Certifiably Crazy

…is what we are for having the audacity to take our 4 month old on a 5 1/2 hour plane flight to Hawaii. At least according to conventional wisdom.

But you know… screw it. I'm tired of hiding from public view so as to not (gasp!) interrupt some first class snob's cat nap for the 5 minutes it takes Paisley to gurgle and burp herself to sleep.

Here's a quarter, invest in some foam ear plugs.

Am I being selfish?

I say no. Since this trip really isn't for me. I think baby's first vacation is way over due. She seemed to develop a travel bug around month 2 and hasn't ceased in her pleas for a family trip.

Apparently she wants to swim with the turtles.

Furthermore, its not like this will be her first foray into air travel. With 2 successful trips between Austin and SoCal and one trip to Kansas City, she's well on her way to earning her wings. Hopefully we'll once again avoid hitting her self-destruct button…though we'll bring the baby Benadryl just in case.

Thine Poo Floweth Freely

It’s not hard to describe all the funny/happy/surprising events one enjoys as a father. One simply needs to act the journalist, happily reporting on the day's events:

My kid is so advanced…

My kid is so cute…

My kid is so funny…

My kid is (add adjective here)

The complications arise when describing those “other” interesting parental experiences. The ones that every parent suffers through but are, for the most part, kept safely hidden from public consumption lest we scare off other would-be breeders from the joys of parenthood.

Fore example, how does one describe a catastrophic baby poo incident without devolving into snickering juvenile potty humor?

My solution came unexpectedly one day while Melissa rummaged through her old high school letters and school work. Out came an inspired and hilarious limerick she wrote in her 12th grade creative writing class about - get this - Richard Nixon! Incidentally it had nothing to do with Nixon as a President, his public persona… or really anything remotely distinguishing any part of life. It WAS however a brilliant snapshot of Melissa's 18 year old brain and a reminder that you can flower up any type of subject matter for poetic purposes.

But what form should my pooriffic poem take?

Haiku? Free form? Sonnet?!

Of course! A Shakespearean Sonnet! I'll just call upon my old friend iambic pentameter to bail me out (once again):

Bursting t'words heavens blue; bisque streams exhumed

So spew-ith ye bum in lupine relief.

Calamitous fallout! White chair consumed

Bewildered clutch I bleach pen and kerchief.

But after the first quatrain I began to question my sanity.