The Worst Kind of Outlet

It’s the Saturday of Labor Day weekend.

My girlfriend and I have spent the last few hours strolling Brooklyn around the Legends Outlets in Kansas City, Kan., on a perfect fall day.

We’re here to shop for clothes because there are sales everywhere. And sales are to Jews what honey is to bees.

WE F***ING LOVE THAT SHIT.

Currently, all three of us are jammed in a tiny fitting room in the back of J. Crew Factory. My girlfriend tries on outfit after outfit, asking my opinion on each and then completely ignoring it.

Outlet + Sale = Jewish Heaven.

“What do you think about these pants?”

“I think they look great.”

“Ugh, my ass looks fat! Why didn’t you tell me I had such a fat ass?”

“Because me likey fat ass.”

Outside, the line continues to grow. A mob of customers impatiently waits for the next available room.

“We should get going,” I say to my girlfriend. “It’s getting crazy out there.”

“All right,” she says as she begins to strip down. “Let me just change.”

I place Brooklyn back in her stroller, and as I’m about to buckle her in, she unleashes an atomic bowel movement that could start World War III. The poisonous stench quickly fills the tiny room, turning it into a steaming sauna of diarrhea.

“Our only chance is to change her now,” I say with my shirt covering my nose.

“Now?!” my girlfriend asks. “I’m in my underwear!”

“We can’t go out there like this,” I say. “Innocent people will die!”

“OK,” my girlfriend says, “but we’ve gotta do it fast before we get caught!”

She hands me a diaper. I remove Brooklyn from her stroller and place her on a small bench in the corner of the fitting room. I begin removing her pants when we hear a knock on the door. It’s a store employee.

“Excuse me,” she says. “Are you almost done in there? We’ve got lots of people waiting.”

Even Brooklyn’s grossed out by what she just did.

“Yeah,” I gasp, trying not to choke. “We’ll be out in five minutes.”

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” my girlfriend whispers.

“I know,” I say. “I feel so guilty.”

I look down and see the store employee tapping her feet. She’s standing right outside the door waiting for us. As she continues to listen to us rummage around the fitting room, our heavy breathing mixed with hushed tones, I realize what she’s thinking.

O.M.G…They’re totally doing it in there!

My girlfriend’s panicked voice breaks my thought.

“Are you almost finished?” she asks.

“I’m trying, I’m trying!” I say.

“Shhh! She can hear us!” my girlfriend says.

“Um, is everything all right in there?” the employee asks.

“Yeah,” my girlfriend says. “But, uh, one of these items feels a little small.”

I give my girlfriend a glare.

“OK,” the employee says. “Let me get you another size.”

We pause.

“I think she’s gone,” my girlfriend finally says. “Are you done yet?”

“Almost,” I say as I try to remove the dirty diaper from Brooklyn’s bottom.

“Stop squirming!” I say to her.

“Hurry,” my girlfriend says. “She’s coming back!”

“Crap!” I say. “I think it just broke.”

“What do you mean it just broke?!” my girlfriend asks.

“I was going too fast,” I say. “This always happens when you rush me!”

“Ugh, it’s EVERYWHERE!” my girlfriend yells. “And I didn’t bring a towel!”

“Here,” I say, grabbing a shirt from the pile of discarded clothes. “Use this!”

At least someone was enjoying herself.

Just then I notice the employees’ feet outside the door again. The fitting room walls are now shaking from our hurried movements, and she can clearly hear our exasperated shrills.

“Excuse me, but WHAT is going on in there?” she asks.

“NOTHING!” I yell. “We’re almost done.”

“OK, that’s it,” the employee says. “I know what you two are doing in there. I’m coming in!”

“No!” my girlfriend screams. “It’s not what you think! It’s not what you think!”

“Too late!” she says as she unlocks the door.

The employee barges in and sees my girlfriend, who is frozen in her underwear. Then she sees me, fully clothed and holding a giant clump of shit. Then she sees Brooklyn, who’s lying on the fitting room bench, giggling and naked from the waste down.

“MY GOD,” the employee exclaims. “It’s worse than I thought! What are you people? Some sort of sick German sex freaks?”

“Worse,” my girlfriend says.

“We’re parents.”

Little Talks

It’s two weeks after Brooklyn’s first birthday. I’m in her bedroom, trying to get her ready for bed.

Brooklyn stumbles around, completely naked from the waste down. Her chunky thighs jiggle as she scurries from one corner of the room to the other, narrowly dodging my grasp as she giggles in delight.

“Well,” I think, “at least I can finally call myself a chubby chaser.”

A few minutes pass, and Brooklyn continues to scamper, her small frame bobbing up and down as she babbles “Waweeweewawa” like a baby Borat.

Even though she’s yet to speak her first word, we all know she’s close. She constantly babbles, and lately she’s been trying to repeat everything we say to her. Which in my girlfriend’s case is usually, “I love you.” And in my case usually, “Put down that bottle of K-Y!”

Finally, I scoop up the baby and put her in her pajamas. Then I lean down and give her a big, fat kiss on the cheek.

“Who loves you more than anything?” I ask.

She looks up, points directly at me and says, “Ma-ma!”

Excitement jolts through my body.

“Yes, baby girl, yes!” I say. “Ma-ma!”

Then I yell for my girlfriend.

Brooklyn and her Ma-mas.

“Come here! Come here!” I say. “Brooklyn just said her first word!”

My girlfriend rushes to my side.

“Brookie did you say your first word?!” she asks.

Brooklyn looks back at my girlfriend, points directly at her and says, “Ma-ma!”

“Yes, baby girl!” my girlfriend says. “I’m Ma-ma, I’m Ma-ma!”

“Did you hear that?!” my girlfriend asks me.

“Yes,” I say, sullenly.

“What’s the matter with you?” my girlfriend asks.

“She called me ‘Mama’ too,” I say.

“So what?” my girlfriend asks.

“So what?” I say. “Isn’t it obvious?! Brooklyn thinks we’re lesbians!”

“Huh?” my girlfriend asks.

“I don’t get it!” I exclaim. “I mean, yeah, sometimes I wear flannel cutoffs, and I only shave my arm pits once a week, but do I really look THAT butch?!”

“No! Calm down, Jeff,” my girlfriend says. “Brooklyn does NOT think we’re lesbians, and you are NOT  butch. You’re way too obsessed with One Direction.”

I shoot my girlfriend a piercing glare.

“Get out!” I yell, my voice quickly rising. “Get out! Get out of my head … and fall into my arms instead!”

Suddenly my hips begin thrusting. My hands begin jazzing. It’s show time!

“I don’t, I don’t, don’t know what it is,” I continue in a perfect soprano, “but I need that one thing. AND YOU’VE GOT THAT ONE THING!”

***

Now it’s February, and Brooklyn’s vocabulary is just like her waste line: constantly expanding.

She’s sitting in her highchair, shaking her head defiantly as I try to feed her peas.

“Please, Brooklyn,” I beg. “Eat the peas. They’re good for you!”

“No!” she shouts. “No, no, no, no, no!”

“You sound like the first girl I slept with,” I say.

“And the last,” my girlfriend chimes in.

After several more failed attempts to feed the baby, I switch over to sliced grapes.

When Brooklyn’s hungry, she unleashes her grapes of wrath.

“How about these, Brookie?” I ask.

I place the grapes in front of her, and as soon as they hit the tray, Brooklyn starts double-fisting them into her mouth.

Five minutes pass, and she continues to devour the grapes, shoving them down her throat faster than I can replace them.

“Slow down there, Kobayashi,” I say. “You don’t get a prize for finishing fastest. Just an extra arm roll or two.”

All the sudden she stops.

“I’m sorry, baby girl,” I say. “I didn’t mean to make fun of your arm rolls. I think they’re beautiful — all 12 of them.”

