Fyona is wailing, but not really. She’s verbally upset, but all other signs point to her being content. She smiles often, and doesn’t seem to really want to wail, but then she does. It’s really, really akin to Harvey Keitel crying.

She’s making this pushing sound like she’s constipated, or exhausted, or really frustrated by the Spanish Banking System dragging their feet on the bailout for Bankia. 

We are taking this struggle to the car. Perhaps a cruise on Mulholland will sooth her frustration. It won’t do a thing for ours, but maybe it’ll calm her down for 20 minutes. Maybe she’ll sleep.

Yeah, right.

During the week we’ve been home the semblance of order has decayed: nap times are erratic if existent, feedings are annoying if not tiresome. Time is irrelevant… mood swings plentiful. And that’s just us. To add to it, the kid is teething.

She’s a little trooper, that one, but there’s definitely an issue of another growth spurt taking place. She’s hard to put to sleep, she’s hard to get to stay asleep, and Mom and Dad are losing sleep. Our television sits paused more than it does turned off. It takes us hours to get through even a half hour show. Hulu, Netflix, XBox Live, they’re nothing but expensive desktops and pause screens.

It feels like all we do is sleep, and yet, we never sleep. Everything is paused. The record is skipping, and we’re going to have to put a dime on the needle to get that thing to stay in the groove, ya dig? We also have a lot of dishes to do. That can prove to be a noisy affair when a munchkin sleeps a few feet away.

Tomorrow is another new week. Tonight, we’re turning in early and sleeping in a big pile in the middle of the bed. Dishes, groceries, vacuuming, unpacking… all this crap can wait. The new week starts at 10ish tomorrow morning. Not too early, though. We’ll probably be up half the night.

Short Story Long:

We were on the plane back to Los Angeles, and Fyona needed to be changed. Since I had a couple of beers while watching the White Sox game at the Airport “Let Them Eat Cake,” I was also in need of a restroom. I figured we’d go together, underestimating the degree of difficulty.

(Easy.)

I also underestimated the ability to find a bar in a Chicago Airport that was showing the White Sox Game. Miller’s Pub and Harry Caray’s were both showing the Cubs on all of their televisions. Finally, after a search, we found it at a cake and pie shop that also had a full bar for some reason. We watched with an Irish Dance instructor (who herself wasn’t Irish) and a businessman who put down two pieces of apple pie and 4 Miller Lites. Ah, airports.

So 2 hours in and somewhere over the Great Plains, Fyona and I had synchronized calls of nature, ones that couldn’t wait the 2 more hours until we were on the ground. The Redhead looked at me and said, “good luck.” I shrugged it off. How hard could this be?

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We’re dealing with a lot of grief and depression over here while packing to go to what will be a very difficult funeral. Through the pain, we have to remember we’re parents, and that no matter what happens we’re always on the job. Sometimes that job shows us why it’s so special. Let’s say this occasion almost qualifies.

This little trickster here is much more than she seems. Lately, I’ve been trying out different styles of comedy on her in an attempt to bring out her first laugh. My attempts range from celebrity impressions to slapstick, political satire to subtle irony. Turns out Fyona prefers Schadenfreude.

While changing her onesie, I took advantage of her being only in a diaper (and seemingly defenseless) and proceeded to tickle her belly with my nose. It had been a hard day, and I wanted some baby comfort. Fyona more than obliged. She grabbed my hair with one hand and my ear with her other and held me there. I’m not talking a little grasp, either. She had me like a face hugger from Alien. I twisted slightly to look at her. She was laughing, as best as she is capable of, and truly getting a kick out of having me contained. Sensing my glance, she immediately dispatched her feet to grab my other ear. I was pinned like Mick Foley. I thought she was full body hugging me and it was the most adorable moment in the world. Until…

My sweet little daughter dutch oven’d her daddy. While holding my face in a lockdown, she proceeded to rip the loudest, wettest bombardment into her diaper since the Germans blitzkrieg-ed London Harbor. I was absolutely caught, forced to behold its glory front row while she cooed and laughed her smelly little shit stained behind off. My screams did nothing. She either didn’t hear them or didn’t care, so maniacal was her enjoyment of the shredding she was giving her daddy. When it was all over, I was dizzy. She let me go in one fell swoop, stretching her hands above her head in triumph and kicking her feet back: her flying pose, a soft, satisfied smile lingering on her lips.

