Imagine

A child's imagination is a magical thing, opening a world of possibilities, both real and extraordinary, to the tyke. In the right hands, it is also a powerful tool to manipulate and give the otherwise hapless parent a half step up on their equally manipulative offspring.

My tale begins several months back, when our family visited friends on the East Coast. Along with the joy of a plane trip, the experience of new sights and sounds, endless reruns of the animal show they'd kindly recorded, they had a far more prized possession - two cats.

Otter was fascinated and smitten. She rejoiced in looking for them throughout the house and looked forward to giving them treats every evening. And long after her memories of excursions faded, the torch for Bob and Mabel burned strongly in her heart. Months after we were back home, she would quiz me on their names and inquire about their whereabouts.

Most days, I'd tell SB that the cats were doing well, though living far away. Perhaps one day she'd see them again but in the meantime I suggested she just treasure the memory of the days they spent together. Tonight however, I was hit with a bolt of inspiration that may prove most useful in the coming days.

I decided to pretend the felines were with us. We called them by name during story time, invited the up on the bed. And when the imaginary cats jumped up (complete with the light pitter-patter of feet courtesy of yours truly) we petted them, fed them imaginary treats and red them a story. Bob and Mabel then became highly interested in Otter's tooth brushing technique, were fascinated by her change into a night-time diaper, and positively overcome when SB demonstrated how she gets into her pajamas. And after holding them carefully in her hands while did our late-night hugs, SB was amazingly all too happy to settle in, get covered by her blanket and wait for B and M to curl up under it.

There were no calls for last kisses, no mad scrambles out of bed or protests against lights out. The girl, her stuffed animals, and her new pretend pets curled under her blanket, were cozy and happy and ready for sleep.

I am amazed, touched and overwhelmed by SB's ability to immerse herself in this new, make-believe world. But if I'm to be honest, there is an ulterior motive. Sure I like to nurture the flights of fancy, hoping that one day Otter's outside-the-box thinking will make her the next Einstein, Shakespeare or Van Gogh. But at the end of the day (literally) all I really care about is getting her to bed in time to enjoy a glass of wine and a bad TV show. I just wonder how long this currency will last.

BYOB - Bring Your Own Baby

As everyone knows, there's nothing quite as rejuvenating as packing up your dog, a picnic lunch and your child and heading off to a winery. For any of you claiming that dogs and toddlers don't belong at wineries, it's obvious that you just don't have any, so you couldn't possibly understand.

The key is to find a place that will not only allow your brood (both 2 and 4-legged) into their tasting room, but will not frown upon subsequently pouring you copious (ok, maybe "copious" is a bit of an overstatement) amounts of alcohol while you hold one, or both of them in your arms.

Another key element is ample outdoor space for the kids to explore, tumble, and crawl through (preferably without killing or permanently maiming themselves) while you and your significant other actually enjoy some food and that bottle of wine you bought after the tasting. Another overstatement. In actuality, you end up hovering in a half crouch - half stand approximation of sitting, shoving olives into your mouth with one hand while simultaneously trying to protect your wine glass (which has already been upturned once), and stop your kid from taking a face-first dive off the picnic bench with the other. Still - there are olives and other various "charcuterie" on your plate, so you've convinced yourself you're being civilized.

After such a meal, there's nothing to do but lay back in the sunny grass, only to be used as a human balance beam. On those (frequent) occasions that your little gymnast takes a tumble, you cross your fingers that when she does fall flat on her face in the grass, she'll be more interested in licking it than crying. She is.

Several hours later, as the sun is starting to set, you load everyone back into the car and start your trek towards home. Sure, it took you just as long for the round trip as you actually spent at the location. But for those few hours, you found your own little corner of heaven, and you drive home feeling lighter than you have in a while.

Or maybe that's just the wine...

"In America, there are two classes of travel - first class, and with children."

So says Robert Benchley, and he must be right, what with all those Airport books and all. Oh wait - no, that was Peter, his son. But apples falling from trees, and all that jazz should cover me here.

Anyway, point being, he KNOWS. And we know too, having traversed the country 3 times with Otter in tow.

Admittedly, each trip has posed its own challenges, from (in retrospect) the seemingly simple feat of over-nursing while our plane circled the airport for 40 minutes on our first trek out, to the daunting task of having to go to the bathroom while traveling solo with SB, to now - a 3-hour delay at the airport with an over-tired, over-hyped, very mobile 15-month-old.