Brooklyn frowns. Then she turns her head away from me, covers her eyes with her right arm and starts grunting like she’s pushing a car up a mountain. She continues to grunt, her face turning beat red, her brow crinkling like a Ruffles potato chip. Finally, after about a minute, she stops, relaxes her arm and looks at me.

“Aw done!” she says.

She’s not talking about the grapes.

***

It’s the NCAA tournament. I’m watching the games, shouting at the TV as my bracket withers away.

Brooklyn watches next to me. Even though she’s just a toddler, I can tell she’s already into sports.

We have foam footballs and baseballs, and every day I take them out of our toy chest and toss them across our family room floor. And every time I do, Brooklyn immediately runs after them, yelling, “Baw, baw, baw!” as she brings them back to me.

It’s so cute.

Until I get asked the dreaded question:

So, what does Brooklyn like to do?

“Well,” I say. “She loves playing with balls.”

Brooklyn and her balls.

Excuse me?

“Yeah, she loves balls. She’s always playing with them and putting them in her mouth.”

Isn’t she young?

“Oh, no. She really loves them. She’s just like her Daddy.”

Are you insane?

“You should come over sometime — we’d love to have you watch!”

I’m calling social services.

***

A week later I’m at my mom’s house, picking Brooklyn up after work.

My mom’s just fed her dinner, and in typical Grammy fashion, she’s stuffed Brooklyn like a pair of Kim Kardashian’s maternity spanx.

As I gather her things to go, Brooklyn wheezes around my mom’s house, aimlessly stumbling around in a dizzying food coma.

“Jeez, Mom,” I say. “What did you feed her?”

“Oh, nothing, really,” she says. “Just a little bit of cottage cheese and some applesauce. … And maybe a banana and a slice of cheese.”

My little weight watcher.

“Uh huh … ” I say.

“And maybe a piece of bread,” she continues. “And a few strawberries and a little bit of sweet potatoes. … And some pasta and a couple slices of pizza and the left over Chinese food from Sunday and an entire chicken.”

“Oh, good,” I say. “I was worried you overfed her.”

“She’s a baby, Jeff,” my mom says. “It’s a blessing that she’s eating. It means she’s healthy! You have no idea how lucky you are. It was impossible to get you to eat when you were her age.”

“Really?” I ask.

“Yeah,” my mom says. “You were a little bitch.”

I start to reply when my eyes avert to Brooklyn, who waddles across the kitchen and makes a right-hand turn into the laundry room.

My mom and I follow her inside and watch as she walks to the scale in the back of the room. She steps up with her right foot, then balances herself with her left. She stands there, completely still, until the scale blinks her weight:

25.5 pounds.

Brooklyn looks up, opens her mouth wide, and gasps, “Ohhh no!”

I look at my mom.

She looks right back at me.

“This is YOUR fault!” we say to each other.

Flying Solo

It’s early October, 2012.

My girlfriend scampers frantically around the apartment, stuffing last-minute items into her Vera Bradley duffle bag.  She’s going out of town for the weekend, and for the first time ever, it’s Daddy’s turn to run the show alone.

My girlfriend hands me the baby.

“Just don’t do anything that’ll cause her permanent damage,” she says as she races out the door.

“Don’t worry,” I say as I hand my baby a dishwasher tablet to chew on. “She’s in good hands.”

I place Brooklyn on the floor in front of me. She’s smiling, giggling, like she just got off a roller coaster and wants to ride again.

The calm before the storm.

“It’s not her I’m worried about,” my girlfriend says.

“I got this!” I say.

My girlfriend laughs mischievoiusly, mutters something under her breath, then slams the door behind her.

Brooklyn sees the door shut and immediately erupts into a fit of tears and screams. She lunges toward the door, banging her head violently like she’s in the middle of a mosh pit at a System of a Down concert.

I grab her and pull her toward me.

“No, no, Brookie,” I say. “Don’t bang your head. That’s how you could get a System of a Down’s Syndrome.”

She looks at me, unleashes a wail that could maim a liger, then strikes the back of her head against the floor like she’s trying to give herself whiplash.

“WWWWAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!” she screams.

I pick her up, plop her in her crib and shut her bedroom door. Then I rush to my bedroom, cover my ears with my girlfriend’s hot-pink bra and huddle in the darkness of my closet like a kid waiting for a tornado to pass.

“Hear no evil, see no evil,” I whisper as I rock myself.

I lean back and knock over my hamper. A mound of dirty tighty whities piles on top of me.

“Smell lots of evil,” I groan.

***

The weather is changing course. After months of blistering heat, there is a respite found in the chill of a staunch October breeze.

You wouldn’t know from looking at me.

Sweat beads from my strained brow as I wrestle my way toward an empty table in the back of Noodles & Company. I’ve spent the last three hours lugging my 20-pound baby while running errands, and I’m toast.

I place the baby carrier in the empty seat next to me and sit down. I’m wearing skinny jeans, a faded Ninja Turtles t-shirt, a camel-colored hoody and a backward baseball hat.

My food arrives, and just as I’m about to dig in, I look up and notice people starring at my daughter and me. And not in a good way. None of these eyes are saying, “Aww, look at that daddy and his adorable baby!”

No, these glaring eyes are saying something different. Something suspicious. They’re saying, “That little punk just stole a baby!”

Bathing booty.

I feel the eyes close in on me. The heat from their stares is too much to handle.

The whispers shout at me.

“There’s no way HE’S the dad.”

“Even the baby knows he’s gay.”

“Isn’t that the guy we saw a sketch of on Fox News?”

“Honey, call the Tips Hotline…”

I stop eating. Then I throw my fork down and stand up.

“Yup!” I begin sarcastically.

Heads turn.

“You all caught me,” I continue to my new audience. “I stole this baby. Yes, I stole this baby, and the first place I decided to go was this Noodles and Company. I was like, ‘Man, I can’t wait to abduct this kid, but first I gotta get me some Wisconsin Mac N’ Cheese!'”

I grab the baby carrier and get up. As I march out of the restaurant, I swipe an elderly lady’s snickerdoodle, take a gigantic bite and spike it on the ground.

“WOULD A ‘LITTLE PUNK’ DO THAT?!” I yell.

I walk to my car, open the back door and place my baby in her carseat. She’s smiling. I lift my hand toward hers. She slaps it for a high-five.

***

It’s Sunday evening.

The past 48 hours have been the longest of my life. I haven’t slept a wink, my bones ache and I’m pretty sure I have shit somewhere on my face.

Just part of the wreckage from Hurricane Brookie.

I look around my apartment. It’s in shambles. Toys of all shapes, sizes and colors litter my family room carpet. A chain of used diapers coils across my kitchen like a conga line at a Bar Mitzvah. A mound of formula powder piles high on my coffee table as if I’m about to engage in a drug deal with the E-trade baby.

E-trade Baby [in a thick Italian accent]: So you got the goods?

Me: Yeah, E-trade Baby, I got the goods. But maybe you should lay off for a while, ya know? Lay low. You don’t look too good.

ETB: Of course I don’t look good. They still got me doing this ‘baby’ schtick. I’m seven for God’s sake. SEVEN. Last week, I sprouted my first pit hair. And right after that, my first hard on. Do you know what it’s like to crap in a diaper and have your mom wipe your ass when you’re SEVEN?! I’m like, “Damn, Ma, could you wipe any harder? You tryin’ to clean my ass or scratch off a lottery ticket? If I had to give you a grade, I’d give you an ‘A’ for raw Asshole.”

Me: Ya know what, here, E-trade Baby. This bag’s on me. Now let me walk you out…

ETB: Wait, wait, wait! … Can I see Brooklyn real quick?

Me: No, E-trade Baby, I told you after last time — Never again.

ETB: Whaaaat?! I’m sorry. I tolds ya. It’s not my fault — the girl was practically droolin’ ova me!

Me: That doesn’t give you the right to motorboat her leg rolls!

ETB: I can’t help it … They’re like two perfectly cooked croissants!

