In Which My Gay Ex And I Have A Baby

Okay, so the title is misleading. We were only babysitting. And we only had her for an hour. But still, it was strange. And we don't really consider each other exes, but it's somewhat complicated, so it's funnier this way

For starters, he isgay (evidently I am repulsive enough to have this power?;). Therefore, by all laws of nature, we are still bestest friends, but I am not allowed to wear bad shoes or anything Stacy and Clinton would disapprove of. That's okay though - I do the same for him. We still do the "honey" and "baby" thing for shits and giggles, so when we go out together, people sometimes assume we are together.

Add a real baby into that mix and people seem to think we are the cutest, young parents eber to roam the fucking Earth. ("Oh, how old is your daughter?" "Er...she's...uh... six months".)

For starters, I didn't know we were going anywhere, so I was totally decked out in my gym clothes, which today consisted of bright green pants and a fushia top ("at least it isn't Cookie Monster. Or Animal. Or Pooh. Actually, do you have any age appropriate shirts?"). (To which the answer is no - but I do have seven Super Mario shirts...). This method of dress (the "whatever is clean" scheme) rarely manages to impress those of the opposite sex, or those who watch What Not To Wear. My gym shoes are wet and disgusting monsters, so we squeak along wherever we go, as I clunk along with the baby in the seat while singing Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer (and my lack of ability to carry a tune is pointed out.)

Anyway, we end up at McDonalds, where I plonk the baby seat on the table and "Uncle" goes to order while "Auntie Jenn" stays back and sings. (More Rudolph. All that will calm this child down right now is Rudolph.) I fiddle with the handles on the car seat, in an attempt to move the handle up so I can rock the baby from afar. No luck. A mother at a nearby table comes over and glares at me, as if to say, "That baby is pretty big. You should know how to work this thing by now". And she stares. And she stares. And she stares. "You know, if you need a snow suit for the baby, I have a few at home," she says as she mentally takes over the position of the car seat handles. I look at her dumbfounded. Do you really think I am dumb enough to bring a baby out in December sans snow suit? I look down at the baby, who is giddily smiling. And not wearing her snowsuit. "Oh," I stammer nervously, after having just given this generous woman the most evil eye I could muster, "it was hot in the car so I took it off. She does have one. But thank you." She stares at me.

It is clear she does not believe me. I am a horrible Auntie. She continues, "Well, it is blue because I have all boys, but it'll keep her warm." Yes, ma'am. I get it. You think I am lying about whether "my" baby has a snowsuit. It is pink. It is sitting in the back seat of the red car over there. It has bows and booties. Would you like me to go get it as proof?

My counterpart announces that the baby smells "somewhat funky". I investigate, and agree, that the baby smells a bit off. Luckily, I have brought the blue bag of baby gear. I lose the probability game of who gets to change the diaper automatically, so I scoop the baby up and into the bathroom we go. Auntie Jenn does not know how this is done. She balances the baby on her hip, locks the door, and attempts to get the change table to fold down.

There are dainty little "change table pads" that resemble giant napkins. Auntie Jenn gingerly removes one, and tries to smooth it out. No go. This thing is foldy. I have a squirmy baby.

The baby uses her feet to defeat the possibility of the little napkinish pad sticking to the cold plastic table. Baby pulls my earring, leading to a scream of pain from me and a squeal of delight from her. Babies are sadistic. I finally get the little pad set out (and trust me, this is like using a postage stamp to wrap a vase), and set the baby down. The baby has attached her fingers to my gold necklace. It scrapes a tiny mole on the side of my neck. Again, I wince in pain. The baby is very amused. Babies are extremely sadistic. The snowsuit woman from the dining room bangs on the door, "Do you need a hand there, honey?". No. I need a cigarette. And some hand sanitizer.

Next comes the changing table. No stranger to diapers, I get right down to business. Until I realize that the wet wipes are missing from the arsenal of baby supplies. Shit. I strap the baby on to the table with the little tiny strappy thing, and hold on to her with my left hand while I wad up toilet paper with the right. The baby manages to take off her socks while I am occupied for three seconds. I get her cleaned and redressed. She pukes on me. I giggle, and tell the baby how cute she is. Babies make Auntie Jenn thinks puke is cute.

I return to the dining room and finish my nuggets, while the baby has a tantrum. I sing. I dance. I make little boys in the McDonalds remark, "Mommy, what's wrong with that baby's mommy? Does the baby want some hockey cards? I wish I had hockey cards."

I grab Humpty Dumpty and rock back and forth, saying "Your real mommy will be here soon". I begin singing Rudolph again. Uncle's cell phone goes off. "Thank God, your mommy is DONE her errands!". Charlie and I smile. I continue singing. She falls asleep.

Snowsuit woman remarks how peaceful the baby is. I lick my wounds, and put on my ear muffs.

"Are you sure you don't want that snowsuit? I have email."

I was almost tempted to take down the email address, just because.

"The baby really needs a snowsuit," she says, obviously very concerned.

We get it. The baby needs a snowsuit. Thanks for your guidance.

The baby barfs again, and we return her to her mother, exhausted from our one hour trip into the parenting world.

"See, honey, that's why I'm glad you're gay."

Snowsuit lady almost shits her pants.