I miss my superfluous existential crises

With four weeks of fatherhood under my belt, I'm now confident enough to make sweeping generalizations about life. My first one is this: existential crises and babies don't mix.

Before Exree was launched, I dutifully moved from one existential crisis to the next. It was a satisfying way to live, assuring even. When I found myself at the depths of some insoluble pickle, I could always sleep at night knowing that another similarly impenetrable dilemma would soon pop up, thus liberating me from the last.

However, it has become evident that young Achilles Renoir has little respect for his father's most endearing and defining quality. I might go as far to say that he considers such crises as superfluous.

Sigh. I'm beginning to miss my existential crises. I'm also beginning to wonder if my lovely wife and samurai son are conspiring to change me. Conspiring to strip me of my beloved treasures. First it was sleep, now my crises.

My manhood is clearly in danger.

What will remain of me in four more weeks? Generalizations and a bald spot (if I'm lucky).