What fatherhood taught me about life, love, and footsie pajamas

It was midnight, and my son, Zade, now 33, was three months old in his crib, wailing.

I would rock him to sleep while singing: “Hush Little Baby, You Are My Sunshine, Amazing Grace” and while begging the gods of this universe to quiet him down. Around two in the morning, he fell asleep, and I passed out on top of the covers.

I woke up a couple of hours later to Zade crying again. This time, he was kicking his feet as if trying to get them through the footsies of his pajamas. I narrowed my eyebrows, then I got scissors and carefully cut them off. And like magic, Zade fell back into a peaceful sleep.

I remember similar stories with Dury, 29, and Demi, 25. Dury used the pacifier, his…