Happiest Baby on the Block, Part 2

When we returned home from the bookstore, we were a bit frustrated. Apparently, even the simplest of enjoyable errands and weekend excursions are now completely dependent on the mood of the child. We’re officially no longer in control. We are now the flustered parents we always said we wouldn’t be.

Mrs. U called a friend who had obviously been through this before, since she arrived at our house in record time with the “Happiest Baby on the Block” videotape. While I watched football, Mrs. Undaground watched the video in the other room. I listened to the sounds from the other room. Each time a baby cried on the video, our baby cried as well. Suddenly I was happy we didn’t have twins. (Until now, I always thought that would have been cool.)

Late that afternoon, when the witching hour began and he started to get into his fussy time, Mrs. U started employing the techniques she learned on the tape. Turns out we had been doing many of the things right, this just gave us some more ideas. I guess the message in the tape is that when you’re baby’s crying, you have to work your ass off to get him to stop. That’s not what I wanted to hear as I found myself holding the crying creature a little while later. You see, I was trying to watch the BCS selection show to see which team was playing in which bowl.

Mrs. U was coaching me from the other side of the living room; the new knowledge she’d learned was fresh in her mind.

“Make a shwooshing sound”, she said.

“Shwoosh. Schwooooooooooosh”. I sounded like an idiot.

More crying.

“Bounce him a little bit while you swoosh.” My wife continued to tell me what she learned on the tape.

“Shwoosh.” Bounce, bounce. “Wait, did you hear what they said about the Orange Bowl?”

More crying. Baby now strongly dislikes his father, despite the swooshing and bouncing.

“Here, try the pacifier.” My wife handed me the little rubbery gift from above.

As I shwooshed and bounced, he spit out the pacifier like it had been dipped in tobasco sauce.

Now I was getting frustrated. (Actually, I was still shaken from the bookstore experience and had been mean to the dog all day because of it).

I put my foot down. “Video, schmidio”. Yes, I said it. I know I sounded like a five-year old, but it happened. “I’m going to appeal to the little man in him.”

I lifted my red-faced son to eye level and spoke to him. He fought through his sobs and did his best to listen.

“Dude, can you chill for a minute so I can see who’s playing in what bowl game?”

Silence. He stopped crying. OK, now I’m confused. That worked? I paused Tivo (the greatest invention in the history of the man), something I should have done a few minutes earlier.

My wife chimed in: “You called him Dude.”

I looked back at the baby. “Dude”.

He smiled. I guess he didn’t care about football. He likes the word “dude”.

“Duuuuuuuuuuuude”.

More smiles.

“Duuuuuuuuuuuuude”.

Happiest baby on the block.

And this continued until he decided he was hungry again. Go figure.