Our extra time in Newark allows me the opportunity to socialize as a member of that exclusive club - the "with child" set. As I do laps around the waiting area, I meet every carry-on dog, every family with children - including the brat giving a beat-down to the public phone while her harassed mother gives a time-out to her brother by sitting him in the seat next to her and threatening to not let him go to the bathroom, or the family with three kids (Luca, Guido, Franco - or something likewise out of the Sopranos) whose mother confesses to me that she's nervous about boarding the plane because she's spied that man - you know, the one that looks vaguely Middle-Eastern, who I suspect is actually from India.

But no journey, no matter how difficult can be as bad as it is for the Family From Hell. They sit down near us, the poster-family for what I hope to never become. In this play of domestic horrors, each member plays a part:

Dad is the Bruiser - you know, the guy who looks like his idea of a good time is getting good and pissed at the local, then starting a bar brawl, before heading home to let his wife know what's what? He gets off on being mad, feels superior about his hard lot in life, and says things like "Can I trust you with that (re: the luggage)?" and "I'm not on the plane with you," to his wife. Really Bruiser, you're not? You're gonna live at gate 34 of Newark International?

Mom is the Passive Aggressive - half beaten into submission by Bruiser, half determined to get in the last jab in spite of it all, no matter how underhanded the methods. Let hyperactive Clawboy (see below) "accidentally" find the Oreo's in Bruiser's bag? Why not? At least the Juicy Couture sweatsuit, giant rock and Gucci bag help her remember she's still on top.

Son is Clawboy - because his favorite toy, one of those claws that pull toys out of a vending machine, is in his backpack, and he keeps taking it out and trying to grab everything, including strangers waiting at the gate with it. He's about 6, but still uses a pacifier (which, after he finally runs out of steam, Bruiser pulls out of his mouth, starting the reign of insanity over again, only so that Bruiser can get exasperated and threaten not to get on the plane again). He is a bully - the kid who uses his size to intimidate, and failing that, whines something awful. Watching him, I vacillate between pitying him and wanting to beat him senseless with that claw.

Dog is the Hapless Victim - of course they have a dog - one of those tiny furry yappers that get carried onto planes in designer hand-bags. Normally I loathe these dogs - call me a sizist if you will - but in this case I fear that Clawboy has reigned so much terror on this poor canine that when she finally growls at him I secretly pray that she'll bite, preferably taking a finger from the claw-wielding hand.

We sit there, and can't look away from from the drama, alternately repulsed and fascinated, as this family continually cycles through their circle of mutual hatred. Bree and I lean in to each other, assessing and reassessing which of them we hate the most, an honor that keeps shifting, depending on which of them is speaking at any particular moment. "I really hope they sit right next to us," I say. "That would really make this flight perfect." How do people live like this?

Beer Island

Every girl needs an island getaway from time to time so Otter and I descended upon Beer Island in Brooklyn, NY to bid adieu to a close friend. Apparently, the bar was chosen based on it's somewhat suspect policy of allowing drinking (which we all prefer to do) to mix with babies (which most of us have in tow these days).

Unsurprisingly, Otter took to Beer Island right away - frolicking on the sand, sampling some cupcake and cruising between the plastic chairs. And since it seemed to be a BYOB (baby, not beer - though that would have been WAY ironic) event, she had plenty of l'il peeps to keep her busy. Even a brief downpour didn't dampen our spirits (get it? ha, ha) as we hid under umbrellas in socialized in the soon-to-disappear, slightly-sketchy remnants of old skool Coney Island.

Looking around at all of us with our variations on diaper bags and Maclaren strollers (a must-have among NYC yuppies, I've learned), I couldn't help thinking of a Talking Heads song -

And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a
 large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house,
 with a beautiful wife
And you may ask yourself-Well...How did I get here?

Almost Birthday

Being in the NYC afforded Otter a chance to milk the birthday thing for all it's worth. Which I am a strong proponent of any day.

We gathered at my aunt/grandmother's and plied SB with gifts, toys and the world's biggest piece of chocolate cake. Which, Otter-fashion, she rejected. After a rousing rendition of off-key Happy Birthday, SB busied herself with crawling around and pulling things off the tables.

Of course at this stage she can do no wrong and the manic beating a banana took at her hands was met with oooh's and ahhh's of familial appreciation.

Going home, Otter passed out in the car, perhaps dreaming of what goodies her other birthday celebrations will bring.