I look around my apartment. It dawns on me.

I don’t know where my baby is.

I look in all the usual places: Under the kitchen table. Nope. Inside the cupboards. Nope. Splashing in the toilet. Nope.

I start to panic.

Where is she?! I can’t lose my baby. Her mom will be home any minute!

Finally I walk into the laundry room and peer inside the washing machine. There she is, giggling and playing with my whites, just like I left her.

“Ya know,” I say as I lift her out, “one day you’re going to have to branch out and hang with the darks.”

***

It’s just past 8 as I finish giving Brooklyn a bath.

I dry her off and quickly inspect her. I can’t help but feel a little concerned. It’s been 10 months, and she still doesn’t have a penis.

“I’m really starting to think you’re going to be a girl,” I say.

I dress her in a fresh onsie, turn off the light and rock her to sleep.

Don’t worry – we rinsed her on gentle.

“Sleep tight my little one,” I whisper. Then I give her a kiss and place her in the crib. “Daddy loves you so much!”

I walk out of her room and quietly shut the door. I plop on the couch and study all the filth and debris that surrounds me. I can’t believe such a little creature can cause so much destruction.

I realize how much respect I have for my girlfriend. These past two days have been the hardest of my life, and they’re what my girlfriend goes through every day. It wracks me with guilt knowing that she musters every last bit of energy taking care of our baby, while I sit behind a computer screen at work IMDB-ing quotes from Fat Amy in the movie Pitch Perfect (which, by the way, you have to see. I don’t care if it’s about college glee clubs. It’s aca-mazing.).

Just then the front door creeks open, and my girlfriend walks in.

She looks around the apartment uneasily.

“How did it all go?” she asks.

“Ha,” I say. “Piece of cake!”

She looks back at me.

“You have shit on your face,” she says.

The Va-cray-tion, Part II

We wake up the next morning and put Brooklyn in her swimsuit. It’s the Fourth of July, and she’s decked out in USA colors.

“Look at our little patriot,” I say. “There’s nothing more American than red, white and half Jew.”

Baby Brooklyn Decker.

My girlfriend and I get ready for the day while Brooklyn rolls around the carpet, occasionally stopping to pose like she’s a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model. Only with less cleavage and fatter thighs.

“Maybe they can airbrush that out,” I think.

We grab Brooklyn and walk outside to the dock, where my girlfriend’s sister and her husband, Bryan, sunbathe and listen to music.

“Let’s change the channel,” my girlfriend’s sister says. “I want to listen to something like the Zac Brown Band or Lil Wayne.”

“Wait, what?” I wonder. “How does someone go from wanting to listen to country to gangster rap? Those are two entirely opposite genres. That’s like going to Redbox and saying, ‘I really want to rent The Godfather, but if they’re out of that, let’s get Mama Mia!'”

I walk toward the end of the dock, where the family boat floats in a tranquil canal. I step inside and grab a paddle board, which my girlfriend’s family rented for the week.

I climb on the board and paddle downstream. It’s just me, the board and the open water.

The Great Escape.

As I paddle, a thought runs through my head.

Now’s my chance to flee! Nobody’ll catch me … This thing goes up to 2 miles an hour!

Paddle board? More like paddle, bored.

First, I think about heading to Mexico. Finally I’ll be tan! And at 5-foot-9, I’ll be a giant! Everyone will think I played in the NBA!

But then I think about the blazing hot days, the rigorous manuel labor and all those creepy mustaches — not to mention the mustaches on the men — and I realize I’d never last.

I need to go somewhere chill. Somewhere that can fix all my ailments with universal healthcare. I need to go to CANADA! That’s what I’m all aboot!

But before I take off for my new life, two things hit me. First, the Fiber One. I look around the canal. Not a bathroom in sight.

I panic.

“If I don’t turn around, I’m going to turn this canal into a sewer!”

Second, I realize I want to go back anyway. Because my girlfriend and baby are there. And I love them.

***

Hours later, I still feel nauseous from swaying on the paddle board. It doesn’t surprise me; I’ve always had a weak stomach. I think back to my Bar Mitzvah, when I was lifted in the chair, and everyone sang Hava nagila as they rocked me up and down. I was like, Yeah, I’m a man! But then I got really bad motion sickness, and I threw up. All over everyone. Even my rabbi was like, “What a schmuck!”

Right before dinner, we put Brooklyn in her high chair and feed her a teething biscuit. She gnaws on it, then rubs the soggy, brown biscuit all over her face and hair.

Brooklyn’s having the time of her life. Elmo, not so much.

“She loves it!” my girlfriend’s mom says.

I look at my disheveled daughter, and I wonder what it’d be like if adults rubbed their favorite foods all over their face.

One thing’s for sure. Police would be a whole lot less intimidating. I imagine an officer reading me my Miranda Rights with a face covered in sprinkles and powdered sugar:

The officer cuffs me, turns me around and pats me down.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say — wait, is that Krispy Kreme in your front seat?!”

“Uh, yeah … “

“Oh my God, I love Krispy Kreme! Is that a chocolate glazed? Oh, that looks yummmmy.”

“Um, officer, your baton is really starting to dig into me.”

“That’s not my baton.”

Nana calls us to the table for dinner, and once again it looks miraculous. Fried fish, shrimp, cornbread, fresh fruit, green beans and salad. There’s no doubt in my mind that if Nana were around during biblical times, Jesus would’ve asked her to cater his last supper.

I imagine …

Everyone’s sitting around the table. Jesus is the center of attention, cracking jokes with the apostles.

“… And then I say, ‘Et tu, Judas?!'”

Everyone starts over-laughing, like when a boss tells a really bad joke.

“HAHAHAHAHA! Great one Jesus! You’re hilarious!”

A prayer is said, and everybody digs in. Jesus takes a bite of stew. He chews for a moment, pauses, then spits it out.

“Who made this?”

Everyone draws silent.

Jesus looks around the table. No one makes eye contact.

Finally one of his disciples speaks up.

“It’s a potluck, Jesus. We all made it.”

Jesus slams down his wooden spoon in disgust.

“I had one request. ONE request. And that was for NANA to cater my last supper. And you do a potluck. A POTLUCK?! Is that what you think of me?!”

“N-n-no…”

“I turn water into wine for you bitches! I’m dying for all of mankind’s sins! And you decide to bring a stale cheese platter from Sam’s Club?! GOD DAMMIT!”

“Is he allowed to say that?”

“Oh, and Peter? Where’s Peter? Just an FYI, your potato salad … tastes like DOG SHIT.”

“Your wine tastes like dog shit.”

“What did you just say, Peter?”

“I said the bible’s gonna be a major hit!”

“Damn straight!”

***

We finish dinner, then the four of us — my girlfriend, my girlfriend’s sister, Bryan and I — head to the beach to take family photos before sunset.

We take picture after picture after picture. Making Brooklyn smile is an art form. You’ve got to combine the ability of acting like a drunk monkey with the skill of capturing her smile at the perfect moment.

Look at that beautiful smile! The girls look nice, too.

We finish taking pictures and review them on the camera. And like any true narcissist, I judge the quality of each photo based on how I look. Which means that most of them are terrible.

After scrolling through dozens of pictures, I finally find one where I don’t look like I’m having a stroke.

“This one’s perfect!” I say.

“No, it’s not,” my girlfriend says. “Brooklyn’s not even looking at the camera. And she’s vomiting.”

“I know!” I say. “It’s stunning!”

***

We get back to the beach house, where my girlfriend’s mom agrees to watch the baby so that the four of us can go out.

We all get dressed up and ride the golf cart to the bar. It’s the only bar in Ocean Isle, and it’s packed with townies. Here, teeth are like my mom’s steaks. Extremely rare.

I’m feeling pretty bummed when I see a sign on the bar window that says “Free wi-fi.”

Wi-fi! Now I can finally Facebook!

