Baby's Daddy or Bust!

Just arriving home from Chicago passported and ready to rock, my baby slept as I packed. My travel necessities have always been light: a toothbrush, basic diabetic insulin pump materials, a book or two (none that I actually read) a couple of shirts and some jeans, underwear and a few pairs of awesome shoes.

I used all of the baby clothing to line the walls of my suitcase, to ensure that none of my toiletries would get smashed during the many layovers between Minneapolis, Maimi, Caracas, El Vigia, then finally Merida, Venezuela. I needed to use caution while packing, my baby was outgrowing clothing already...I needed to be sure that she would have clothing that would protect her from the outdoor elements of the Andes Mountains and fit her for the duration of our indefinite stay.

After packing my stuff, I realized that I had forgotten to include the pads for the breastfeeding bras, formula for the baby (just in case), toys that they probably didn't have in a third world country, and the gigantic A/C powered breastpump, which was the size and shape of an outdated, boxy HP office computer at an overworked US Government workers' desk.

In addition to my stuffed suitcase, I brought another, equivalent in size, full of the t-shirts and motorcycle tank pads and stickers and car decals I had created for my company which had fallen to the wayside through my pregnancy and traveling. I wanted to sell them all in Venezuela. The website is still there, but I don't maintain nor sell anything anymore. TankGirlArmy.com

I packed a large diaper bag with diapers and wipes and toys in addition to my Dakine backpack which held my outdated and burdensome laptop computer, an extra toothbrush and soap for quick clean-ups between flights, a book about some kid named "Owen Meany"which had been traveling with me to Venezuela since my first expedition and a number of other small, unorganized things. Also, my purse with my blood-test meter, glucose tablets, and necessary cosmetics that any woman traveling should have.

So, I traveled with two large suitcases, a diaper bag, my backpack, and purse. That was a lot to carry, so of course I packed a stroller and fit the baby in with my belongings as well. We checked the suitcases, and headed to our departure gate. I judged all of humanity on this short commute: nobody, but nobody had things so bad yet so good as me.

Have you ever looked at humanity and realized it's gaucheness? Disgusting. That is all I can think on an airplane. Breathing other peoples' air that has circulated full well through every orifice of their bodies and pretending to feel okay with it is nothing I enjoy doing.

Yet, here I was: hormonal, exhausted and pulling out my engorged breasts at any given moment to relieve the abhorrent pressure of my tits, which sprayed milk at any given moment, sopping my shirt. How annoying and embarrassing. My baby did not cry on the flight from Minneapolis to Miami, but from Miami to Caracas she had an outburst that wouldn't quit.

A Latina woman approached me and asked me (in Spanish) if I spoke Spanish. I said "no" hoping she would leave me and my screaming baby alone (I call that "pulling' a Mexican"). Instead of retreating, she piped up in broken English. "Your baby is crying!" I agreed with her. I said that babies cry. "No," the woman said. "She sound like she has pain. Your baby has lot of pain!"

I don't remember what I said to this woman. If I didn't have my baby with me, I would have ripped this woman's eyes out, pointed them back at her and advised her to mind her own business and watch herself.

My baby finally went to sleep and we arrived in steamy Caracas in the middle of the night. I picked up my two suitcases (always thankful to receive my luggage in tact from Caracas) and walked through customs and the two security checkpoints.

My baby had woken up once again, and was overtired and screaming, vomiting and pooping. The Venezuelan officers helped me a bit, which was nice.

Finally, my baby and I headed out to the airport's exit which is always littered with police, taxi drivers, porters, military officers with sawed off shotguns, and money launderers.

I knew her father was in that mix. I saw him, walked directly over, and handed him his child over the gate. With one arm free, I walked victoriously to the exit gate to meet them on the other side.

Surely, he was excited to meet his daughter but I was too tired to feel happy or affectionate, or anything for that matter. Exhausted, yet not nearly to my Venezuelan home in the foothills of the Andes Mountains. Simply spent.

 Our next flight to Merida left in five hours, so instead of camping out at the arrival gate where I am consistantly questioned about exchanging currency, we went up an escalator to the second floor of the airport and camped outside of a closed sandwich shop. I met a retired New York Yankee up there and gave him one of the t-shirts from my TankGirlArmy suitcase as a gift.

He thought I wanted an autograph or something, but I said "No te preocupes, no voy a recordar quien eres ni me importa biesbol." which means, "Don't worry about it. I won't remember who you are anyway. I don't like baseball." He was shocked. Apparently, he is really famous, but I thought he deserved a break. He had been signing autographs for the porters all night. Everybody deserves a break sometimes: I was still waiting for mine.

The baby would not stop crying. She was exhausted and not willing to sleep. Only a couple of weeks old, and just as stubborn as her mother. I left my baby with her father and left to get coffee with an old drunken vagabond. I gave him a couple of dollar bills as a gift for spending time with me. He was more  interesting and less taxing on my nerves than my baby's father, who was very getting tired and cranky. I could not empathize with him. I told him to suck it up.

After camping out hours in the hot humid annoying Caracas international airport, it was time to board our next flight. We made the short commute to the national airport on foot. It was more difficult to navigate with all of my luggage now that I had to explain my methods and rely on her father.

We checked my suitcases once again and waited at the door of the airport. A bus would drive us to our airplane from there. The people boarding these domestic flights are always brutal.

I imagine that it is much like leaving a Superbowl game: there are so many people attempting to leave at the same time, you are forced along a path that will eventually get you out, but you have to be sure not to get trampled. I took solace in the fact that the crowd pushed me through. I had no more energy to hold myself up.

We got on the plane to El Vigia. I may have slept on this ride, but don't remember exactly. When we arrived my host mother (my baby's fathers' aunt) met us along with the alcalde of his immediate family. She had just bought a new SUV and I thought to myself, oh God, we are all going to die.

In Venezuela babies don't get car seats, nor are they assured a seat in the back. They are held by whomever seems to love them the most. Obviously, that was me. I sat in the back clutching my child with white knuckles while we were driven at breakneck speeds through the Andes Mountain range down the highway while land slides fell from above into the endless abyss below.

We made it to Merida after about an hour and a half of driving and more praying than I had done for the duration of my adult life. My baby's father, his mother, his aunt, a four year old kid, and I drove to our home, as the father fall asleep. I elbowed him. "Crees que estas cansado ahora? Espera..."

I asked him, unbelievingly, "You think you're tired now?"