Pumped Up

I should know better than to expect the indignities to stop just because I'm quickly coming round the 1-year bend with Otter. And after the flight over, I figured karma owed me. And while nothing quite beats the airplane bathroom fiasco, SB is by no means letting me coast.

For the past 3 days she's been adjusting to her new surroundings by having replaced my normally crazy-independent, easy-going kid with a needy, clingy alien who has suctioned herself on to my legs, begging to be held 24/7 and crying dramatically if I so much as go out of sight-line.

I shouldn't be too hard on her - I get her confusion of being in a new place with new people while her dad and dog have inexplicably disappeared. I am her only constant and she'll be damned if she falls for the blink and miss it trap. Still, after living for close to 12 months with a baby who happily crawls off to a different room to entertain herself, it's a bit unsettling to suddenly spend time with a child who falls into hysterics if I go to the bathroom (which, I'm sad to say, I can't seem to do alone any more) without her.

But the coup de grace came today, as I valiantly tried to begin prepping milk bottles for our return journey. With my mother and aunt sitting on the bed to keep SB from exploring her way over the edge, I pumped, while attempting to keep up the nonchalant banter that was supposed to distract them from the fact that I am sitting on a bed with my boob attached to a mechanically whirring suction cup.

And I would have pulled it off too, had Otter not seen the pump, and gotten terribly concerned at the destination of the milk (which was clearly not going to her mouth). She voiced her displeasure by rather vigorously climbing into my lap and giving the invasive pump some light pushes. In bar culture, this should have been a sign to the offending pump to get the fuck out of dodge, before things got really, really serious. For my part, I wasn't willing to be put off my goal by a pissy baby (since it'll take several sessions to reach my 6-hour flight quota as it is). Some mediation was clearly needed.

Like a skilled diplomat, I assessed the situation: baby wants boob (for proprietary, not nutritional reasons); pump needs boob; baby willing to kick the living daylights out of pump to get boob; me unwilling to lose drops of milk literally wrung from my body by some territoriality. It looked dire.

Solution? Keep pumping the full boob while giving Otter access to the other one. Continue to remind self that this isn't for ever, and I'm doing a good thing by donating my body to others. Be interrupted from self-congratulatory musings by baby who, annoyed by the fact that the pump still seems to be coming out the winner, uses her 2 rather sizable bottom teeth to deliver her message. Watch as aunt flees the room. Refrain from cursing. Plan drunk-fest for the day I'm done nursing. Keep chatting with mom.

So, whatchya gonna throw at me next world?

Taking Flight

Today, SB made her second trans-continental journey in under a year. Unfortunately for both of us, someone needs to make a respectable living in our family, so Bree stayed behind to mind the store. Unfortunatelier, traveling alone with a nearly 1-year-old is about 10 months of development and mobility worse than traveling with a 2-month-old. One is like going on holiday with a turnip in baby clothes. The other, is like traversing the country with the Tasmanian devil.

So here is the synopsis of the trip:

1. Carrying enough luggage to permanently set up camp in an uninhabited jungle, I arrive with the airport. Specifically, I'm carrying a stroller, car seat, collapsible bed, suitcase, diaper bag, bag of toys, and my own bag where I've foolishly packed some magazines for when I have "time to read."

2. Bree comes with, and manages to steer my plethora of bags through the insane crowd (where ARE all these people going on a Tuesday morning????), while I get stuck trying to cross a stream of oncoming travelers, none of whom seem to think that a frazzled looking chick with a stroller and baby are worth stopping for.

3. The self-check machine won't let me register a suitcase AND a car seat. I go through the options twice before just checking the luggage and hoping one of the helpful attendants will talk me through getting rid of the rest of my crap.

4. Helpful attendant takes it all, and directs me to yet another long-ass line to actually hand off my luggage. After negotiating through another stream of people, I manage to chase down Bree and leave him to dispose of my bags while I do a 180 and go find an elevator to the second floor security checkpoint.

5. Security line is short. Awesome. Stand in line, prep my bags (being a seasoned traveler and all), remove my shoes, and am trying to unstrap Otter with one hand and collapse her stroller with the other when a woman (ok, I'll say it - a rude bitch) pops ahead of me by declaring "I'm just going to cut in front of you," as if that makes it ok. I'm too dumbstruck to even say anything. Upon going through security, it is discovered that RB is also a moron who doesn't know to remove her dvd player from her bag. Now her shit is being sent out a second time (interrupting my flow AGAIN). I shoot her death ray looks.

