Once upon a time (this past summer), we took a weekender to Asheville, North Carolina. We decided that the quickest route to get there was to go 150 miles out of our way to visit the Cabbage Patch Kid headquarters in Cleveland, GA.
We didn’t stop at the enormous Bass Pro Shops, the one with the lure testing tank, where die-hards like my dad enjoy casting different weapons from their arsenal and watching their ‘action’ underwater. We also drove right by the receding waters of Lake Lanier, where this summer, they were uncovering old guns, beer cans, stolen cars and sunken Christmas trees tied to cinder blocks.
Just before Cleveland, miles of dense forest thinned out to reveal one of those quaint little Bavarian holiday villages. Like every other jackass on the road, we pulled off to window shop for hand-whiddled Christmas ornaments in the dead of July.
We stumbled upon the Hansel & Gretel candy shop which boasted this 4-pound diabetes football. We gawked and shoved each other out of the way like obnoxious teenagers with our iphones, trying to be first to upload this monstrosity to Facebook. They also had chocolate covered Fritos and my personal favorite, the great wall of jellybeans.
A few weeks ago, I took Ava to the pediatrician (so I could get ripped off by the valet again) for a check-up. I signed us in and took a seat. Ava went directly to the chalkboard and got to work.
Any time she finds something that will hold her attention for more than a few minutes, I sit back and use it as one of several mental ‘mini-vacations’ throughout my day. I turned into a zombie, my head and neck still, staring at the corner of the ceiling, comatose.
Sometimes I daydream about winning the lotto with a bunch of people from work (I don’t have a job), hiring a nanny and buying the Phillies. Sometimes it’s just about stream fishing for trout in Montana or hiring a topless maid.
Watching Ava with the chalk, it got me thinking about how our teachers used to make us stay inside at lunch as punishment, writing sentences over and over again. I thought I would give Ava a few suggestions of what to write:
1. I will not bend and crumple my flash cards.
2. I will not throw food at my dad.
3. Whining for no reason annoys people.
4. Acting like my legs don’t work and falling to the floor in a heap is embarrassing for everyone.
5. I will not squirm while getting my diaper changed.
After almost a year of riding around in my car, facing backwards, staring into the same piece of leather over and over again, Ava finally lost it. In all fairness, I probably would’ve too. She staged daily protests and it was time for an upgrade. California State Law suggests that a child be a year old or twenty pounds in order to face forward in the car. Don’t tell the Highway Patrol or child services, but for my driving sanity, I cheated it by two weeks.
Jen and I had already gone through the painful in-store research process several times before. It was agonizing walking up and down the car seat aisle, putting Ava in every demo, then watching my wife ask her how she liked it. Front-runners were determined by whether or not she smiled or kicked her legs. She’s 1! We’re putting all of our eggs in the basket of a girl who can barely talk? Each time, it ended the same way. With me and my wife polling a bunch of strange parents who walked by, inspiring a national debate in the middle of the store with a bunch of garbage opinions and no final decision.
We continued our research online and found a winner. Something without migraine inducing patterns and it was unisex, so we could pass it along to another sibling. While Jen was at work one day, I decided to drive our little orangutan to Babies R’ Us and take the plunge. We weren’t Philo Beddoe and Clyde from ‘Every Which Way but Loose’, but it sure felt like it. Me and my little buddy on another adventure.
As the weather has warmed up over the last few weeks, I’ve noticed us going to more Farmer’s Markets than usual. Unless I was hit in the head with a hammer while sleeping, the only other explanation for this is that me and every other young, idiot parent has been hyponotized and instructed to gather in the same parking lot every Saturday and Sunday.
We mill around the vendors in a circle like cattle, watching people elbow and shove each other to get to the free samples of homemade pesto. It’s quite an eclectic mix of farmers, yuppies, hipsters and granolas, uniting to show off their recycled grocery bags, eat pomegranates and whisper about the price of truffles. Then there’s me, the sweaty, exhausted, slightly out of shape dad running back and forth to the car, pumping quarters into a fledgling parking meter to avoid a $75.00 ticket.
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As part of my initiative to get out of the house, Ava and I usually start off our day by taking a 2 or 3 mile walk along the beach, listening to the waves of the Pacific Ocean crash on the shore. Daddy dreams about winning the lottery, lying on a deserted island drinking coconut milk and rubbing oil on the back of Amanda Seyfried. Ava enjoys being pushed around by her servant and avoiding seagull poop. I shield her innocent eyes from the elderly Ned Devine’s wearing tiny running shorts, take time to point out the California Poppies and oogle at the long-legged amateur women volleyball players. She also loves watching the sailboats and on occasion, we see other kids along the way, walking with their parents.
Several weeks ago, I thought it might be fun to take Ava to the Long Beach Aquarium of the Pacific to walk around, check out life underwater and most importantly, get outside and add some pigment to our fragile egg white skin. I still don’t know how, but I roped my 26 year-old bachelor brother into going too. I thought it might be good for him to have some bonding time with his niece and since he’s a bartender at a cougar lair in Venice, I could use a 45-minute car ride to hear about his latest sexual conquests to make myself feel young again.
Read More Post a comment (7)It’s not always in best taste to take your baby to the local Irish Pub.
Last year we made a trip to Atlanta after Jen’s sister and husband had a set of twins, boy and girl. Until that point, I had logged very few hours of baby experience and was eager (rookie mistake) to jump right in and help wherever I could. Her sister suggested that I start off by carrying my niece, Addie, in the baby carrier. I had not worn one of these before, but seriously, how hard could it be? If Zach Galifianakis could make it look easy in ‘The Hangover’, I certainly could. It appeared to be mostly legwork and since I lettered in track all through high school (let it go already), I didn’t see any trouble in this. 1970′s cop shows had led me to believe that I could just slide right into this bad boy like a .45 shoulder holster. I could move freely and fire or holster my weapon (Addie) in the blink of an eye. I was sadly mistaken.
From time to time, I can’t help but remind my wife that she intentionally withheld genetic information about herself before we got married. She never mentioned the bum hip until the honeymoon was over and also did a pretty good job of hiding that second toe that is longer than the others. I never made an effort to conceal my flat feet, in fact, I made it widely known that I’d probably never be drafted to fight in a war because of them. 
She also misled me on other vital intelligence, which was that she was bald until she was 2 or 3 years old. Being bald later in life is fine, because you’ve matured into an adult and have acquired certain features that make it easier (sometimes) for people to distinguish your sex. As a baby, unless you have a girls ears pierced, it all comes down to what you’re wearing.
The first few weeks that I spent as an unemployed stay-at-home Dad were probably the most challenging, mentally. Physically, not so much. I had done a bang up job of turning the tables on my wife and was doing some ‘nesting’ of my own. In the living room. In front of the TV.
The idea of going outside seemed like a monumental task. There were just too many variables. I lacked self-confidence and couldn’t bear the thought of being in a position where I’d have to deal with any type of emergency in public. I had a recurring nightmare about being in Bloomingdale’s without diapers or wipes, with a baby strapped to my chest who had just delivered the crap of the century and having to retreat to a changing room while patrons choked and gasped for air. If I controlled the variable and stayed at home, I had immediate access to all of the important childcare amenities and avoided my worst nightmare coming true.
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