Hardcore Fathering, Part 1

For the past couple of months, I have been the daytime caregiver for my son, Alastair. He is coming up on a year old. The following events took place mid-March, so he was about 11 months old.

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:

1. 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.
2. 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.
   
3. 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.
4. Urinate quickly without getting it all over my pants. Mission accomplished. Sorry Bruce, no details.
   
5. 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.

Five minutes later, Scott and Lisa touched down. They were all smiles and hugs. On our way out I thanked Cheryl. So, life didn't go as planned, but it turned out for the best.

I know what I learned from this experience, what about you?

Next post: Hardcore Fathering, Part 2--Guerrilla Diaper Changing.