I don’t consider myself the superstitious type. I occasionally knock some wood and usually try to say “rabbit rabbit” at the start of every month, but that’s about it.

Of course, that was before I became a dad.

These days I might as well be Shirley Maclaine for all the bullshit I find myself believing. There’s just NO WAY a filthy anarchist monkey like Curious George gets invited to that many parties, but I just keep playing along.

I’m not talking about the bullshit that the so-called “parenting experts” spew. My skepticism of that racket is well-known around these parts. I’m talking about other kinds of bullshit. The kind that doesn’t require any expertise to promote, self-professed or otherwise; it merely requires some suckers.

Of which I am apparently one.

Becoming a parent forces you to learn a ton of brand new information, to pay attention to loads of stuff you had no reason to before, and to worry about a lot of junk you’d never given a thought to in the past. Which is fine, and might even be somewhat advisable when you’re a new parent (it’s better to be safe than sorry, right?), so long as those things are real and actually exist.

A few months ago, I procured a pair of boxer shorts that are decorated with a skull-and-crossbones print. (Buy them at your own risk.) They came in a pack of three, and while I have no problem wearing the other two (which feature shamrocks and sailboats, respectively), I can’t bring myself to wear the pirate print on days when I know I’ll be with my son. Which is every single day.

As a result, I have this perfectly fine pair of boxers that I’m too scared to wear out of the house because WHAT IF Target is selling voodoo underwear? Never mind that I’ve worn the shamrock boxers countless times and STILL haven’t found a job or stumbled across so much as a double-rainbow, let alone a pot of gold.

There’s only one person to blame for my new superstitiousness, and it’s not whoever wrote the fortune cookie that told me “Everyone agrees you’re the best!”, despite its uncanny accuracy. It’s my son.

Detective Munch has already changed my life, my outlook, my Netflix queue and even, in some ways, my identity. He’s long been causing a softening of my previously hardboiled persona and now, suddenly, I’m gonna start falling prey to nonsense like pet psychics and lucky charms just because I have such a strong desire to protect him?

I know love makes you crazy, but I thought that was mostly in regards to getting excessively jealous or spending way too much money buying the childhood toy she’d always wanted off eBay just so she’d have sex with you have a good Christmas. I didn’t know it meant getting stupid and gullible and being afraid of underwear.

I’ve heard of “pregnancy brain” (nice excuse, ladies) but not “Daddy Dumbdown.” On top of losing my edge, am I going to start losing my mind as well?

I hope not. Maybe it’s because I’m a Virgo, but I’ve never believed in horoscopes and I’m not about to start. Becoming responsible for a tiny human life is no reason to abandon one’s common sense.

That said, I’m also not about to tempt fate (I don’t believe in fate) by wearing death-marked boxer shorts all around town. In fact, I’ve decided to only wear them when I’m in bed; if anything dies, it should just be my sperm.