Business Trip by the Numbers

(With apologies to Harper's.)

Time I went to sleep the first night: 10PM

Time I woke up the next morning: 8:30AM

Total number of hours spent sleeping over the two nights I was away from home: 23 1/2

Amount of time spent in meeting discussing someone's iPhone: 15 minutes

Amount of time spent discussing cheese steak: 46 minutes

Amount of money spent on cheese steak while in Philly: $18.00

Number of times I wondered what Milo was doing: 2 billion

Amount of time I spent weighing whether it was better to go home early and see Milo or stay later and eat cheesesteak: 2 hours

Number of bites of cheese steak it took to convince me that I had made the right decision in opting to stay late: 2

Fun With Toddlers

Bored by the midsummer heat? Trapped inside with nothing to do? Here's a fun idea: spend a day at the airport! First, and this step is crucial, be sure to plan your trip to coincide with the worst flash flood in the history of your nearest major metropolitan area. Then get in the car and drive for five hours, preferably with a toddler who yells "More diggers!" for the bulk of the trip.

Three hours into your drive, pull over for coffee. Allow toddler to run around in the diner and do somersaults because you have ceased to care what the general public thinks. Smile as toddler dances and shimmies to "Oh What A Night."

Get back in car, arrive at airport two hours later. Entertain toddler by riding up and down the moving walkways. Best if when disembarking from moving walkway toddler consistently yells "Again!", whips around and attempts to get back on the moving walkway in the wrong direction.

Seven hours into your trip, have lunch on floor of airport. Call it a "picnic." Give toddler chocolate covered biscotti and tell him to lick off the frosting. This will entertain him for approximately 37 minutes, during which he will hilariously try to pronounce biscotti multiple times. Upon completion of the chocolate-frosting-licking task, toddler will then hilariously attempt to touch other travellers with chocolate-frosting-covered hands. They will not be amused.

Smile as toddler begins walking around the gate showing his belly button to strangers. Note that toddler stinks to high heaven but discover that there is physically no way to take both him and all the luggage to the bathroom by yourself. Wonder what happened to spouse and how long he has been gone.

When spouse returns with information that indicates you will not actually be leaving the airport today or any time int he near future, decide to change toddler's diaper in the middle of a crowded gate area because, again, you have ceased to care. Best if toddler yells "PENIS PENIS PENIS" at top of lungs while having diaper changed.

Go home. This should take approximately 20 minutes now that flooding is over. Put toddler to bed. He will probably give you a smile that indicates this has been the BEST DAY EVER.

Kentucky

This weekend I went to Kentucky for the third time in my life, but the first two times don't really count. The first time I was in college and drove down with a group of people to the Kentucky Derby. It rained, I didn't see a horse the entire time, and if I never see a mint julep again it will be too soon. The second time I went to Paducah with the guy I was dating at the time, who tricked me into going by saying it would just be a short drive to his friend's lake house. Eight hours later we arrived at the house. The next morning I jumped off a 30-foot cliff into a water-filled quary, and just being able to say that I took the jump of the insane (on multiple occaisons over the course of the next ten years) made the trip worth it, even though I broke up with the guy shortly after when I realized that his idea of a vacation included going to his parents' trailer in southern Indiana.

This time I was in Bowling Green for the Southern Kentucky Book Fest, which I'd been imagining would be sort of like Word Fest in Michael Chabon's Wonderboys, and it kind of was, minus the pediophilia and the dead dog. Which is to say, there were lots of writers, and lots of complaining about publishers and the publishing world ensued. Also there were weird people and a few Famous Authors who huddled with their groupies in the far corners of rooms and some guy playing a fiddle and men in mint green sports coats.

And there were people who backed away from me when I said I was from New York (Steven said I should just have worn a sign that said "Yes, I am judging you but it's okay, I judge everyone."), there was barbecue, and there were gaggles of teenagers in bathing suits runing through the lobby on Saturday night because apparently the Holiday Inn off I65 is the place to be.

There was much oggling of Kentucky real estate prices, some guy in a penguin suit who scared Milo, aspiring writers just wishing they could be published, writers with two-book-deals who were miserable, and a nice local couple at the playground who cited their reading of the New York Times as an example of how intellectual they were. I wanted to tell them it's okay, Steven wouldn't read the New York Times if you paid him.

