It was cold and blow-y. I hopped into the back seat and slammed the door to block the wind. I made some exaggerated Brrr noises as I fastened the PBG into the car seat ... and then I couldn't get out of the car. The door seemed locked, but I couldn't unlock it.
Obviously the Space Shuttle has some yet-unrealized, tricked-out, child-safety technology. And obviously, because of that child-safety technology, we'd be stuck in the back seat forever. We'd have to split a supply of year-old salt-water taffy and as much breastmilk I could manufacture before the onset of dehydration.
Meanwhile, the PBG saw my face and cackled, just two puffs of cheek framed by a pink bomber hat.
I tried to climb into the front seat, but between the clunky car seat and my adult human body, it was impossible. I forced myself forward, resigning myself to the fact that I might have to sacrifice the headrest as I tried to extend my body to the drivers' side door lock controls. I pressed the ignition key toward the buttons and tried to push the one that seemed most like it would undo this damage.
The PBG laughed as I sunk back into the seat.
Finally I just sucked it up and called Chuck.
"I'm locked in the backseat of my car," I told him.
Chuck walked out of the house, around the front of the car, to the side and lifted the handle. It opened with ease. I smiled.
An hour later he texted me:
Remember when you got locked in the back seat of your car?
The babe is in the bath and up to her ribs in Johnson & Johnson and she gets wide eyes, whimpers and makes a grab for my arm. She shakes a bit, seems cold, so I splash water on her shoulders and I get a nervous flutter because I'm not sure what's eating her.
And then the smell. Raw ground beef left in the back window of a hot sedan.
Oh. I've been waiting for this moment for, like, ever. It's a right of passage, I guess. According to the kind of people willing to craft a baby bowel blog post.
"Yo, Chuck," I call. "Come here. This is what it looks like when our baby poops the tub."
He lifts her from the (what is now known as the) Crap Tub, handles the drying, lotioning, diapering, PJ duty and I stare into the water and wonder how to approach this particular stain. Answer: Toilet paper, pressure wash, antibacterial spray, water. And a little bit of PTSD during the next bathtime.
Chuck: Let's make a TV show called "When Babies Attack."
The PBG learned to crawl-crawl and then two seconds later she learned how to climb up everything. TV stands, stairs, her crib, adult human legs.
When I walk into her room, she has always worked her way to a standing position in her bed. She grips the railing and beams, every time like it's the first time and SURPRISE!
This all feels like getting pelted by balls in a malfunctioning batting cage. I think I've said that before, but when I said it before I hadn't made the connection that this person who was once the size of a kumquat would be able to climb a 13-step staircase like five seconds after she was born.
Me: Oh! I have to order her an Easter present.
Chuck: You have to order a bunny suit so you can loom over her in the night with a flashlight under your chin.
Chuck: I guess the only part of the day I didn't like was when she grabbed my face and squeezed so hard her whole body shook.