I’m gonna get her for this. We’re going to be in foreign territory for 2 weeks, and she’ll never see it coming. You poked the bear, kid. Your cousins can’t save you. You’re getting a zerbert, and soon.

The Redhead and I are a part of a staged script reading tonight, requiring us to ponder a tough decision: whether or not we should leave our baby at home without us for the first time.

(I really had no choice when it came to a picture.)

I realize that this may sound crazy to people since our baby is 3 months old, and I realize by crazy you could be thinking either of the following: “you haven’t gone out alone in 3 months??!” or “you’re going to leave her with a babysitter for 6 hours??!” In fact, you may have even been thinking, “you have a baby??!!”, but only if you haven’t been here in a while.

Understand: The Redhead and I have been doing this alone for 3 months. Most people have a cousin or sibling or parent or multitude of all of those in town and nearby. We have nobody. We have friends, sure, but a lot of them don’t have kids or kid experience and are still a little upset they can’t pass out on our couch at 3 AM anymore. They help a lot, but up until tonight (and possibly through tonight, since we may just bring her with) we have always been present. Fyona is quite social but like most babies, she prefers her parents to most. Okay, she prefers her mom to most, but I like to try to include myself.

So as the day unfolds before us we sit locked in stalemate, each of us 50/50 on what to do. Our babysitter could come with (and bringing Fyona along adds the bonus opportunity for her to poop on my former boss’s desk), but Fyona could singlehandedly tear down the whole damn script reading with one cry that would send Mom and Dad bolting from the stage, possibly knocking over chairs and audience members in the process. While that makes for fascinating live theatre, it’s not a part of the script, and I have been expressly told to stay “on book.” (Which was insulting. I know how to partake in a script reading, thank you very much.)

Oh, parenting sucks. No, wait. That’s not true. (Yes it is.) Parenting is awesome. (Most of the time.)

I don’t want to alarm any of you out there, but it turns out having a baby is a lot of work. Little Boops is now 12 weeks old, which would make her eligible for the Military Draft if Rick Santorum gets elected. (Hey-o!) It also means that we’re either on the cusp of another growth spurt, or in it now, or she’s teething, or something to the effect of her kicking and bouncing and not sleeping.

(There’s smiling as well. Also, the bib should read “I love mommy, and kick daddy”)

Don’t get me wrong: she’s not screaming and yelling, per se. She’s just…. awake. ALL THE GODDAMN TIME. It’s no surprise that the genetic offspring of my wife and I has difficulty winding down and going to sleep, but you have to figure that eventually she’ll pass out, right? RIGHT? Wrong.

Fyona has developed the eating habits of a Hobbit. Rather than the larger, long form feedings of yore, she now prefers little snacks every 25 minutes. If it’s night time or you have to go to the bathroom, she’ll prefer them every 10 minutes. My arms and lower back are going through training like Conan the Barbarian, I’m bouncing this kid so much. And she punches, oh, how she punches. The Make Up Department had to cake up a scratch on my face I got while saying goodbye to her yesterday. She was smiling when she did it, just like the smile above. She knows what’s up. She’s playing us like a 3 dollar harmonica. (I really don’t know what that means, but I like it anyway. Would a 3 dollar harmonica be easier or harder to play? The more I think about it, I would say harder, like one of those plastic novelty harmonicas you buy with skeeball tickets. I’m going to retcon that statement to read, “she’s playing us like a 3 dollar triangle because a triangle is easier to play than a harmonica or fiddle and 3 dollars would be a good deal for one.”)

I’m home today, so at least the Redhead and I can tag team the baby bouncing and try some different tacks. If today is anything like last night, it’s going to be long and arduous. Truth be told, maybe some military-esque discipline would help.

I mean for us parents, not Fyona.

It’s time for the Redhead and I to address a few issues as we tighten up our belts and slowly become parents. While some things happen naturally on their own, others have to be forcibly pushed into our parental mutation.

