Back on June 28, I became a father to an absolutely adorable little chunk of pink goodness who has had a tremendous impact on my life ever since. I won't bore you with incessant ramblings about how children change your life, or why I have more faith in diapers than in God or the American political system. You've already heard all that a million times-hell, you've probably heard it from me in a past column. But I ask you to focus your attention on something new-no, not "new," like the latest Swiffer, I mean really new.

There's a unique phenomenon-an oddity that doesn't quite make it to the water cooler-known as the Dad's Club to which men with babies quickly gain membership, whether they like it or not. For all its invisibility to the general public, the club is a fact of life and a crutch for many infant-toting pops looking to find comradely validation in their quest toward being a good dad.

The Dad's Club is an informal, yet somehow highly -defined, brotherhood of shared joy, discomfort and appreciation for mastering the finer arts of Baby Bjorn wrangling and tummy time. We don't hold monthly meetings and there aren't any formal membership dues (late nights and early mornings are payment enough).

The Dad's Club is something much more. It's more than a simple offshoot of the Elks or Eagles-or any other fine fraternal organization of yesteryear (brings images of Fred Flintstone and the Water Buffaloes to mind). It's a more cerebral society, a guild of sidewalk nods, cross-street smiles and the occasional, "So how old is the little skipper?"

For reasons entirely unknown to we laymen (and wee laymen, as well), men with babies have a tendency to actively seek out connection with their fellow baby-packing brethren. Perhaps it's for bragging rights, like, "Check out this robust, rosy-cheeked cherub," or maybe "Those Pooh slippers are soooooooo last week." Or perhaps we seek connection in an effort to congratulate one another for figuring out that fatherhood truly is the best job in the world.

In the same breath, I imagine a few lone chaps are looking hopefully to other pops for some sort of validation that it's OK to be scared out of your mind that you're responsible for directing someone's life experience for the next 18+ years. Whatever the reason, the Dad's Club exists, knocking down the barriers created by sports, politics, age, sexuality, or whatever else keeps men from speaking to one another.

I imagine the next phase in becoming an active member in the Dad's Club is to graduate to the point where our children's gender identities start to take center stage, creating an entirely new hub for interaction. Maybe we'll start comparing notes on the different eating and sleeping habits of boys and girls at various stages, or how our little ladies are experiencing toddler-hood in similar ways. Maybe we'll just compare war stories of projectile vomiting and interrupted sexual encounters. Who knows, this next phase may raise some of those original communication barriers between members of the Dad's Club, or drive them further back into the past.

I hope for the latter. I've lived too many years wondering what I should be discussing with the men I come into contact with, cars, business, sports, women, men, fashion, ninjas, monster trucks or George Forman grills. It's about time we had something more meaningful to talk about, and who knows, maybe it will lead to conversations about one another, or at the very least about home décor or baking with applesauce. I won't hold my breath, but it's a lovely thought nevertheless.

Whatever the result of a father's travels through parenthood, the Dad's Club offers some sort of peace and solidarity to its otherwise unconnected, uncounted and unassuming members. So on your next trip out, keep an eye open for a chest-mounted infant, thumping its tiny, mittened paws against daddy. Then take note of the man packing this child through life. Whether you're a man or a woman, offer a smile, he may just need a little pat on the back.