It’s been four days since I’ve last had an internet connection, and the inability to search the Web has been torturous. I remember finding out that the beach house had no wireless and thinking, Is this what Nam was like?

But before we even enter the bar, my girlfriend gets a phone call from her mom. Brooklyn is crying and won’t go to sleep.

“We have to go back,” my girlfriend says.

“But I haven’t even checked in on Twitter yet!” I say. “How are my 12 followers from the other side of the country going to know where I am? We could’ve met up!”

***

From left to right: Gold, silver, and newly bronzed.

It’s the last day of our trip. We’ve just gone back to the beach house after concluding our fourth straight day at the beach.

I’m burnt from head to toe. I take off my shirt and see that my entire upper body has broken into a horrible rash. The itchiness is unbearable.

“Looks like you got what you wanted,” my girlfriend says. “Happy now?”

“I’m just glad you love bananas,” I say as I scratch dead skin off my back.

“Why’s that?” my girlfriend asks.

“Because you’ll have no problem helping me peel.”

***

We’re on the plane back to Kansas City. I’m reading a book while Brooklyn quietly plays on my girlfriend’s lap.

“Finally, some peace,” I think.

I close my book, recline my seat back the full 1/18th of an inch, and close my eyes. But just as I’m about to fall asleep, a high-pitched voice startles me.

“Hi! What’s your name?!” I hear.

I open my eyes and see a young girl around 6 or 7. She’s sitting in front of me, with her body turned around so that she’s staring directly at me.

“My name’s Jeff,” I say. “What’s yours?”

“Natalie,” she says.

I quickly find out that engaging in conversation with Natalie is a big mistake. She proceeds to ask me a hundred questions, not waiting for an answer before she’s on to the next one.

“Where do you live? How old are you? What’s your favorite color? What’s a dildo?”

My mind’s about to explode, but she won’t stop.

Brooklyn’s reaction to Natalie: “SOMEBODY MAKE IT STOP!!!!”

“One day my mommy said she was going to the store,” Natalie says. “That was three years ago. When’s she coming back?”

Never.

“Where is she?”

Canada.

“Is your baby a girl or a boy?”

“I hope it’s a girl,” I say, looking at Brooklyn in her flower dress. “Otherwise, I’m raising an extremely adorable drag queen.”

“Why do you keep staring at her?” Natalie asks.

“Because I love her,” I say. “And she’s beautiful.”

“Who’s prettier, her or me?”

I pause. That’s a tough question. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. So what I say is, “It’s a tie.”

But what I want to say is, “Are you kidding me? Of course my baby’s prettier. By a mile. Look at you. You’re missing your front teeth, your hair is tangled into a giant knot, and you’ve got dried mucus in your eyebrows. Plus, even if you were pretty, your personality totally ruins it.”

“Whyyyyyyy?” Natalie asks.

“Ughhhhhhh,” I moan.

Then I look at Brooklyn, who’s still playing quietly on my girlfriend’s lap.

“Never grow up,” I say.

The Va-cray-tion

It’s late. Minutes ago we landed at the airport in Wilmington, North Carolina, and now we’re in the car heading to my girlfriend’s beach house in Ocean Isle. In front, my girlfriend’s mom drives while my girlfriend’s 86-year-old grandfather, who she refers to as “Pop-pop,” sits shotgun.

I’m scrunched in the back. Brooklyn is in her car seat next to me, and my girlfriend sits on the opposite side.

It’s been 12 hours since our initial flight from Kansas City, and I’m exhausted. I shut my eyes, but it’s impossible to fall asleep. Brooklyn is screaming and crying, and nothing I do seems to help.

“I’ll take care of her,” my girlfriend says. “You just get some sleep.”

“I would,” I say, “but it’s pretty hard when you’re sitting by a lunatic.”

“I ain’t crazy!” Pop-pop screams. “I ain’t! You can tell that old warden! There’s bats up in that attic, there’s bats!”

“He was talking about the baby, Pop-pop,” my girlfriend says. “Not you.”

“Bats!” he shouts as he swats the air. “They’re everywhere!”

***

It’s 11:30 when we arrive at the beach house.

My girlfriend’s sister and grandma, who she refers to as “Nana” are waiting for us. Nana hasn’t seen the baby since Christmas, and she’s shocked to see how much Brooklyn has grown.

“My goodness!” she says. “Look at this chunky girl! Where has time gone?”

Here at last. Thank God Almighty, we are here at last.

“Apparently straight to her thighs,” I say.

It’s almost 1 a.m. when we finally head upstairs to our designated room. Brooklyn’s still wide awake.

I open the door and step inside. It’s huge. There’s a bathroom, a crib and two queen-sized beds on either side of the walls.

“Two beds?!” I think. “You’ve got to be kidding me. We have a child, and they’re making us sleep in separate beds?! … That’s awesome! I’m going to have so much leg room! I might actually get to experience what it’s like to have covers on my side of the bed, and maybe tonight I can even rip a few big ones without getting yelled at!”

Turns out, we’re sharing a bed after all.

“And no spooning,” my girlfriend says.

“But you know I get night tremors unless I’m held,” I say.

We finally get Brooklyn to sleep, and I hop into bed. I can’t believe how uncomfortable it is. The mattress is harder than Ricky Martin at the premier of Magic Mike.

“What the hell is this thing made out of?!” I ask my girlfriend.

“I don’t know,” she says in a half sleep. “Go to bed.”

Then she pulls off all my covers and wraps them around herself.

“Ughhhhh,” I moan as I quietly squeak out a toot.

“I heard that!” my girlfriend yells.

***

I wake up the next morning, and the delicious smell of cinnamon floods my nostrils.

Time flies when you’re eating everything.

I crawl out of bed, and my whole body aches. I feel like I just dove head first into an empty swimming pool.

I hobble downstairs to the kitchen, and there I witness breakfast heaven. There’s peaches and blueberries and watermelon and coffee cake. There’s also a wide arrange of cereals. I scan the choices: Fiber One, Raisin Bran, Oat Bran and Frosted Wheaties.

“That’s enough dynamite to blow up my colon for a month,” I think.

I grab the Fiber One, pour myself a bowl and start eating.

“I wasn’t sure what kind of cereal you like,” Nana says. “I hope one of them will work.”

I take another bite, and my stomach starts to spasm.

“Oh, it’s working,” I say.

***

We arrive at the beach, and it’s postcard perfect. Hundreds of people line the sand as greenish-blue waves crash onto shore.

Minutes before, Pop-pop had dropped us off in his golf cart. As he drove, I soaked up the scenery: A perfect blue sky. Massive three-story beach houses. And huge boats with names like “Livin’ Easy” and “Impotency’s Solution.”

I take off my shirt, and my ghostly pale body blends in perfectly with the hot, white sand.

“You’re gonna need a tub of this,” my girlfriend says as she hands me the SPF 150.

My girlfriend wanted to bring Brooklyn a pale for the beach, so I came along.

“Nope,” I say as I toss the lotion aside. “I’m going rogue. I’ve got one mission on this trip, and that’s to get scorched. I’m not stopping ’til my skin’s sizzling like fajitas.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” my girlfriend says.

“Sometimes I shower with my underwear on so that my wee-wee doesn’t get cold,” I say.

“I stand corrected,” she says.

I pick up Brooklyn. She’s wearing a pink and blue flamingo swimsuit with a white sun hat to protect her face from getting burnt. We lather her in sunscreen, then take her to the edge of the ocean. It’s murky.

“Are you sure this water is clean?” I ask my girlfriend.

“Yeah, it’s perfectly fine!” she says as a used band-aid floats behind her.

I hear sand is a delicacy in Ethiopia.

We dip Brooklyn’s feet in the ocean, and she giggles as she kicks the water. Then we place her in the wet sand and let her explore. She looks down and scans her surroundings. Apparently she thinks the ground is one giant buffet, because she immediately grabs a clump of sand and shoves it in her mouth.

