OK, Who's in charge here?

I guess last night was our official "Welcome to the Club". After years of rolling my eyes at hapless couples in public with crying babies, we are now the targets of the eye-rollers. I guess it's time to change my opinion on the matter.

I met Mrs. U and the Undaling at Costco after work to get our 20-pound Thanksgiving bird.

Instead of the usual browsing at the various big-screen TV's, we flew through that aisle as if "stroller speed" would somehow soothe the unusually cranky creature riding shotgun. We eventually made it back to the turkey section by creating a kind of Bizarro-world wagon train. I hope nobody took a photo of this. Let me see if I can describe it. I'm in front, pushing an oversized shopping cart with one hand and pulling the front of the stroller with the other hand behind me. Mrs. U is pushing the other end of the stroller in the back of the line with a screaming baby thrashing about on her shoulder. I swear I've seen this scene in Costco before, but I never knew I'd someday be the one providing the entertainment.

Minutes later, Mrs. U was in the front of the store, feeding the baby again (because it had been a half hour since he'd last eaten). I finished up the shopping while this was taking place. I do have to admit that I'm dangerous without a chaperone in Costco. You can see proof of this in the form of the 4-pound canister of Jelly Belly jelly beans currently sitting on our kitchen counter.

The temporary "milk coma" bought us enough time to walk to our cars and load the groceries and the baby into the van. It also convinced us that we'd be fine to go out to dinner. Ha! Silly parents.

We arrived at the "family-friendly" Mexican restaurant and set up shop in the corner of the dining room. I've noticed that hostesses pick different spots in restaurants for us now that we have a little one in tow. Thirty seconds after we were seated, the fussing started. It began with little Oprah-phrases (all five of them actually), then quickly morphed into a full-fledged primal scream (not unlike something you'd here at a major metropolitan zoo). Mrs. U picked him up to buy a minute or two of silence, then handed him over the table (narrowly missing the nachos) to me and I tried to do the same. Apparently, he didn't want to hear my soulful rendition of the Beatles' Golden Slumbers and I soon handed him back over the table (narrowly missing the salsa) to my wife. She held him while we ordered, then fed him again as we enjoyed another 10 minutes of zen.

Another thing I've noticed about how we're treated at restaurants is that our food comes out a lot faster now. They must put a rush on any ticket attached to a small child. I'm fine with getting in and getting out. Our food arrived about two minutes after we ordered. For a few minutes, I just stared at my plate and said to my wife "I'll wait for you." Soon, I remembered an anecdote some stressed-out parent had told me about taking turns eating and I decided to forge ahead without my wife. I ate as quickly as I could. Mrs. U finished feeding baby, then burped him, then layed him down. I counted backwards from ten, and he was crying by the time I got to four.

As I continued to chow down like I was in a chicken enchilada competitive eating contest, Mrs. U got up to change him in the ladies room. All the while, I was wondering what my food actually tasted like. When I saw her walking back to the table, I laid down my tired fork and pushed the plate away, ready to take my turn.

Mrs. U came back and said "Wow, he was very happy just now. I guess he just wanted to walk around."

Back in the carseat, this time he waited about 8 seconds to cry. I picked him up and did my best to entertain him while Mrs. U began eating. I broke eye contact with the baby to check on my wife. She, too, was now shoveling food into her mouth. Wow, this is the way to eat.

"We look like a couple of idiots", I said. "Guess what. We're those people now. Ladies and Gentlemen, that guy!"

Oops. I looked back down at the baby and apparently my comments had hurt his feelings. I watched as his little face twisted back into that "I'm about to throw a fit" look.

"Honey, you keep eating and pay the bill and I'm going to walk around."

There it was. Two ships passing in the night, both held together by an 8-pound tyrant. I carried the baby outside and suddenly he was in the best mood I'd seen him in all night. He stared up at the lights of the building, and then over at the tree line, and then back in my eyes, and then looked as a pickup truck with a broken muffler chugged by. I stuck out my tongue, then he stuck out his tongue. He made an "O" with his lips (his favorite facial expression), then I made the same face. I said "dadadadada" and he furrowed his brow. I went back to the familiar "O-face", and he rewarded my hard work with the most precious baby smile I could imagine. Thanks baby. That's what I wanted to see.

For ten minutes, we continued our male bonding outside the restaurant as Mrs. U finished up her express meal and paid the bill.

Those ten minutes were the best ten minutes of my day yesterday.

As I strapped him into the carseat, back in the van now, I counted back from ten again. When I reached 5, he was crying. Someday when he's a teenager, I'm going to wear gym shorts, black socks and white sneakers and embarrass him in front of his friends, just for that.