It was early on a Saturday and I was driving my Subaru Forrester over the border to Vancouver, BC to pick up Alastair's godparents: "Scott" and "Lisa." They are our good friends and live in Toronto, ON. They were spending their spring break with us here in Bellingham, WA. As my wife was away on a job interview, she did not accompany us on our trip.
As on most occasions, I was running late getting out the door. You gotta pack diapers, kiddie snacks, toys, comfort objects, my passport, my kid's birth certificate, throw a load of wash in the machine, remember where the @#$% you put the keys.... I got all this stuff ready the night before, but it always ends up thrown in weird places. This, as my loved ones will testify, is not a condition that I gained with fatherhood.
On the way there I remembered I forgot something at home: to urinate. As I approached the Canada-US border, I was wiggling in the seat. The border officer took care of that. After declaring my intentions, the officer asked if I had a notarized letter, signed by my wife stating it was legal to travel with my son. My need to pee was suddenly insignificant.
I was asked where Alastair's mother was? Why she wasn't here? When was she returning? Who was I picking up? The questions were repeated several times in various orders and wordings with my answers restated incorrectly. Was the officer trying to catch me in a lie, or was she just not listening? Was I smuggling a baby into Canada to sell to some childless couple? Finally, I was let through and promptly remembered I had to go.
Despite the delay, I made it to Vancouver Airport with time to spare. I had enough time to head to the restroom and go. My plan was to strap Alastair in the foldout changing table found in most bathrooms now-a-days, and void as quickly as possible. Usually, the table is located in a stall and has a strap, so I could probably keep a hand on him. This was unsafe, but when you gotta go....
I charged into stall only to find that there was no changing table in the men's room. There was a shelf near the sink that was large enough to change a baby, but it was nowhere near the urinals.
My image of Canada as home to an enlightened and sensitive populace was shattered.
So, in a frenzy of urgent improvisation and heightened senses, I took the following actions:
- Find an official, but friendly looking employee. I searched for someone with a uniform and a walky-talky, but no badge or firearm. Someone old enough to be a grandparent (Alastair responds best to those types) but without a foot in the grave. Walking past the college student-staffed tourism booth and security guard, I found a Welcome Wagon-type wearing an orange vest and holding a walky. She had good hygiene and crow's feet around the eyes. Her name was Cheryl, she was a francophone, and had a granddaughter. Bulls-eye.
- Present my plan. Stand outside the bathroom, holding my baby, while I take care of business. She was aprehensive at first, but I won her over. For the second time that day, I had to convince someone that I wasn't trying to abandon my son in a foreign country.
- Convince my son I wasn't trying to abandon him in a foreign country. This was a delicate opperation, but Cheryl was on my side. She was charming and calming without being "googoogaga." Her accent lulled both me and Alastair into comfort. I handed him his favorite security object (a little plush saucepan rattle) said something reassuring, smiled, and dashed into the lav.
- Urinate quickly without getting it all over my pants. Mission accomplished. Sorry Bruce, no details.
- Reclaim my child. He was there looking conflicted. No smile. No frown. Cheryl looked happy. Ultimately, I think Alastair was safer with this person than strapped to a table. My faith in Canada was restored.
I know what I learned from this experience, what about you?
Next post: Hardcore Fathering, Part 2--Guerrilla Diaper Changing.