“Look!” my girlfriend’s sister yells. “It’s Brooklyn’s first ‘sand’-wich!”

Over the next 10 minutes, Brooklyn eats about a dozen of these ‘sand’-wiches. She’s swallowed so many seashells that if you put her butt against your ear, you could probably hear the ocean.

***

It’s late afternoon. Everyone’s gathered on the family room carpet, watching Brooklyn as she rolls around and plays with toys. She’s the star of the show.

But just as she finishes singing another rousing chorus of gibberish, we hear a knock. My girlfriend’s sister opens the front door. It’s her good friend, Heather, along with Heather’s 18-month son, Ford. He has long, blond hair, he can walk, and he has several teeth. He also has his own impressive baby blog.

Ford walks through the door, and Brooklyn immediately goes nuts. She starts jumping up and down, cooing and panting like a dog in heat.

“Looks like Brooklyn’s into older boys,” my girlfriend’s mom says.

“Looks like Brooklyn’s ready for her first chastity belt,” I say.

Brooklyn likes Ford.

Ford, not so much.

TO BE CONTINUED …

Baby on a Plane

It’s a boiling summer morning in Kansas. Outside the air is stagnant, suffocating.

Inside the air conditioning blows violently, drowning out the clamor of a chaotic morning.

Brooklyn, my girlfriend and I are getting ready for our five-day Fourth of July vacation at her grandparents’ beach house in Ocean Isle, North Carolina. And we’re running late.

As I run around the house stuffing our bags with clothes, toiletries and squeaky toys, my girlfriend attempts to feed Brooklyn her morning bottle.

Luckily Brooklyn’s adorable. Because she’s terrible at packing.

Usually this is not a problem. Brooklyn loves her bottles. And she has the elephant thighs to prove it.

But on this morning — for the first time ever — she hardly eats a thing.

“She won’t eat!” my girlfriend says, panicking. “What do you think’s wrong?”

“She knows we’re going to the beach,” I say. “Obviously she wants to make sure she’s looking good in her bikini.”

***

We’re at the airport. Just in time.

We check in and walk to our gate. I take off my Sperry boat shoes — an essential for living in Kansas — and walk barefoot through the metal detector.

“These floors are clean, right?” I ask the security guard.

“Absolutely,” he says. “We wash them about once every 10 years.”

“Oh, that’s great,” I say. “I’ve always wanted tetanus.”

Now usually, security is very strict on what you can and cannot bring on a plane. And for whatever reason, they have deemed liquids to be enemy No. 1. Apparently the government is convinced that we’re hiding bombs in our shampoo.

In the midst of frantically packing, I forget this small tidbit.

The security guard rummages through my carry-on and grabs my bottle of shampoo.

“Sir,” he says to me, “I’m going to have to remove your Head & Shoulders.”

“What!?” I exclaim. “You can’t do that! I know I messed up, but that seems a bit extreme. I mean, maybe my shoulders, but my head?! How will I be able to watch 500 Days of Summer on the plane?!”

I finally get through security and watch as my girlfriend and baby make their way. I learn that unlike me, my girlfriend is allowed to bring water because she uses it to make the baby’s bottle.

Then it hits me.

When it comes to terrorism, the government’s got it all wrong.

The REAL faces of terrorism.

The feds shouldn’t be targeting “suspicious” Arabs. They should be targeting young, middle-class mommies.

I start to imagine what that’d be like …

“Excuse me, Miss, what’s in that container?”

“Um, it’s formula … ”

“Oh yeah? A formula for what?!”

“My baby’s bottle … ”

“One second Miss … Breaker 196, this is Eagle Eye Cherry. I have a person of interest making a ‘formula’ at gate 24A. Copy.”

“Umm, what’s going on?”

“Miss I’m going to need you to step out of line and come with me.”

“But what about my baby?!”

“Don’t worry. You can give her to this nice Arab gentleman. He’s got giant red glow sticks strapped to his chest, so I’m sure he’s safe.”

After we make it through the security check we finally arrive at our gate. The line is a mile long, and we’re at the tail end.

“We’re never getting on that plane!” my girlfriend says as she bounces our restless baby in her arms.

Just then, a Delta employee comes over the loud speaker and makes an announcement.

“We are now pre-boarding for anyone that has small children or needs special assistance.”

“That’s us!” I scream.

We jump out of line and head to a much smaller one near the gate. In front of us is another couple with a baby, and behind us is a man in a wheelchair. He’s wearing a full body cast and moaning in pain.

“Can you believe we just cut all those people?!” I ask the guy in the wheelchair. “Talk about having great luck!”

***

We’re on the plane. It’s tiny. I’ve seen canoes bigger than this. It’s 12 rows deep, and if it ever crashed, no one would ever know.

Usually I feel lucky to get a window seat. On this plane, you’re lucky if you get the window seat.

Our seats happen to be in the last row, right in front of the restroom.

“I think someone is dropping a load,” I tell my girlfriend.

“Why?” she asks. “Can you smell it?”

“No,” I say. “I can hear it.”

Before we depart, the pilot stands in front of the cabin to give us some pertinent information.

“Can the people in the back hear me?” he asks.

Yeah, we can hear you. We’re sitting five feet away.

The plane takes off, and I’m shaking with anxiousness. This is my first time flying with Brooklyn, and I’m praying she doesn’t cry and turn us into that obnoxious family that everyone on the plane wants to see murdered.

“Those parents look miserable trying to helplessly console their crying baby. Let’s all glare at them and make them feel worse!”

About 30 minutes into the flight, everything’s going smooth. My girlfriend is playing with the baby, and I’m watching 500 Days of Summer because I was able to convince the security guard to let me keep my head.

Just then Brooklyn turns to me, scrunches up her face, and starts grunting.

Oh no.

“What just happened?” my girlfriend asks.

“I’m not sure,” I say. “But I think Brooklyn just experienced some turbulence in her diaper.”

I get out of my seat and carry Brooklyn a half a step to the bathroom. I try to open the door, but it’s occupied.

“Might as well sit back down,” I hear a guy yelling from inside. “I just ate a Cinnabon, so it’s going to be a while.”

I walk another half step back to our seats. As I’m getting situated, I accidentally hit Brooklyn’s head on the tray table.

The only turbulence was in my lap. Not that those guys behind me seemed to mind.

Oh no.

She looks at me and smiles.

Crisis averted.

But then that smile quickly turns into a frown, and she starts wailing hard enough to crack the airplane windows.

I hold the baby closely as I frantically rock her.

“It’s OK baby, it’s OK,” I say. “Daddy’s right here. He’s right here!”

It doesn’t work.

Every passenger on the plane is now staring and giving us nasty looks.

It’s the same look I’m giving the baby.

How could you do this! You’ve betrayed me!

Brooklyn’s cries get louder. She’s inconsolable. My worst nightmare has come to fruition.

Tiny plane, screaming baby, everyone staring at us, nowhere to run.

I hand the baby to my girlfriend and get up.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m just going to step outside.”

The Checkup

Back to the scene of the crime.

The hospital. The same hospital where Brooklyn was born.

We’re here for her four-month checkup.

As we walk toward the doctor’s office, an eerie feeling creeps over me.

It’s just like four months ago, when we came for the birth. Only this time, it’s me that’s laboring.

I’m carrying Brooklyn in her baby carrier, trying not to pass out from lugging her all the way to the third floor.

“Did you fill her diapers with lead?” I ask my girlfriend. “I feel like I’m carrying Danny DeVito.”

So cute I could cry…from pulling my back carrying her.

I walk a few more steps. Then, sweat-stained and panting, I drop the carrier, hunch over and try to catch my breath.

I feel like a fallen soldier in the middle of battle.

“What’s wrong?” my girlfriend asks.

“I don’t think I’m going to make it,” I say.

“You have to make it!” my girlfriend says. “We’re already 10 minutes late!”

I fall slowly to the ground, tuck myself into the fetal position and begin shivering.