And then we came back home. Last night as I lay awake thinking about the trip I counted the number of states Milo has been to in his short life: 13 states so far, which is almost one state for every month he's been in existence.

A Chronological Account Of My Mental State Over The Course Of Five Days Without the Baby

Day One
Get on the plane in Atlanta with one suitcase and one small backpack. Can't help but feel that I have forgotten something. Remember that it is the baby. Sit down and promptly read three chapters of Heat with no interruption. Marvel at the idea that it is possible to read more than two sentences without having to get up and remove Milo's hand from a nearby electrical socket. Feel so pleased about lack of baby that I immediately fall asleep as the plane takes off. Wake up three hours later in Mexico.

Day Two
Wake up at 6:30am. Note that there is no one demanding "Mik!" or "Cheerio!". Roll over and sleep for another half hour. Discover that it is now no longer possible for me to sleep past 7am. Lie in bed for another hour anyway, feeling pure joy at the fact that it is possible for me to do so. Rent golf cart with Steven, drive around the island, routinely note to one another how nice it is to be able to have a conversation. Remember that Steven is pretty funny. Have leisurely lunch and dinner. Go to sleep at 8:30pm.

Day Three
Take long walk on the beach. Notice many babies doing Milo-like things. Think how awesome Milo is. Find myself saying "cup! hot!" to Steven. "Hot! Pancakes!" Steven says back. Buy Milo little Mexican shirt and shorts outfit.

Day Four
Take long walk on beach. Note that long walks on beach are begining to feel kind of boring. Finish Heat and wonder what's so great about reading a book straight through anyway, because then you just have to start another one - maybe much better to drag out the reading process over the course of four months. Wonder if Milo will remember he has parents. Pass by family with screaming Milo-aged child and naked three-year-old trying to claw his way out of golf cart. Note that parents look like they want to leave the children in Mexico. Exchange knowing looks with Steven.

Day Five
Get off plane to discover two-hour-long line at immigration. Am tempted to begin elbowing people out of the way, yelling "Let me through! I haven't seen my baby in five days!". Arrive at in-laws, peer at Milo sleeping in the pack-n-play and marvel at the fact that he looks like a completely different person than he did five days earlier.

First Day Back With Milo
Rejoice in the joy that is Milo for about an hour. Spend the next six hours attempting to restrain him from grabbing strangers' laptops, stepping in his own dirty diaper, and throwing himself into a garbage can at the Atlanta airport. Marvel at the fact that a two-hour flight can seem like a two-day flight when one is buckled into the last row with a 14-month-old who does not understand why he can't just walk around the plane, despite the turbulence that would easily fling him against the overhead luggage compartments. Smile wanly as he points to the latch holding the tray table on the seat infront of him and insists repeatedly that it is a clock, which, unfortunately for the entire plane, in Milo's language comes out sounding like "cock".
"Tray," I hushed.
"Cock!" screamed Milo.
"It looks like a clock," I explained. "But it's a tray."
"Cock! Cock! Cock!"
Arrive home. Wonder when next vacation starts.

A Quick List of What Will Happen When You Bring A 13-Month-Old On A Plane

1. Within 15 minutes of getting on the plane he will take a dump.

2. By the end of the flight you will be covered in milk/Diet Coke/drool.

3. He will smash the seatback tray onto his head/snap his fingers in the seatbelt/slam the window shade on your fingers.

4. He will lose one or both of his shoes.

5. Midway through the flight your spouse will point out the dried applesauce/piece of cheese/brown smudge that has attached itself to your sleeve.

6. The 13-month-old will insist, twenty minutes into the flight, on walking up and down the aisle and saying hello to every single person on the plane.

7. Half an hour before landing he will turn beet red and launch himself across the width of the plane while shrieking.

8. The flight crew will be forced to suggest to you that perhaps letting him play with the emergency exit door is not wise.

9. He will drink all his milk and cry for more. When he receives said milk he will indicate that what he really wants is your seltzer. When, after taking a sip of seltzer, he discovers he hates it, he will indicate that what he really wants is to bang his head against the window. When he discovers that hurts, he will indicate what he really wants is to be OFF THIS MOTHERFUCKING PLANE. (See number 7.)

10. After you have spent an entire day trying to please and placate him, the 13-month-old will see Hillary Clinton on television and call her "Mama".