Ever since my son’s birth nearly two years ago, I’ve noticed a gradual shift in the pace of life. Obviously, I expected this with a newborn taking over the reins. But, the changes still surprise me now and then. Actually, they outright slap me in the face.

I guess I’ve just started to appreciate the little things – my boy being one of them. Somewhere along the line, I morphed into a father. Honestly, I never thought I had it in me. But, my inner dad clawed its way through layers of bar-hopping, sports-playing, drum-slamming tissue.

I most feel the paternal takeover on the weekends. Sarah and I used to bounce from house to house, club to club – socializing. Now, we usually spend Friday nights trying to make sense of slurred gibberish. This isn’t too much different from back in the day. However this time around, the verbal slop comes from a toddler sitting buck on a potty chair, not a drunken friend.

A couple of years ago, I loved shooting some pool at Blue Post with a beer in hand. But lately, I just can’t match the thrill of “Bath Time.”  Those two words – which didn’t mean much until Grayson arrived – set off a series of events more entertaining than any evening I’ve experienced downtown.

Talk about chaos. Tell a 21-month-old he gets to sit in water for 20 minutes, and all hell breaks loose. It seems when the diaper comes off, he becomes his alter ego: the Desitin Bullet.

Everything starts with a naked streak around the house. Mumbling like an addled old man, he stumbles into the living room usually freaking out a cat or two. High-pitch shrieks, frantic flailing of arms…it’s all a part of the primitive ritual.

Eventually, we wrangle the little spaz into the tub. I kind of think I would have made a good dog catcher, but that’s another blog. From there on out, it’s all about the squirt toys, splashing, etc.

Elbows deep in bubble froth, I tend to wonder, “Why is this so much fun?” After all, there’s work in cleaning a kid who tries to pick up banana slices with his toes. I can’t explain my appreciation of these moments, other than I’ve swapped wild oats for Nilla Wafers.

During the BG era (Before Grayson), Sarah and I would stay up until 2 a.m. on a slow night. Today, we cherish our matching couch indentions. If I make it past the 11 p.m. news, it’s because of heartburn. I’ll admit, I enjoy sharing a beer with friends at my house. However, not before singing a few rounds of Row, Row, Row Your Boat for little man at bedtime.

So when I got excited the other day because Sarah bought me a tube of Aqua Fresh from Wal-Mart, I didn’t question my lameness, but rather embraced it. Yes, I hum Raffi (hippy gone kiddy megastar), have since renewed my love of raisins, get downright wired for Sunday dinners and speak cartoonese at least three times a day. I know, my life reads like a creepy singles ad on Craigslist. Still, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. (Oh yeah, I now also use clichés a lot.)

There’s something comforting about this new direction. Don’t get me wrong. I haven’t completely abandoned my nightlife ways. I can still see 25-year-old Steve ordering rounds at a local pub – he’s just a bit farther back in the rearview mirror. At the wheel now, a new 2-year-old party animal steers the way: One with an affinity for cookies, games of chase and chillin’ with his old man.