mile away.
Carter was liberated.
* * *
The boot camp director didn't see a dilemma.
LaRosa basically said, "Carter will bawl like there's no tomorrow? Cool!"
Only one thing that could make boot camp better, he said: packed diapers.
Carter would oblige.
* * *
At boot camp, I spent most of my time whispering to my son and holding him, hoping he wouldn't freak out. And truth be told, we cheated. Julie waited outside the room, in the lobby of St. Joseph's Women's Hospital, and fed Carter when he got fussy.
I didn't offer the dads-in-waiting any nuggets of wisdom. In boot camp, it's not what you say that matters the most anyways.
"Here," I said, handing Carter to a nice guy named Scott. "Take him."
Take him?
Before Scott knew it, a baby was cradled in the crook of his arm, and the baby wasn't crying.
