Flexible Traffic Laws for Babies

It doesn’t matter what you do for a living or how often you go to church, if you walk into a courthouse for any reason other than a 7th grade field trip, you are a criminal receiving your comeuppance, and the people who work there treat you as such.

I attempt to be as friendly as possible when paying fines. It’s my way of saying, “I’m a good person with a lot to offer, and despite the six cat-related trinkets on the desk behind you, I’m sure you are too. There’s no reason for this to be unpleasant.”

I don’t blame the cat ladies for emotionally boxing out my friendliness. If people have to walk through a metal detector to interact with you at your job, and you don’t work behind the controls of a 747, chances are you run across a lot of shitheads.

Until my most recent speeding ticket, I had given up on ever having a pleasant experience in a municipal courthouse. Then I walked in with a baby.

Some people thought it was a little shallow and off-putting when I referred to my dear child as a great fashion accessory. Raising babies is hard work. The sleep you’re accustomed to is virtually non-existent, intimate moments with your spouse are tougher than ever to come by, and at some point you are going to walk around in public with actual human shit on your clothes.

After all that, I am supposed to feel guilty about using my son as an emotional shield? I think not.

People love babies and if you're in public with one who is behaving, they will think you’re swell too. I don’t advocate lugging a toddler into the back room of a nightclub to discuss an extension on overdue gambling debts, but if you need to wiggle out of a petty traffic violation and don’t shamelessly flaunt your baby, you are under-utilizing your greatest resource.

My son even managed to charm the security guards, who are typically too drunk with perceived power to smile. My belt buckle triggered the alarm, causing one of the guards to scan us with the wand. When he ran it over the arm holding my son, Gabe took a swipe at it. This inspired me to joke about using my baby to sneak in a gun. 

Rule of thumb: don’t attempt to get a laugh out of security guards in government buildings by suggesting you have a firearm...unless you’re holding an adorable baby. If a random law breaker made the ill-timed joke, the would-be comedian may have earned a cavity search. But from the father of a baby, a little gun joke goes over like gangbusters.

From there it was on to the dreaded feline enthusiast with the rubber stamps.

Before I said a word, I was treated to a story about her daughter whose twins were born at 8lbs each. Since this was already the best interaction I’ve ever had with someone through bulletproof glass, I stopped myself from wondering out loud what havoc that must have wreaked on her daughter’s poor vagina. Instead, I said my preferred method of parenting is one-at-a-time. She enthusiastically agreed.

When I finally handed her my ticket, she offered a money-saving resolution.

“Honey, you don’t need to pay this fine. I’m going to give you an extension and you just go ahead and register the vehicle when you can.”

The world would be a friendlier place if everyone were treated like a happy 10 month-old, but until this dream becomes a reality I highly recommend new parents use their babies to shield criticism as often as possible. 

The Best Accessory

By Blake Friis

I don't have a great eye for fashion. I buy the shirt and tie combo on the department store mannequin and call it a day. If it’s good enough to display at Kohl’s, it’s good enough for a spot in my work/wedding/funeral rotation.

I am not someone you would seek out for advice on accessorizing, but I picked up a piece last spring that has made ALL the difference. If you don’t already have a baby, you must get one. They go with everything and will genuinely change the way people look at you.

My go-to outfit of gym shorts, flip-flops, and a backwards baseball cap was rock solid, but there was gradual change in the way it was received beyond my mid-twenties. Many seemed to find it downright pathetic as I neared 30. I strategically paired the ensemble with an array of slow-pitch softball league runner-up T-shirts for gravitas, but the disapproval from the grown-up community intensified.

A baby wasn’t my first attempt to accessorize my way out of a sartorial shit storm. I wore a watch, but its impact fell short. I wore a cross necklace outside my shirt, thinking surely a man of faith would be given a pass on his choice in mere Earthly rags, but the pretentious dickwads didn’t budge. It looked like I was on the verge of retiring college sophomore chic for the world of khakis, button-downs, and styled hair, which would mean showering on Saturdays! If that’s growing up, consider me a Toys ‘R’ Us kid.

When I got a Toys ‘R’ Us kid of my own the game changed dramatically.

There are many great reasons to embark on the journey of parenthood. An uncharacteristically warm reception from the most judgmental people in the neighborhood is rarely listed among them, but it’s nice nonetheless. Some of the snootiest people I know are disarmingly pleasant when they see a baby in my arms.

An adult wearing sweatpants while not purposely breaking a sweat is branded lazy. Sweatpants paired with a baby indicate an active parent far too busy and selfless to be burdened with wardrobe decisions.  Kudos for putting your children ahead of such superficial concerns, Stranger!

Many view a backwards baseball cap on a 30-year-old man as a sad dose of Peter Pan syndrome, unless the 30-year-old is holding a baby wearing the same backwards baseball cap. That shit is just adorable.

The best in human nature is on display when you carry a baby in public. Everyone you encounter sends good vibes and totally disregards the fact your outfits are not appropriate for your age – unless of course you are a woman, in which case the same people who pardon my Pensacola Hooters t-shirt with the armpit holes think you look a little skanky and wonder if the man you’re with is even the father of your child. Sorry, Ladies.

Babies have a quality unmatched in their adult counterparts; they are incapable of being assholes. Now, mathematically speaking, many of your children will surely grow up to be assholes, but in the baby stage they possess a blank canvas quality that seems to bring out the best in people. Perhaps it is the inherent innocence or the endless possibility for a brighter future. That’s a little deep. It’s probably because babies have cute cheeks and “wook so ado-uh-bull in dare wittle hat”.