Namely, cussin’. It’s time for us to stop using so many cuss words. This is not as easy as it seams. While neither of us have any real difficulty restraining from dropping F-bombs during casual conversation, it’s the times when they can sneak out that’ll get ya. Stubbing a toe for instance, or maybe a missed 3 pointer with seconds left on the clock. Whatever the case, it’s a good idea to break the habit now. Still, that doesn’t mean we’re going to become a couple of silent monks. We just need some substitute phrases:

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The other day the Redhead and I did something we didn’t think we’d ever do: we brought our baby to an acting audition. It’s bad enough having two people in the family that live or die on the whim of an unshaven intern holding a clipboard; adding a third only seems cruel, and ultimately an unsafe bet.

(The safe money bet is in teaching the kid mathematics or something useful.)

Truth be told, it was actually an audition for the Redhead where she held a baby, and If that baby happened to be her own baby, all the better. It’s not like we’re “Toddlers and Tiara’ing” the kid, but I’ll say this right now: anything my child earns is hers. (Although this may be readdressed if she’s got $900k in the bank and we still live in a one bedroom apartment.)

Anyway, Mom and baby went in to the little room, and I waited in the larger room with about 6 other babies and moms. Then it happened.

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The Blog Family is about to pack into the car and motor off to Target. It’s looking like it’s going to be an interesting Tuesday.

(This is a SUPER idea, Lois.)

But the clock is ticking. Our “morning at Target” has already become an afternoon, and we haven’t even left yet. Cancel grabbing a late breakfast and start thinking about “lunch.” Now the kid needs another feeding? I once again am left standing at the front door holding the car keys, realizing that feeding leads to diaper changing, and diaper changing eats up more time, and that I could be standing here for 25 minutes.

I decide to sit down at the computer. Now they’re ready and are waiting for me to finish this sentence. Oh, so it’s my fault? What do you mean, “why am I still typing?” I’m done. Let’s go. Target, ho!

Yes, I would agree she needs socks. No, a hat isn’t needed. Gloves? This is Southern California! Only golf and batting gloves are necessary, and even then it’s not detrimental. Got my keys right here. Let’s do this. Where are you going now? I swear, if you’re going for gloves… We’re in the garage, then the car, then another garage: no gloves are needed. I’ll “warm” the car. She just spit up? Yeah, I see that. Okay, I’ll grab her a different shirt. Say, I have an idea, it’s called “Wal-Mart Wednesday.” No?Please?

Okay, I’ll be at the front door. Start thinking about what you want for dinner.

Look, it says it right there on the side of the webpage. Tucker Blogs is, “a collection of lies, broken promises and unfulfilled potential… Some topics may be repeated ad nauseum and some questions raised may never get answered.” 

Well, I got a lot of good tips and notes regarding our flight with a newborn. I had decided to hold off on writing about it until Mom and Baby had returned from their unscheduled extension to the trip, feeling the Redhead’s experiences alone on the plane may change the overall impression. Then I just forgot.

(Impressive.)

The fact of the matter is that the flight(s) went wonderfully. As one person told me, we really had nothing major to worry about when it came to flying with an 8 week old. It’s an 8monthold that will give you problems. You see, a flight is kind of paradise for an 8 week old: she gets to be held the whole time, there’s womb-esque air sounds all around, and she can have a boob whenever she pleases. On the other hand, an 8 month old is semi-mobile. They’ll want to explore, climb, grab, scream, and challenge whenever possible. Fyona did well.

Thanks again to everybody who offered advice and reassurances. We may have to do it again soon as the family scenario in Florida is worsening, so maybe Round 2 will be a lot more painful, like a juice cleanse.

Perhaps I’ll do another follow up. Don’t hold your breath, though.

It’s not our first choice, nor our third or fifth or twenty-sixth, but tomorrow we’ll be flying on a plane with an 8 week old. A family emergency has forced us to face one of the worst circles of hell new parents can imagine: air travel with an infant. There was talk of leaving Fyona at home since somebody has to water the trees, but ultimately we decided she should tag along.

(Pictured but not included: joy.)

This ain’t no puddle jump, either. We’re going coast to coast with a transfer. I tried for non-stop, but with the purchase being made 24 hours before, I decided to only spend Fyona’s braces fund rather than our new car fund. Thanks for negotiating that bullshit, Shatner.

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