I know I spend a lot of time on this blog talking shit about how having a baby is going to destroy my life. One week in and it turns out I am freaking Nostradamus: all of my fears are already coming true! No sleep, no sex, no social life. Blah blah blah. And it’s only going to get worse.

But there are some things I am looking forward to, and a lot of things I didn’t expect. Good things.

At the risk of getting all soft and sentimental, I’m going to share the most amazing and unexpected part of being a new dad. No, it’s not how much I already love him, or how little I care about being woken up when he cries, or how inexplicably colorful his crap is.

It’s something even crazier.

I want to eat my son.

I don’t mean this in a cute “he’s the size of a vegetable” kind of way. I literally want to put him in my mouth and swallow him whole. I want to chew his skin. To tear the flesh, to wear the flesh, to be born unto new worlds where his flesh becomes my key.

Seriously. There are times I want to take a chunk out of his cheek, Lecter-style. He’s so soft and plump, like a Thanksgiving Turkey, or Luke Wilson. I mean, Jesus, does he look delicious.

Now, I’m no freak. I’ve never before had any interest in eating babies, and I have no desire to reap the benefits of weird hippie superstitions about the health benefits of ingesting baby parts. I have not eaten and have absolutely no plans to eat any placentas. Not in a pill, not with a knife or fork. I will not wash it down with swill, I will not have it with some pork. I repeat: I will not be eating any motherfucking placenta. That’s disgusting. I’d rather eat my own vomit.

But my child? He’s immaculate and tender and oh so fresh. He smells good, he feels good… sometimes, when I’m holding him, I have to force myself not to suck on his little ears.

I’m not a cannibal, but if I were, I’d be an infant-arian. A Wee-gan. There’s a reason veal is so expensive – young meat is the best meat.

I won’t lie; sometimes he’s not quite so appetizing, like when I’m changing his diaper. But sometimes it’s like I’m in a cartoon starving my ass off and he’s a succulent drumstick just staring at me from across the room.

I knew I’d love my son. But I didn’t expect to want to feast on his flesh. I tell ya, fatherhood is just full of surprises!

Next week, we’ll talk about how I am occasionally struck by the urge to French kiss my beautiful boy, right on his sexy mouth.