Before you become a father, it’s easy to get cocky about what horrors you have in store for your progeny. Father-son fishing trips, beer clean-up duty for toddlers, male breastfeeding; that sort of thing. Nature’s little secret, though, is that when the big day actually rolls around, your body will have been transformed into a sort of quivering mass. See, men whose partners have just given birth take a major testosterone dip during the first month or so after their child is born. For me, the big event was three weeks ago, so science suggests my testosterone is around 33% lower than what it would normally be. Basically, I am a walking wussbag.

The decrease in testosterone is supposed to make for better dads. It helps fathers bond with their kids during the crucial first few weeks of life by not only decreasing dad’s competitiveness (apparently we’d all be trying to kick mom’s ass in the battle to forcibly detach junior’s umbilical cord if it weren’t for the hormonal course correction), but by bringing out guys’ nurturing sides.

I’m not so sure being temporarily testosterone-impaired is working that way for me. During the big run up to becoming a dad, the old vets told me how things would go. What it’s like to see the dude’s head for the first time, the neverending stream of baby waste. But most of all, all the pops talked about the weird feeling new parents have when they get dude home from the hospital. Basically, you arrive home, sit down and are all: OK. Now what?

I neither experienced the what now? feeling nor the testosterone-free nurturing urge, though. Instead I just felt panic, starting only feet outside the hospital. Loading the carseat, I asked myself: Is the rear-impact rating on this car sufficient to safely get us the four miles home? Then: Is he choking on the arm straps? Then: Was it this carseat that Consumer Reports called a “rolling infant guillotine?” Then: Is the insurance going to cover the male lactation seminars I signed up for? Then: Is that hippy in the P.O.C. 4Runner going to side-smash us when I pull out of the parking lot?

When I got home, I was still more worrier than nurturer. I rigged up the night-vision babycam my brother gave me and just stared at the little green-lit guy whenever I was in a different room, asking myself: Is it too cold in there? Then: Was that a cough or a choke? Then: What if rats find their way into his room, like they did at that Taco Bell? Then: Mmmm, wouldn’t Taco Bell be good right now? Then: I hope he doesn’t turn out to be a fat kid. Then: Hmm, a couple of gorditas would hit the spot.

In a week or so, when I stop knitting and sobbing and stuffing my face with gorditas, my testosterone will have returned (it rebounds about a month after dude is born), and maybe I can finally get down to the real business of fathering. Start training the little guy for an Ultimate Fighting championship, teach him the art of hunting and skinning animals, that sort of thing.