If you question society’s capacity for warmth and goodwill, I offer the same recommendation as if you requested feedback on your acid-washed jeans and a Who Farted T-shirt: you need a baby.

Fatigue and Cheerios

By Blake Friis

Anyone who has been in great shape, only to cease working out for several weeks, understands the fragile nature of human conditioning.

Months of weekends alone with our baby should have prepared me for my wife’s three-night vacation. Summer attended clinical nurse training at the hospital every weekend throughout the fall. My confidence as a parent grew. I became completely comfortable bathing a baby and never missed a feeding, regardless of how much great football was on television.

When my in-laws invited Summer to join them for a weekend in Reno it seemed like a no-brainer. Of course I could man the fort while she was gone. I’d done it 12 consecutive weekends. You’re dealing with a pro here.

Have you ever jogged on a treadmill after a period of laziness?

You approach it like nothing has changed, until you look down and see you’ve run just .24 miles and question the machine’s ability to gauge distance. And are these the same shoes you ran in last? And for Christ’s sake, why can’t you find the right song on your iPod? Better step to the side rails and scroll through your library.

With Summer home for the holidays, our routine has been broken and my independent parent swagger has been shelved. I am only as responsible and ambitious as circumstances dictate. Give me the opportunity to kick my feet up and where do my feet go without hesitation? Up.

Dad, I'm trapped. Call Mom.

When Gabe and I took Summer to the airport – I drove, he just sat there and didn’t even offer a dollar for the toll – I realized my parenting legs had grown a little heavier than I thought over winter break.

I narrowly avoided an accident on the way home from the airport, a classic Dallas highway encounter. One driver slams on the brakes causing a chain reaction that ends with a speeding truck skidding toward me before swerving into the median to avoid a pile-up. I attempt to sooth Gabe, who woke up amidst the commotion. He cried for the remaining 30 minutes of our drive, making it feel like two hours.

Summer hadn’t made it through airport security and I was already counting down the hours until her return.

The first workout after a layoff can be brutal, but it doesn’t take long for your body to wake up and get back in the groove. I found my rhythm in the cereal aisle.

Growing up with three brothers, all cereal enthusiasts with healthy appetites, I became all too familiar with generic cereal. It hurts my heart to see my son learning to eat solid food with Toasted O’s, even if it makes economic sense and he doesn’t know the difference. I threw down an extra $0.79 for Cheerios and set the tone for the rest of the weekend. We may miss the occasional bath when Dad is in charge, but we smile like idiots and eat like kings.

By the time Summer returned I was in such great parenting shape I could have easily handled another couple days. It’s amazing what you can accomplish with a little conditioning and name brand cereal.

Never going back to Toasted O's

Man's (Actual) Best Friend

By Blake Friis

I knew one thing for certain as I drove 90 miles per hour down the home stretch of a six-hour drive from Dallas to Emporia, Kansas – we didn't come all this way to eat lunch at Braum’s.

So, we exited the turnpike and pulled into Applebee’s.

I don’t make a habit of rising before the sun on Saturday and loading my family into the car for a six-hour drive to lunch at a franchise restaurant; It just so happens the Emporia Applebee’s marks the halfway point between our home in Texas and my parents’ in Iowa, which makes it the ideal meeting place when the health of a marriage requires unloading the family dog on one's folks.

Welcome to Emporia

There have been few contentious arguments in our 19 months of wedded bliss – which is to say I fold like a lawn chair in the face of potential unpleasantness.

We budget items we can comfortably live without. Last week we discussed the necessity of cable television and my iPhone – we both have iPhones, but only mine seemed a frivolous expense. We have since decided since my company offers a fitness center to both of us, the cancellation of our current gym memberships will free up enough discretionary income to justify keeping the cable. It is, of course, pure coincidence this decision coincided with my wife’s newfound love of true-life murder mysteries on the cable network ID.

My wife is like a great runner in baseball. She can steal a base at any time, and my defensive approach is let her go and casually toss the ball back to the pitcher, feeling I am better off dealing with the next batter. That's our marriage - aggressive baserunning against defensive indifference.

As her desire to live in a dog-free house intensified, however, I continued to step off the mound and look her back to the bag. Knowing my success rate, it was critical I never let getting rid of Elvis escalate past hypothetical chit-chat.

Shortly after Gabe was born, I wrote about the battle raging inside our home between my wife and our boxer, Elvis. My desire for our son to grow up in a household with a great pet lead me to dig in my heels on Elvis’s potential relocation.

The more we failed as dog owners, the more Elvis stated his displeasure by destroying everything in his path. I tried to take him for more walks, but my efforts proved futile. Summer’s patience was wearing thin.

It was only a matter of time until she broke for second base. I tried to throw her out this time, but Elvis intercepted the ball and chewed it to shit, just like every other goddamn thing in the house.

Still, when we handed Elvis over to my parents it was just as sad as I imagined it would be. I couldn't help but feel like I'd let him down and deprived my son of the opportunity to grow up with the unique bond a boy shares with his first dog. This guilt and regret were difficult to deal with. I was nearly half-way through the potato skins on the appetizer sampler before I was able to shake it.

In the weeks since Elvis moved to the farm – a real one, not the one in finger quotes where many children are told their castoff pets run happy and free – our life has been exponentially better. We never come home to a disaster in the kitchen, our patio doesn’t smell like a boarding kennel, and we don’t have to fear Gabe being injured by the paw of a well-intentioned, but dangerously hyper 60lb dog.

Thank goodness I never get to make the big decisions.

It turns out Man’s best friend is actually a happy wife.

Later, Buddy