6. Make it to the gate to learn that the empty seats and room in the bulkhead that I was assured of by the reservations clerk were a figment of his imagination. Accept my fate of having SB in my lap the entire flight. See that RBwhoisalsoaM is on my plane and resist the temptation to ride over her toes with the stroller.

7. Take what I hope will be my only bathroom break with Otter parked in the stall in her stroller. Think of dignity falling away.

8. Get on the plane and find that I am in a row with another woman with a lap child and a kind, sweet, patient man who was stuck between us. Apologize profusely for what he is about to experience.

9. Learn that we are breaking FAA laws by having 2 lap children in one row. (Something about a lack of oxygen masks.) Have lengthy, confusing discussion about which of us should move. Have the flight attendant discover a free seat up front and move the sweet and no doubt relieved gentleman. Thank the universe profusely.

10. Sit in my seat with an overtired, squirmy girl. Buy a $3 chocolate chip cookie for brunch. Pray that she goes to sleep soon so I can inhale it.

11. Realize that Otter needs changing after her nap. Wait interminably for a bathroom to become available. Gather my boatload of baby paraphernalia and totter my way down the aisle. Get in the bathroom and use it with the baby sitting in my lap. Realize how naive and stupid any thought of having lost dignity back around point 7 really was. Realize soon after that there is no changing table in this lavatory. Manage to change Otter in my lap with about 2 inches of room to work with. Promise myself to never assume I've hit bottom.

12. Manage to entertain child for the duration of the flight by allowing her to play anywhere she wants, including in the leg space of the middle, unused seat. Hope that the person in front of me doesn't use this moment to lean back.

13. Arrive at the airport and wait for an extra 1/2 hour at the gate to retrieve my stroller. Which is of course at the very bottom of the pile when it does finally arrive.

14. Retrieve my luggage and realize the bed isn't there. Panic. See a luggage carrier bringing it over. Run to her and choke down the impulse to kiss her.

15. Realize that no matter what happens from here on out, I can do this.

There are some people I want to thank - Bree, for carrying my bags; the gentleman at LAX who actually stopped to let me pass by; the woman behind me in line who called RBwhoisalsoaM out on her shit; the kind flight attendant who valiantly attempted to reassemble my stroller after the security gate; the man in the middle seat on our plane who was rewarded for his kindness by getting the hell away from us; the other long-suffering mom who shared toys and goldfish with me, and her husband who mesmerized Otter for a full 15 minutes with an Elmo video; all the people who chatted and smiled.

Travel At Your Own Risk

With so many new adventures around the bend, I was curious to see what BabyCenter, my online bible to all things child-related, had to say about Otter's potential reactions. So often, it's as if BabyCenter is looking into my soul, or at least my date book, when it comes to pinpointing upcoming events. And here's what they had to say:

Because of separation anxiety, ... it may ... be hard to travel with your baby right now. He's become used to his surroundings and familiar faces, and he likes predictability. So being on the road can disrupt his sense of security and routine, especially when visiting a new place or meeting lots of strangers.

Great news, considering my parents (virtual strangers to Otter) were joining us on a trip to Central California. At least there was going to be wine in Cambria/Paso Robles, so I could drink away my sorrows while SB screamed her disapproval.

Still, we decided to soldier on, packing baby, parents, dog, ourselves, and enough provisions for a month-long nomadic trek into our SUV for a 4-day weekend getaway. Prior to the trip, we purchase even more semi-necessary baby things, including a travel bed and umbrella stroller, justifying the insane price gouging by vaguely reassuring ourselves that we like to travel a lot, so the porta-crib (which cost nearly as much as Otter's actual bed) and it's $40 custom fit sheet were necessary evils.

Otter took the 4-hour drive up like a man, only complaining occassionally and being quickly comforted by her bottle. We briefly stopped at a winery, letting our girl know how her parents like to get down - she seemed to enjoy the experience...

Appropriately, we stayed at Otter Cove. Upon our arrival, we were greeted by a deer in the back yard of our rental house, and we knew it would be a magical visit.

We took walks by the ocean, saw elephant seals, pelicans, birds, cows, otters and horses (not all at once - that would have been weird), visited some beautiful wineries and landscapes, and generally had a grand old time just sitting out and looking at the water.

The rest of this tale can be told in pictures - since nothing I can write will capture the beauty of the ocean...

SB lapped it all up. Turns out, traveling with a separation-anxiety-ridden 9-month-old isn't that hard after all. You just gotta keep them busy with all the beauty in the world.