Timbuctoo

Hello Comrade. Tell me where the microfilm is.

Raising the kid is like moving in with a beautiful high maintenance super model who can’t speak English, is way out of your league, and isn’t afraid to make a scene in a fancy restaurant. I’m all running around on egg shells all insecure trying to find out what she wants by slowly and softly asking, “do you want something to eat?”, “can I get you a blanket?”, “would you like to sleep?”, “I’m sorry, you can’t smoke in the house”. All the while she’s yelling at me in some eastern European language that I can’t understand. Even when Daphne’s slowly revving up the cry engine it sounds like she’s gently saying “no” in Russian (“nyet”) over and over. She stays up all night and sleeps all day and doesn’t care that I have a regular 8 to 5 job. My home décor is slowly and unconsciously shifting to meet her style palate as I’m constantly buying new gadgets, furniture and gifts to appease her. When we do go out to dinner, I feel like I have to apologize to the other patrons for her behavior. I’m constantly thinking, am I going to screw up this relationship? I should have just named our kid “Nadia” to complete the circle.

But when Carrie left for San Francisco for Faith’s Bachelorette dinner, and she leaves me with five bottles of breast milk (that’s about 15 hours worth), I’m ok with it. I think I’m prepared cause I’ve spent several hours alone with the kid the weekend before. I even say the whole, “Go ahead, have fun, we’ll be fine”, which, unbeknown to me, is the required piece of dialogue in all horror movies that signifies the start of the horror.

So as soon as Mommy drives off, I hear our little Nadia slowly starting the cry engine:

Nyet……………………….nyet…………………………………nyet…………………………….nyet.

15 hours later and the house is a mess. My hair’s askew, I’m exhausted and hungry cause I’ve been consoling the girl the whole time. I make up some random errand that involves me just getting out of the house so when Carrie gets home I hand her the kid and say, “Don’t ask any questions. I love you, but you deal with her”.

And I just drive. And the thought occurs to me that I can just…keep...driving……

I need to clear my head. I turn on my favorite self created Pandora station, “Dan’s kick azz showtunes”. But it’s not working. And it doesn’t help that the first song in the queue is the Miss Saigon song that goes “song played on a solo saxophone”. So basically the world’s saddest song that highlights the world’s saddest musical instrument is playing in the background. The thought of hopelessness floods my body. Without thinking of any subject in particular I ask myself, “what the heck am I going to do”. Gradually the thought creeps in that I’m in way over my head with this baby thing.

I take two deep breaths.

I decide to take an extra breath for good measure and turn up the volume on the radio (Miss Saigon and Chris are done singing the saxophone song).

As I stare out into nothing through my windshield, the Artful Dodger with his Cockney British accent is singing “I’d do anything” from the musical Oliver.



I’m listening to ol’ Dodge and my frown is slowly turning upside down. So when Oliver’s verse comes up I decide to sing along. And mind you, I already know all the words to this friggen song (don’t ask me why) so I’m actually singing and not humming as the words hit my ears.

In the song one of the ladies asks “Would you lace my shoe?, to which I emphatically answer, “Anything”.

She’s not done testing Oliver so she asks, “Paint your face bright blue?”

I say, “Anything!”

“Catch a kangaroo?”

“Anything!!”

“Go to Timbuctoo?”

And this is where I lose it.

I know what the next line is. And I don’t know if it’s the words, the cadence that they’re sung in, that I’m just thinking of the kid, or that I’m just bone-ass tired but when the lady says “Timbuctoo” my eyes are already shrink wrapped in tears. So as I sing the line:

“Annnndddd……..back….again”.

The tear gates open.

Fast forward 30 minutes and 2/5ths a tank of gas later, and I’m belting out Train’s “Hey Soul Sister” with tears streaming down and with the biggest sh-t eating grin on my face.

And after I gently sang the last “toooniiiiiiiiiight” in the song, I turn down the volume and recap the least masculine 30 minutes of my life.

And I’m screwed because of one simple fact:

I’m going to have to apologize to Carrie because our daughter has officially replaced her as the default subject of every love song I hear.

So I make a u-turn at Timbuctoo and head home.
And I realize everything is going to be alright cause I love that little obnoxious muther f-er. And because of that, I’d go anywhere. I’d risk ev’reything. Yes, I’d do anything.

Anything?

Yes, anything for her.