The upside of working from home is that I can be around my baby all day. The downside is that I can be around my baby all day.

I don’t mind it. I like my kid, but after 9 months, I’m already recycling lines and thankful that Milo can’t speak yet – “How am I doing Dad? The same as when you asked me three minutes ago. Still frustrated because you won’t let me eat the remote. Any more penetrating questions?”

Stale material aside, here’s my bigger concern: I feel that I should know more. Up to this moment, my biggest accomplishment is that I can recognize my kid – no small feat and an essential skill for bringing home the correct child from a party. But that happened at about 3 months.

Past that, this is what I’m sure of: If he’s asleep, don’t run the blender. He’s not a fan of hats. The same goes for socks. When he’s tired, he yawns.

My book will be coming soon.

The depressing part is that, up until recently, it’s been relatively easy. Jenny and I have been clueless, but Milo has been at least stationary. If we didn’t know what to do, sometimes we could just put him in his carrier unbuckled for a bit while we figured something out. A couple of months ago, the twisting and leaning forward started. So that relatively immobile era is over.

Again, I don’t mind. He’s discovering his world and I want to help, but the kid is a pool of bottomless energy. He currently loves to prove that he can sit up on his own. At 11 a.m. on the bed, it’s adorable. At 1:40 a.m. in his crib, not so much.

And it’s only going to get worse because he’s about to crawl. Right now, he reaches, dives and throws himself toward anything that’s extremely solid. During normal waking hours, we’re good on coverage, but the other night, he woke up at 12:30 a.m. with a thud, which is the sound his face makes when it goes into the side of his crib.

I’d prefer that he not do this, but I can’t stop him, and I really don’t want to stop him. This is his hot stove for the moment. Jenny, on the other hand, would like nothing more than to encase the boy in bubble wrap and have him live in world made of pillows. I don’t blame her first-time mother instincts, but we’re going to tug at each other over how much to catch him.

It might be a gender issue; it might also be because I’m the youngest of three boys. My mother ensured our safety, but by the time I showed up, she didn’t overreact to the inevitable. My oldest brother dropped me once. She was calm. I was knocked into radiators during bedroom football games. She was unaware. My middle brother put my head into a window and the crack remained when my mother sold the house 35 years later. She actually blamed me.

Growing up, I was a goalie, a right wing and a catcher, with regularly bruised shins. I didn’t mind any of it then and I don’t mind it now. Last month while crossing the plate during a softball game, I was pegged in the back with a throw that left an island-sized, mosaic of a welt. I couldn’t have been prouder.

Milo will be his own kid. Whatever he does, he’s going to fall, run into things and get hit with stuff. I’ll shield him when appropriate and pad sharp corners, but my inclination is to let him take some knocks – not so he’ll be tough but so he’ll be resilient and won’t keep taking the same knocks. And I say this all with the conviction of a parent who has yet to experience any of it.

Steve Calechman is a freelance writer, stand-up comedian and first-time dad. Email him at scalechman@gmail.com.