lives in Toronto with his wife and two young sons.1. A SQUARE PEGbrbr"You're doing a good job," the guy behind the counter at the butcher's shop says.brbrThat's funny; it sure doesn't feel like it. Nicholas is six months old. Pam's been back to work for a month. I'm pretty new at this and very shaky. I've lost his pacifier (again); he's fussing and squirming-on the verge of a major tantrum, I can tell, complete with tomato-red face and hot tears streaming down his cheeks-and the stroller's blocking traffic in the long, narrow store. Though it's four in the afternoon, he's still in his sleep-suit, same one he wore yesterday, the front festooned with crusty food. Earlier a woman stopped me in the street and said something over and over again in Chinese, fingering the sleeves of his outfit.brbr"I'm sorry, I don't understand you. I don't understand what you're saying," I kept telling her. But I was lying. I knew perfectly well what she was saying. In the universal language of interfering busybodies and tsk-tsking babushkas everywhere, she was saying, "Your baby cold. Needs another layer. You bad dad. You very, very bad dad."brbrI feel, in fact, like I have BAD DAD tattooed on my forehead as I jam a carton of homo milk between his lips, trying to get him to drink from the spout, teenager-style. It works, sort of: he drinks greedily, hungrily, like a neglected orphan-boy, the milk coursing down his cheeks and soaking the front of his PJs.brbr"Thanks," I tell the butcher. "Could I have a boneless pork roast, please?"brbrbrYou've probably seen us around: huge, hulking brutes, some of us, stubbled, troubled, humbled, baffled and ha@#Ü(õÂ? ÿ¾Úx  (less)