“It’s so c-cold,” I say. “I think I see the light.”

“Yeah, it’s fluorescent,” my girlfriend says.

“Tell the baby I love her,” I continue, my eyelids beginning to fade. “Now go! Go before it’s too late!”

“I can’t,” my girlfriend says. “The baby’s under your insurance.”

Then she picks up the baby carrier and starts walking.

“See how easy this is?” she asks. “Now quit being a little girl and GET UP!”

“Calm down,” I say, crawling to my feet. “My insurance doesn’t cover badly bruised egos.”

***

My girlfriend opens the door to the pediatrician’s office, and we walk in.

There’s babies everywhere. And they’re all crying. The sound is overwhelming.

A large blue vein begins to protrude from my forehead, and I feel a sudden urge to go Arnold Schwarzenegger in Kindergarten Cop on them.

“SHUUUUUUT UUUUUUUP! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

We walk to the front desk and check in. The lady behind the counter gives me an evil glare. It’s like she’s the grim reaper, and I’ve just arrived in hell.

“Welcome,” she says with a wry grin. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

This is a much better form of transportation. It’s also a surefire way to get stopped for stealing a baby.

Then she hands us a bunch of forms and tells us to fill them out while we wait.

My girlfriend and I sit down and look over the paperwork. There’s tons of questions, and we don’t know the answers to any of them.

“How much have you been breastfeeding?” one of the questions reads.

“Enough to make my nipples feel like beef jerky,” my girlfriend writes.

We finish the paperwork, and a few minutes later a shoddy, obese nurse with wild eyes and greasy hair opens the door and calls us in.

“Brooklyn Birnbaum!” she says.

We get up, and as soon as the nurse sees our baby, she starts smacking her lips like she’s just been served prime rib.

I turn to my girlfriend.

“I don’t want that nurse near our baby,” I whisper.

“Why not?”my girlfriend asks.

“She’s trippin’ on bath salts!” I say.

***

The three of us wait in our assigned room when the door slowly opens.

In walks the pediatrician, a small Asian woman in her mid-40s.

“How’s it going?” I ask.

The doctor shakes her head.

“I sorry,” she says. “My English is poor.”

“It’s OK,”  I say. “So are we. That’s why you’re our doctor.”

Then the doctor makes us strip our baby naked so that she can record her weight and height.

She informs us that Brooklyn weighs 15 pounds, 13 ounces and is 25 3/4 inches long.

“Fat baby!” the doctor says. “Mommy must have yummy breast milk.”

“She sure does!” I say. “I mean, I’ve heard …”

After that, the doctor takes out a bell and starts ringing it.

“What’s that for?” I ask.

“Watch baby to see if she hears sound,” the doctor says.

The doctor rings the bell several times, but Brooklyn never looks, seeming oblivious to any of the noise.

The doctor shakes her head.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“If baby don’t turn head, she might have problem hearing,” she says.

“You mean, she could be deaf?” I ask, the vein in my forehead slowly returning.

“It possible,” the doctor says.

“No, it’s not!” I say. “I can’t have a deaf baby. I hate silent movies. Besides, I’m terrible at sign language!”

A memory from my youth flashes into my head.

It’s little league. I’m on first base. There’s two outs, and we’re down by one. I look over to the third base coach. He looks at me, makes several hand signals, then claps. The pitcher starts his wind up, and immediately I bolt for second base. But before he pitches the ball, he turns around and throws it to the second baseman, who easily tags me out. The game is over, and we lose.

As I walk to the dugout, the third base coach runs over to me.

“What the hell was that?” he asks.

“You gave me the steal sign,” I say.

“No I didn’t!” he says.”I was just itching my jock!”

“Three times?!” I ask.

“Yes, you idiot!” he yells. “Why do you think I named our team The Burnin’ Crabs?!”

I snap back to reality.

Gas drops. Brooklyn doesn’t.

“Is our baby going to be OK?” I ask, still in a panic.

“Your baby is fine,” the doctor says.

“Noooo!” I scream.

“What’s the matter with you?” my girlfriend asks. “She just said the baby is fine.”

“Ohhhhh,” I say, calming down. “I couldn’t understand her! I thought she said, ‘Your baby is dyin’.'”

The doctor points the bell at me.

“He crazy,” she says. “Coo coo like cocoa puff.”

Then she performs a few more tests. She looks into Brooklyn’s ears, checks her eyes and peers down her throat.

After that, the doctor checks the baby’s bottom for signs of a rash. But just as she gets nose-deep, Brooklyn unleashes a cataclysmic fart that nearly blows the doctor back to Asia.

“Oh wow!” the doctor exclaims as she straightens back her glasses. “Baby filled with more gas than Honda Civic!”

“I know,” my girlfriend says, worried. “She passes gas all the time. What should we do?”

“Go to pharmacy and buy baby gas drops,” the doctor says. “That help baby sound like tiny mouse, not like wild elephant.”

The doctor scribbles a few more notes in her folder, thanks us, and leaves.

“Great,” my girlfriend says. “We’ve gotta go to the pharmacy and get those gas drops. But I don’t even know where they sell them.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I know exactly where they are.”

A Very Jewish Christmas

I pick up my phone, dial the number and hit ‘Talk.’

It’s the week before my first Christmas, and I’m more anxious than Sarah Jessica Parker at the Kentucky Derby.

So many horses. One of them has to be my father!

I want to get my girlfriend something special, but before I buy it, I need to find out what the rest of her family got her.

Only, there’s a slight problem.

I don’t know if my girlfriend’s family still acknowledges Santa Clause’s existence, and I don’t want to be rude by assuming they know he’s not real.

The phone stops ringing, and my girlfriend’s mom picks up.

We chat awkwardly for a few moments, then I get to the heart of why I’ve called.

“So … uh…,” I begin confidently. “You wouldn’t happen to know what Santa’s leaving your daughter under the Christmas tree, would you?”

There’s a pause.

“Are you kidding me?” her mom answers. “This is a joke, right? Of course I know. I’m her mother! I bought those damn gifts. You really think there’s a Santa? … Wait, Jeff, will you hold on a sec? I’ve got the other line. It’s the ‘Easter Bunny’ …”

“Well, all right,” I say, annoyed. “But could you ask him for some gift ideas?”

“You’re an idiot,” she says.

***

My girlfriend and I are blessed. For many reasons. We love each other, we have a healthy baby, and we never have to worry about the toilet seat being left up because we both pee sitting down.

But there’s still one giant elephant in the room that neither of us wants to discuss: Religion.

See, she was born Methodist. And I was born with shoulder hair. Or in other words, a Jew.

Though both of us come from strong religious backgrounds, neither of us currently practice. In fact, if religion were a sport, I’d be Allen Iverson.

“We’re talking about practice?! Practice?! … I mean listen, we’re sitting here talking about practice! Not a game, not a game, not a game, but we’re talking about practice, man!”

But even though we’re both secular, we’ve decided that we want our daughter to grow up with a religion.

Brooklyn and her mommy on Christmas Eve.

We just don’t know which one.

“How about we explain the core beliefs of each faith, and then let Brooklyn decide for herself?” my girlfriend once suggested.

“That’s not a bad idea,” I had replied.

Then I began to imagine:

It’d be just like The Practice. Brooklyn would be the judge, and my girlfriend and I would be the attorneys, debating for hours before giving our closing arguments.

My girlfriend would be like, “Your Honor. If you choose Christianity, you’ll get to believe in Jesus, the son of God who died for your sins. You’ll get to celebrate Christmas, where you’ll get to decorate a giant tree and put up beautiful Christmas lights. You’ll sing about Rudolph and Donor and Blitzen, and you’ll get to open tons of wonderful presents that were given to you by Santa Claus, the jolliest man on Earth. Plus, you’ll be a member of the most popular religion in the world.”

