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The Aftermath

After a lifetime of my parents warning me about The Jinx — i.e., don’t brag about anything, or else The Jinx Gods will make sure it all goes down the crapper! — something in which they believe VERY strongly, you’d think I’d know better than to spout off about how smoothly our trip to the East Coast went.  “Miss Skye was a rock star… the day was a total success,” I just had to gloat.

Which, in the end, led to this:

Behold the result of The Jinx.

You may not recognize me in that glamorous get-up, but that is indeed me back in our home in L.A. this weekend.  I am attempting to soothe the savage beast by letting her use me as a human pacifier, creating a darkened environment, and warbling a Coldplay/Salt-n-Pepa/Michael Jackson medley to her. “Hey, yeah, I wanna shoop…”

Sexy, no?  Something tells me you won’t find any similar pictures of Angelina in the Jolie-Pitt baby books.

Although Skye was a total rock star, by the end of our trip, she’d had enough of traveling and being passed around like a cheap bottle of wine and decided she’d let us know about her discontent in a number of subtle ways.  On the first leg of our journey westward, for example, I felt something wet and warm seep onto my lap.

“Oh gawd,” I cringed, ever-so-gingerly lifting the baby’s behind.

I suppose every mother has a moment when she knows she’s officially “arrived” as a mom.  This was mine.  Because when I lifted that little butt and saw that it was “just pee,” I breathed a huge sigh of relief and high-fived Mr. Candy.

“Woo-hoo!  At least it’s not a monster dump!” I smiled, then blasted the fan above my seat to dry the huge puddle of baby piss on my lap.

Again, with the gloating.  WHEN WILL I LEARN NOT TO TAUNT THE JINX GODS?

You know what happened on the second leg of the trip, right?  MONSTER DUMP.  We’re talking about one of those smelly, awful gravity-defying poops that just rock your whole world.  In the middle of a plane, no less.

So I looked at my hand, now covered in the telltale seepage, and do you know what I did, Internet?  I used it to continue eating my Zone Bar.  Yes!  I did!  Apparently, nothing gets in the way of me and my protein.  Gross, I know, but that’s how us moms who have “arrived” roll.

“You know, there IS a changing table in the bathroom,” the flight attendant told us pointedly as we changed the diaper at our seats.

“Sorry,” I apologized insincerely, then offered:  “Zone Bar?”

I guess I wasn’t looking rattled enough for Miss Skye’s liking, because she proceeded to SCHA-REEEAAAM through pretty much the entire descent into Los Angeles.  No matter how much I tried to get her to eat or suck on a pacifier, she wailed and sobbed as though we were forcing her to watch an Ashton Kutcher movie marathon.  We were, needless to say, the most popular people on the plane.

That night, our exhausted peanut — who had been sleeping through the night and then some for weeks now — woke up no fewer than four times demanding that I, in my practically comatose state, feed and soothe her.  Clearly a retaliatory move for all of the traveling.  Either that, or for making her wear a pumpkin hat.

And, well, you can see the rest of the aftermath in the above picture.  Pretty much sums up my entire Sunday.  When Miss Skye finally stopped bawling accusingly and fell asleep on my lap, I was so afraid to move that I made Mr. Candy order pizza for dinner because I knew I could eat it with one hand without disturbing the savage beast.  (Note to Domino’s:  Possible new marketing angle?)

It is almost 2 a.m. at the moment, and I would tell you how relieved I am that the little girl has been sleeping soundly for many hours now, but I know better than to piss off the Jinx Gods again.  (See?  I’m learning!  Sort of.  Not really.)

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Candy Kirby is the founder of The Laughing Stork and a professional fun-maker who will never stop chasing her lifelong dream: to find the Pomeranian or porn star after whom her parents must have named her. A humor columnist for Disney, Nickelodeon, Scary Mommy, Reductress and Redbook, she also used to be a staff writer for the soap opera, The Bold and the Beautiful, where she penned many scripts featuring prolonged heated stares and countless “Who’s the Daddy?” story lines. Candy lives in Los Angeles with her husband, two young kids and three rescue Persian cats, the latter of whom are the real brains behind this operation (so send all complaints to them).

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