Today is my baby girl’s 9th birthday. Or, as I refer to it, Daddy/Daughter Fun Time, Day 1.

The maternity ward at Cedars-Sinai was so busy back in 2004, that Mommy had to wait in triage for several hours before a room opened up. Where, and I am totally serious, a nurse asked Lynn if she could keep the moaning down because she was “disturbing the other patients.” Daggers flew from her eyes.

Eventually, we made it to an actual room. And, there was finally medication. Mommy got some, too.

Here’s the actual view from the delivery room. Welcome to Hollywood, Julianna.

Now, if only the woman in the next room had opted for an epidural like any sane person, my tranquil setting would not have been disrupted by the miracle of childbirth.

So, after the whole song and dance, and the kissy-kissy, and the Mommy needs her rest so go home, I do what most guys do: I went to Jerry’s Deli and got me a beer and a French Dip Sandwich. (The sandwich, by the way was too big to eat in one sitting, so I had to take it back to the house, where I promptly finished it off. I thought that detail was important for me to tell.)

Yeah, it was brutal.

P.S. Mother and child were fine. Daddy on the other hand…

Hold on. Let me explain myself… I will not be grabbing either of your boobs. (Proboobly. God, I’m funny.)

My wife an I have just celebrated 21 years of Holy Matrimony. And several more unholy ones.

I have, on occasion, had access to a boob. Or two. Over the years. Access. Two!

Goes with the territory, I suppose. We do have a couple of kids. Yeah, there’s that.

But. Snuggling up with an actual boob at 2am. (Double-D, but, I’m not counting.) Is beyond wonderful. Truly.

It just feels like home. Home.

(And, no, I don’t have Mommy issues.)

Dear Mr. Skechers,

You have a branding problem with your new “Daddy’$ Money” shoes aimed at young and teen girls. Because, I will never pay for some product called “Daddy’$ Money.” This is a “Daddy” blog, after all. And, I don’t like to be taken advantage of. Though, my daughters can usually get away with it. You cannot.

Daddy’$ Money shoes, by Skechers. “Daddy” Daddy or “Sugar” Daddy, I’m not sure.

You see, I’m really trying to raise my girls to be self-sufficient young women who don’t rely on someone else to buy them stuff. Because, I spend too much money on my daughters to spend a dime for something as commercially crass as a product called “Daddy’$ Money.” And, your slogan: “Get spoiled with Daddy’s money”? Bullshit.

And, while I’m sure the lovely young ladies on your website are fine, upstanding teens… You’re not selling cut-off short-shorts and mini skirts. You’re selling shoes. You realize this, right?

Certainly they’re lovely young ladies. But, where are the shoes? That’s what you’re selling!

So, please, Mr. Skechers. Re-direct your marketing campaign to some product much less innocuous. Like, Mommy’s Boy Loafers.

Now, we’re going to get some ice cream.