C'mon Just Let Me Touch It

This weekend, The Varmint, the kid, my mom and I all piled a small mountain of luggage (including about 50,000 baby toys, a foam seat called a Bumbo, triple-backup onesie options, paste for both teeth and butt, and no less than six blankies) into the ol' RAV4 and my mother-in-law Pat drove us, Beverly Hillbillies-style, down to the airport. There, for the first time ever, we boarded a plane with baby in tow. Destination: Arizona.

We'll deal with WHY we headed out there in another entry. THIS entry is about the plane ride. 

When you dream of having a baby, your hormone-addled brain thankfully edits some of the potentital realities, such as the extended hiatus of restaurant fine dining and the upholstery-biting your bungy will do when irate travelers three aisles deep are lobbing the stinkeye your way from every direction.

 The good news is, you get over that squinchy-faced "Sorry! So sorry!" stuff pretty quick: My attitude quickly shifted from apologetic to the pragmatic "Get over it" variety. Yes, I will admit it, my kid has recently discovered that she can shriek. She's very excited about this. And, heh, I will admit that when she hits those high notes, and my hair starts to fall out and dogs three states over start to howl that maybe, just maybe I'd be tempted to clamp my sweaty palm over her precious little rosebud mouth.

But listen here, mister... YOU with the laptop and the buttoned-to-the-top-button Lord & Taylor dress shirt and discreet comb-over, YOU with the evil eye and deep sighs and huffy demeanor. YOU cannot think it. Because I will slap your bald head with my other sweaty palm, and don't think you won't feel it - even with that fine little blanket of hair you slicked down over the top of that shiny scalp. What did you use for that, anyway? Because, like, a million years from now they're going to be extracting tiny bits of hair and scalp suspended in that stuff - I mean, it already looks ROCK SOLID, like amber or petrified wood. But wait... I'm distracted by your SHINY SHINY head.

YOU are the guy with the utter lack of compassion, an obvious narcissist with your designer labels, personal cologne cloud, hipster gadgets and your "I'm too busy to be charmed" attitude. I mean, seriously, the kid is emitting squeals of delight here, she's grinning at you with a precious gummy smile through the slit in the seat cushion - SO much better than crying or kicking, don't you think? All you'd have to do is smile and wave or say a kind word and she'd get bored of you after about 5 minutes.

AirplanePassenger.jpgNOW, all she she wants is to touch your SHINY SHINY head. And despite the fact that I'm bending to your will and wrestling her sweet, chubby little octopus arms away from your shellacked and beguilingly lumpy noggin, I have to admit, I'm sort of right there with her, because I want to touch it too. OH MY GOD IT IS SO SHINY.

But I will keep our arms away from your head as best I can. Never mind that it's like corraling a pack of caffeinated spider monkeys, or that her joy-o-meter is shifting slightly to the right, dangerously approaching FUSSY. (And if that needle hits FUSSY, dude, you and your little iPod headphones won't stand a chance, because my kid's not only got decibels, she's got duration and her shriekbox is about a hair's breadth from your oversized, rubbery ear-hole.) Man, look at that thing!

And now, as I distract my kid with her 17th puppet show in less than an hour, I think to myself: Wow. It really is true that one of the best things about parenthood is being able to see the world through the eyes of your child.

Too bad it makes me want to flick your big, rubbery ears and touch your SHINY SHINY head. 



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I am a writer and lazy artist who loves travel, architecture and design. Right now, I'm into photography. My fabulous husband (a.k.a. The Varmint) and I are also the principals of a San Diego-based creative agency - and new parents to the divine Baby Mak. Read More >