Bill is an advertising copywriter living in Niagara Falls, New York with his wife, Jenn, and 2-year old daughter, Katie. He still finds it shocking that the universe has entrusted him with the fate of another living thing.

They say having a child changes a person. Whoever “they” are, they’ve got a real gift for understatement. Change? There must be a more profound way to express it. Metamorphosis, perhaps. Or, if we’re permitting slang, “Who sucked out Bill’s super-fun life force and replaced it with one that allows Barney on his big screen TV?”

But the transformation is not limited to the intrepid twosome who fashioned that fancy new zygote. The fact is, everyone in your life is somehow re-wired by the birthin’ experience. Like your friends without kids, who automatically take you off the cool list. No matter how emphatically you insist that you’ll still be at all the happy hours and softball games, they look at you with knowing pity – like they would look at someone who is the last to realize that a poisonous viper has just crawled up his leg.

Conversely, what previously seemed to be an impenetrable secret society of child-bearing couples now welcomes you as though the password to their cult meetings was as simple as “epidural.” They think it’s just fantastic that you’ve finally come around to participating in the miracle of creating life (whereas, clearly, you had been avoiding procreating in order to spend time mastering PlayStation 2). Your membership in the baby club entitles you to unlimited mind-numbing conversations about formula stains and OB/GYNs.

Siblings, co-workers, you name it. Everyone around you emerges from the big event as misshapen as though they were the ones who traveled through the birth canal. Maybe nobody more so than the grandparents. If your kid is fortunate enough to have some or all of them surviving, you should probably gear up for some uncharacteristic behavior.

Yes, in fact, I do have an example. That would be my dad, an unquestioned authoritarian all throughout my childhood. The guy never laid a hand on me, thank God. Because for most of my youth he sported arms the size of most people’s upper thighs. But ever since I gave him a granddaughter, this rock of a man is basically mush. The defining moment of this foundation-shaking conversion came when he actually thought to buy young Katie a souvenir. Sure, it was only a t-shirt from a basketball tournament, but it’s as symbolic a shift in ideology as if Dick Cheney started making out with democrats.

Now, don’t get me wrong, as a kid, I had everything I needed. My father was a great provider. But the number of times he thoughtfully picked out a nice keepsake for me? Let’s see there was…and then the time…yep, never happened. That’s just not how my dad rolls. Gotta give the guy credit – he worked two jobs when my brother and I were kids. So he didn’t have all kinds of time to be hunting down outfits for us (which would be pretty bizarre for everyone involved anyway). Now that he’s retired, he can relax and enjoy Katie’s antics while mocking me for having to chase her down when she takes off, sans pants.

Maybe it’s because this is his first grandchild. Maybe it’s because Katie couldn’t pronounce grandpa and took to calling him “buppa” -- which happens to be exactly what he called his grandfather as a kid. Maybe it’s because we live in Niagara Falls and the Love Canal has finally taken its toll and created a radioactive life form inside of my father that only comes out during visits with his granddaughter. Whatever it is, my old man clearly has a new favorite human.

Where is my mom in all this? Well, as expected, she’s all nurturing and stuff. Despite the fact that Katie initially called everyone else by their first name, while referring to her only as “this.” Fortunately for the little one, she is still impervious to the telekinetic guilt-rays my mom can unleash. And now Katie dutifully calls her Nonie, which I believe is Italian for “Don’t You Give Me That Look.” After years of raising boys, she’s finally getting a chance to buy dolls and dresses. Thankfully, she resisted that urge during my childhood, sparing me from becoming the subject of a Lifetime movie.

But my dad -- a willing playmate and babysitter? Who knew? Now, considering that the guy could probably still kick my butt even as he’s about to turn 63, I have to tread lightly here. I don’t want to suggest that the elder Bill Paterson has gone soft. He can still, with one look, frighten potential airplane seat-stealers away from the row he’s trying to save. That’s what makes it all the more remarkable the way he swoons for my young science experiment. And, truth be told, it’s pretty cool.

It just goes to show the power these little DNA samples wield. Oh, sure, they smile and wear cute clothes. But don’t underestimate them just because they are miniature. These are much more than tax write-offs – they are elite beings with the ability to alter the karma of everyone they come into contact with. I know. Because I have battled the stereotypical slide into dad lameness that has befallen so many before me. But, sadly, I just sang The Little Einsteins theme song to my daughter.

Yeah, I’ve changed, too.

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