Then I’d be like, “Your Honor. If you choose Judaism, you won’t get any of that. No Jesus, no Santa Clause, no reindeer. In fact, most of the world will probably hate you. But … when you grow up … you have a 99 percent chance of being really f-cking rich!”

My girlfriend would be like, “I object! I obj –”

Then Brooklyn would pound the gavel. “Order, order, order! I’ve come to a decision … Someone get this girl a yamakah!”

***

It’s Christmas Eve. I, along with the rest of my girlfriend’s family, sit two rows from the back of the biggest church I’ve ever seen.

I feel like I’m at Kauffman Stadium; I need binoculars just to see the action. The only difference is that this place is actually full.

“Maybe if the Royals invested less time in Luke Hochevar and more time in Jesus, they’d actually have some believers,” I tell my girlfriend.

“Shhhh,” she says. “The service is about to begin.”

After a few minutes of gripping announcements — the Jump Rope for Jesus on Thursday sounds like a whale of a time — the Pastor leads the congregation in prayer.

I join in, screaming at the top of my lungs.

“HARK, THE HERALD ANGELS SING! GLORY TO A NEW BORN KING!”

The church members all turn and stare at me.

“What are you doing?!” my girlfriend whispers.

“We’re sitting in the nosebleeds,” I answer. “If I’m going to do this, I want to make sure Jesus can hear me!”

***

It’s Christmas morning.

My girlfriend, my baby and I all arrive at my girlfriend’s mom’s house.

Why go to church to read about angels when I’ve got my own right here?

It’s early. Too early. I’m used to celebrating Hanukkah, which takes place during the night.

“I don’t care how great Christmas is,” I tell my girlfriend as I ring the doorbell. “No holiday is worth celebrating at 7 a.m.”

“What’s your deal?” my girlfriend asks.

“I don’t do mornings!” I say. “I do nights. Date nights. Late nights. Put me in front of a live studio audience and I’ll say, ‘Ittt’s Saturday Night!’ BUT I DO NOT DO MORNINGS!”

Her mom opens the door.

“Merry Christmas!” she exclaims.

“Merry Christmas!” I reply. “Which way to the eggnog?”

***

After getting settled in and sufficiently tipsy, I join everyone in the family room. It’s packed. There’s almost as many people as there are gifts under the tree.

As I look around, I feel like I stick out like a — well, like a Jew on Christmas morning.

To the left of the tree sit my girlfriend’s mom and my girlfriend’s younger sister. To the right sit my girlfriend’s older sister and her husband, along with her husband’s parents. Behind us sit my girlfriend’s grandparents, who drove all the way from North Carolina to be here for Brooklyn’s first Christmas.

“I’m sure you’re used to all this, Jeff,” my girlfriend’s older sister says. “Hanukkah’s eight crazy nights, right?”

“Not really,” I say. “It’s more like two nights of disappointment followed by six nights of who gives a crap.”

The gift opening ensues, and it rages on forever. Gift after gift. Picture after picture. Hug after hug.

Brooklyn with her brown, hairy bear. And a new stuffed animal!

And every gift that is opened is received with a variation of the same reaction.

“O.M.G. That is so cute!” Or, “That’s really cute!” Or, “That’s so stinkin’ cute!”

“I think I’m going to vomit,” I whisper to Brooklyn.

Then I look at her spit-stained dress.

“Looks like you’re one step ahead of me,” I say.

A few gifts later, my girlfriend’s mom hands me a small present.

“This one’s for Brooklyn, from her cousins in Carolina.”

I open it up, and it appears to be a small metal dumbbell with Brooklyn’s monogram engraved on it.

My face turns red with anger.

“What is this?!” I ask. “Why would someone give a dumbbell to a baby? I know she’s got some extra fat, but good God! She’s a baby! What else did her cousins get her? A treadmill and a Nike calorie counter so she can see how much weight she loses every time she takes a dump?! This is outrageous!”

The whole room draws quiet.

“It’s not a dumbbell,” my girlfriend says. “It’s a rattle!”

Then she shakes it.

“See!” she says.

“Oh … M. G!” I say. “That is so stinkin’ cute!”

***

It’s  1 p.m. Time for an intermission. Or as Jewish people like to call it, “lunch.”

We all walk into the kitchen, and there’s food as far as the eye can see.

There’s corn bread and salad and mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes and cranberries and six — six! — different kinds of casserole. At the end of the line there’s two different large trays. One is filled with turkey, the other with ham.

“Why aren’t you getting any ham, young man?” my girlfriend’s grandpa grumbles.

“Because Jewish people aren’t allowed to eat pork products,” I tell him.

He looks back at me with wild, enraged eyes, like it was 1941 again, and I had just broken the news about Pearl Harbor.

“DEAR MOTHER OF MOSES!” he yells. “IT CAN’T BE TRUE!”

“Unfortunately it is,” I say.

“I don’t get it,” he replies. “Why the hell can’t Jews eat the greatest animal on God’s green earth? Aren’t you supposed to be ‘The Chosen’ people?”

“We are,” I respond. “We’re the ones God ‘chose’ to make miserable.”

As we finish eating, my girlfriend’s mom comes up to my girlfriend and me and hands us the wish bone.

I was like, “I’ma break you in two, wishbone!” And the wishbone was all like, “Awww snap!”

“As new parents, you two get the honor of breaking the wish bone,” she announces. “The goal is to make the same wish. It should be something important. Something that means a lot to the both of you. Something like happiness, or success or great health.”

I look at my girlfriend. She looks back at me. Then we both look at our baby. It’s like we can read each other’s minds. Even though we haven’t said a word, I know in my heart we’re both wishing for the same thing.

“Ready … Go!” my girlfriend’s mom screams.

We start pulling the wishbone, twisting it with all our might until it finally breaks.

The bone snaps, and I end up with the larger piece.

“I win!” I exclaim. “I win!”

Then I look around the room, searching to see if my wish was granted.

“Where’s the iPad?!” I yell. “Does somebody see an iPad?!”

“That’s what you wished for?” my girlfriend asks.

“Well, duh!” I say. “Now where is it? Could you lift up the baby? She’s probably sitting on it. I can’t wait to download 50 Shades of Grey!”

***

The sun is setting. Christmas is almost over.

My girlfriend’s mom just opened a gift from us, even though she insisted she didn’t want anything.

“This beautiful baby is my gift,” she says.

“No it’s not,” I protest. “If the baby were a gift, I would have exchanged her for a different color.”

“What?” my girlfriend’s mom asks.

“I’m just saying,” I continue, “that baby’s are like iPhones. Everyone wants a black one.”

“Not me!” my girlfriend’s grandpa yells.

Then I give my girlfriend her gift from me.

“I know how much you’ve been through this past month,” I say. “So I wanted to give you something I knew you’d enjoy.”

She opens it up.

It’s a gift certificate for a full spa treatment at a nearby salon.

“I love it!” my girlfriend says.

“I’m so glad,” I say. “I bought the ‘John Travolta’ package, so everything’s included.”

“This is exactly what I needed,” she says. “Thank you so much!”

“You’re welcome,” I say. “But don’t thank me. Thank the Easter Bunny.”

Tub Girl

It’s Monday evening. Time for Brooklyn’s bath.

It’s been four days since we last washed her, and she’s starting to brown like a rotten banana.

Usually Brooklyn smells great — like peppermint. I’m not sure why, but I think it’s because I drank a handle of Rumple Minze the night she was conceived.

Maybe you should wear protection.

Don’t worry, babe. I’m like a giant bottle of Listerine: minty fresh and 100 percent sterile!

Right now, Brooklyn doesn’t smell anything like peppermint.

For whatever reason, she always seems to pick up the scent of whoever she’s around. Earlier in the evening she was at Bingo Night with grandma. Which means that tonight she smells like Xanax and cigarettes.

Brooklyn’s got more crack than the city she’s named after.

“Maybe Brooklyn should stop going to Bingo,” I tell my girlfriend.

