Driving Mr. Owen

If there is a hell, it would look something like this: You would be assigned to a car, most likely with automatic transmission, with a screaming infant in the back. Then you would be directed to drive around one of those big traffic circles they have in Europe for all of eternity in bumper to bumper traffic.

Why do I say this? Riding in the car with Owen is one of my least favorite activities as a parent. It starts with the fact that he doesn't like his car seat. The second he gets wind of the fact that I am transferring him from his stroller into his car capsule he starts to whine. As I struggle to pull the straps out from under him and pull them over his chest, he takes one look at me, arches his back and tries to make a break for it.

"I know, I know," I croon as I push his belly down to steady him and pull the fastener from underneath his padded behind. "I know you don't like this. I'm so sorry baby but it's the law." As if validation will do the trick.

Once I've snapped him into the harness that makes him look like a fighter pilot or an astronaut about to be shot into outer space, his whine becomes louder and louder and builds into a full blown wail. If Dave is driving, I'll sit in the back next to Owen trying to soothe and distract him. "Shhhh, Shhhh, Shhhh," I'll shush into his ear, pressing my face next to his like I learned in the video of Dr. Karp, the so-called Baby Whisperer pediatrician, who wrote "The Happiest Baby on the Block."

That doesn't work so I rummage through the diaper bag and pull out Sophie. I start squeaking her in Owen's face. He just cries harder, now with his eyes closed and tears, real tears, streaming down his face. I try handing him his cloth star with the crinkly paper in the corner. But he can't even see me. He won't open his eyes no matter how many times I say his name. His face is beet red and he's gone, screaming with his eyes closed in an alternate universe I can't reach. I feel like Leslie Nielsen trying to calm the hysterical woman in "Airplane" by slapping her repeatedly across the face. But of course, I don't.

Instead I yell to Dave to turn the CD player to Track 1, Owen's favorite Elizabeth Mitchell song. She's a children's folk singer with the most beautiful soothing voice.

              I've got a friend in Baltimore, Little Liza Jane
              Streetcars running by her door, Little Liza Jane
              Oh Little Liza, Little Liza Jane
              Oh Little Liza, Little Liza Jane

Owen hesitates for a moment, recognizing the melody as something he likes. I frantically sing along with the chorus, trying to get him to grasp my fingers so I can dance his arms back and forth like he loves when he's in a good mood. I hold my breath to see if the pause will actually take. It doesn't. His face crumples up and he starts wailing again. I exhale in a big sigh, my insides rattled. I struggle to calm myself by taking another deep breath. He won't take a pacifier anymore so that's out. There is only one thing left to do: feed him. No wonder he's in the 90th percentile for weight.

I reach into the diaper bag and pull out his bottle and unscrew the cap, then I rummage around for the bottled water and the blue plastic container with pre-measured formula. I focus on keeping my arms steady as I pour 4 ounces of water into the bottle, then tap tap the formula into the bottle, praying that Dave doesn't hit a bump and send the water and formula powder flying down my shirt and jeans like last time. That was fun. Especially considering that I only have one pair of jeans that fit me right now and I had nothing casual to wear for days.

I take another deep breath as Owen continues to scream. I screw the nipple on tight and shake the solution until the powder dissolves. I think about the study of Buddhist monks in which a scientist took scans of their brains while they meditated to find the neurological origins of tranquility and oneness. They should try it with a screaming baby in the room.

I put the nipple into Owen's mouth. His brain registers the feel of the pointed plastic and he starts to suck. It's suddenly quiet, except for the stuttered sound of the air expelled from his nose as his chest heaves up and down as he starts to settle down after a long cry. Holding his bottle to his mouth with my left hand, I grab the burp cloth with my other hand and dab the wetness from his cheeks. He closes his eyes and starts to make his happy gulping noises. I lay my head back on the seat and close my eyes.

I can take the massive poops that explode out of his diaper and up his back. I can handle the gallons of spit up on the shirts I just washed. I don't mind picking up the dozens of toys that are always strewn across the living room. It's the uncontrollable crying that makes me want to jump out of a moving car. All I can think is what I've told my nephew and niece for years whenever they've acted up: "It's a good thing you're cute."