In a few hours, I will stand on the altar in a Catholic Church and watch as the priest baptizes Tegan, my beautiful Goddaughter (she’s the one with the pacifier).
This is a development that has surprised many people. “Are there no other men in California?” “This is, like, some kind of reality show, right?”
I completely understand the skepticism; not a lot of 41-year old bachelors get asked to serve as a Godparent, let alone one who has puked from hangovers in more than a dozen airport men’s rooms around the world.
When my friends Matt and Summer asked me to be Tegan’s Godfather, I immediately thought of Nick Hornby’s hilarious and touching “About A Boy.” The novel opens with a similar scenario, only the lead character turns down the parents’ request!
Not me. No way. I am humbled by their faith in me and I am energized by my new role.
I plan on leading the league in tea parties (the fun kind); I look forward to learning the words to the songs from whatever annoying Bieber-esque star she adores; I plan on telling 8-year old softball league umpires “You’re missing a good game, here, Blue!”; I fully intend to brag about Tegan ad nauseum. For example, at 11-months she walked down stairs forwards, none of that weak put-the-sippy-cup-down-to-turn-around-and-back-down-the-stairs bullshit. (Note: I did not know this was impressive until told so by her daddy. #Clueless)
But I want advice from GMP readers: what else do I need to know and do to be the best Godfather possible?