“But Grandma loves Bingo,” my girlfriend says. “She always wins.”

“Trust me,” I say. “When a bunch of menopausal women gather in one place, no one wins.”

I head to Brooklyn’s room and start getting ready for her bath. Washing a baby is kind of like getting a colonoscopy. The worst part is the prep.

I grab the whale-shaped plastic tub, the sponge, the wash cloth and the bath soap and place it all next to the kitchen sink.

Then I undress the baby, take off her diaper and wipe up whatever surprise she’s left me.

After that, it’s a race to get her as clean as possible before she turns the tub into a Johnny-on-the-spot.

“That won’t happen,” my girlfriend says.

“If Brooklyn’s anything like me, it will,” I say.

“Uh, what?” my girlfriend asks.

“Whenever I take a bath my bowels turn into instant oatmeal,” I say. “Just add warm water and I’m ready to go!”

“You’re no longer allowed to take baths here,” she says.

“That’s fine,” I say. “The same thing happens when I shower.”

I lift Brooklyn from the changing mat and place her in the tub. As my girlfriend mixes the soap and water, I can’t help but stare at my naked baby.

She’s absolutely adorable.

But man, is she fat.

Not a happy camper after Daddy scalded her back.

She’s got rolls everywhere. And by the way she smells, I’m pretty sure she’s hiding a tuna sandwich in one of them. She also has so many cracks, I can’t tell which one is the crack.

“I’ve been wiping the wrong one this whole time,” I think.

Despite all the baby fat, I’m relieved that we can at least see Brooklyn’s belly button. When she was first born she had an outtie, which worried the hell out of me.

“People are going to think she’s a circus freak!” I thought. “She’ll be put in the same tent as the one-eyed monster and the three-titted lady! … I wonder how much it costs to see the three-titted lady?”

Luckily my baby’s belly button turned out to be just like 1940’s fashion: totally in right now.

We turn on the faucet and begin to wash her. I take a plastic cup, fill it with warm water — it’s important it’s not too hot, otherwise it will burn her skin — and pour it over her body.

After she’s completely wet, I wash her with the sponge while my girlfriend digs the fossils out of her cracks with the rag.

“I think this one was a brontosaurus,” she says as she removes the crusty remains from Brooklyn’s thigh roll.

Next, it’s time to rinse her. My girlfriend lifts Brooklyn up so that her back’s facing me. She’s got the cutest, tiniest bottom in the world. And it’s full of cellulite.

I feel like Kanye West the first time he hooked up with Kim Kardashian.

Wait, wait, wait. THIS is what you look like naked?! Damn girl, put yo clothes back on! No wonder Kris Humphries dumped dat ass. It’s covered in cottage cheese!

After burning Brooklyn the least I could do was let her borrow my robe.

I begin to pour the water on Brooklyn’s back, but as I do this, I realize I forgot to make sure the water’s not too hot.

It doesn’t take long to realize it is.

Within seconds of pouring the water, she’s screaming bloody murder as her back turns redder than a ginger without sunscreen.

“Oh God, what have I done?!” I scream. “I just burned my child! Social Services is going to take her. I’m going to jail. I can’t go to jail. I’ll become someone’s bitch!”

“Calm down,” my girlfriend says. “She’ll be fine. You’re not going to jail, and you won’t become someone’s bitch. You’re already mine.”

A few minutes and a burst eardrum later, Brooklyn finally calms down. We dry her off, put her in a new diaper and lather her with baby lotion.

Then we put her in her robe and place her in the basinet. She giggles like nothing ever happened.

“See, I told you she’d be fine,” my girlfriend says. “Now go make me a sandwich, bitch!”

Breast in Show

It’s 10:30 in the morning.

The sun sneaks through the bedroom curtains, providing enough light for my annoyed eyes to slowly open.

It’s the weekend. Finally.

As I begin to stretch, I suddenly realize I’ve got company. My girlfriend and Brooklyn are here.

It feels weird. Different.

Back in the day, waking up Saturday morning with two girls in my bed meant a wild night.

Now it means Mommy’s breastfeeding.

And the Golden Globes go to ...

Which is still kind of hot.

I look over at my girlfriend, who sits upright with a pillow on her lap and a burp towel draped over her shoulder.

The baby squirms wildly on the pillow, her face hidden toward her mom as she attempts to eat.

As she does this, I can’t help but stare. My girlfriend’s chest has never looked more glorious.

She’s never been an actress, but ever since the birth, she’s had two golden globes.

“If this is what happens,” I think, “I hope she breast feeds Brooklyn until she’s 20.”

After gawking for what seems like eternity, the sound of my girlfriend’s voice snaps me from my trance.

“I thought the baby’s the one who’s supposed to be drooling,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” I say as I wipe my mouth with the burp towel. “How’s, uh, this … going?”

“Horribly,” my girlfriend says. “I’ve been sitting here forever, but she won’t latch on. And even when she does, she’s not getting anything.”

“Well, Daddy’s getting a little something,” I say.

My girlfriend glares at me.

“That’s not funny,” she says.

“You’re right,” I say. “I’m sorry. I hope things perk up.”

***

Thirty minutes later, the baby finally finishes eating.

“That’s one hell of a milk mustache,” I say.

“At least one of you can grow one,” my girlfriend says.

Then my girlfriend, exhausted and drained, hands me the baby.

“Will you try to burp her?” she asks.

“Sure,” I say. “No problem.”

I grab the burp towel, place Brooklyn over my shoulder and gently begin to pat her.

“Come on, girl,” I say. “Burp for Daddy.”

Five minutes in, she still hasn’t burped.

I know. I'm a natural.

I remove her from my shoulder and hold her directly in front of me.

“Why won’t you burp for Daddy?” I ask as I lightly bounce her up and down.

Just then, she unleashes a mammoth belch that nearly blows off my eyebrows. I feel like Doc standing in front of the DeLorean right before it goes back to the future.

“Great Scott!” I yell as I lift Brooklyn in triumph.

Then I look up toward her face, and just as our eyes begin to lock, she starts spitting up streams of chunky white goo.

All over my face.

“HELP!” I scream. “GET IT OFF ME! I CAN’T SEE! I CAN’T SEE! I THINK IT’S IN MY MOUTH!”

“That’s what she said!” my girlfriend exclaims.

“Not lately,” I think.

***

Not too long after I’ve lost all of my remaining dignity, my girlfriend and I sit at the dinner table.

“I hate breastfeeding,” my girlfriend says. “It’s awkward, it’s uncomfortable and it sucks.”

“Technically she sucks,” I say. “And look at it this way. No matter how empty our fridge is, at least we’ll always have something to eat.”

Honey, I’m hungry! Will you squirt me a glass of milk?!

“Plus,” I continue, “if we ever want to enjoy a cocktail, all you have to do is drink some vodka, and bam! You’re making white russians.”

As we talk, Brooklyn lies in her bassinet, grunting uncomfortably like she’s Bob Barker sitting on the john.

Screw a newwww car, I need a newwww colon! Where are my beauties? These depends aren’t going to change themselves!

I feel sorry for my baby.

No wonder Brooklyn's digestive system is all messed up. This baby'll eat anything.

She may not have inherited my Dumbo ears, my Jewy nose or my Teen Wolf knuckle hair (yet), but she did get my awful digestive system.

I just hope she outgrows the grunting/public farting phase by high school.

I start to imagine …

A cocky jock wearing a letter jacket presses his forearm against her locker.

“So, uh, hey Brooklyn. Wadya doin’ Friday night?”

Brooklyn looks up at him. She’s sweet and nervous.

“I’m not sure. I don’t think I have any — UGHHHH … UGHHHH … UGHHHH … (gigantic fart) … plans.”

The jock blinks twice, completely unfazed.

“Sounds kinky. Pick ya up at 7?”

“Sounds great. (toot) See ya then!” 

And then it hits me.

I need to buy a gun.