ninanevermore

Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about how sometimes it isn't worth trying to explain a joke to someone who doesn't get your sense of humor. Even when the joke is explained, they won't laugh, and once you are finished explaining it, it's just no longer funny, even to you.

I remember an incident when my son was a couple of months old. When babies are very small, you can take them with you anywhere and stash them places. They never have to leave their car seats, if you don't want them to. The car seats come with handles, and you can secure them on the front of your shopping cart, or store them in a booth at a restaurant, or set them on the floor next to you at a coffee shop.

I had taken him out with me to go Christmas shopping, a task that I don't really enjoy very much. I decided to stop off at a Starbucks, grab a latte, and unwind a bit. My son was sleeping in his carrier and should have been good for this. On this occasion, though, he started to cry. I tried feeding him, but he refused. I checked his diaper, only to find he was clean and dry. I held him and spoke softly to him, but he would not be soothed. My frustration mounted.

I've always been one of those people who glares resentfully at people who ignore their squalling offspring even while the eardrums of everyone around them are bursting. If it hadn't been cold and raining outdoors, I would have stepped outside with him to spare everyone else. As it was, I was tired, my feet hurt, my coffee was full, and there was no place to take him. As much as I wanted to relax, I knew that no one in the coffee shop, including myself, could until my son quieted down.

I held him on my lap and looked at his contorted, red, screaming face.

"Shhhh," I said.

He kept screaming.

I put on a very stern expression, so he would know I was serious.

"Listen, baby," I told him in my most calm and reasonable tone, "you may not know this, but the hospital we brought you home from has a 90-day trade-in policy. They told us that if you gave us any trouble within the first 90 day, such as crying for no obvious reason, that we could bring you back and they would let us trade you for a good, quiet baby. I saved our receipt, so I can still do this."

He continued screaming.

Not knowing what else to do, I held him against my body and gently bounced him up and down, both to stifle his cries against my coat and hopefully calm him. After a few minutes, he wore himself out and grew quiet. I laid him back down in his carrier and rocked it with my foot while I sipped my coffee and savored the silence.

After a few minutes, a young woman approached me.

"He's cute," she said, "Please don't trade him in." She looked and sounded sincerely concerned that I might.

I looked down at my now-sleeping son and back up at the woman. I wanted to ask her what sort of hospital she thought might really have such a policy. I considered explaining to her that babies can't really be traded in this manner. Then I thought better of starting a dialog with anyone who believed that children could be returned to the store like a malfunctioning digital camera and swapped for one that works.

"Okay, I won't," I told her.

She smiled at me, apparently glad she had talked me into keeping him. I smiled at her, glad that the conversation appeared to be over. She walked away.

These days, since the 90-day trade-in period has passed, I threaten my son with selling him on eBay, no reserve, with a 99 cents buy-it-now-price (I plan on making my money on shipping and handling, which is how all the smart people do it). He still acts like he doesn't believe me. I don't tell him this in public, though. It's not worth the trouble.

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