"Turn down for what?"

"You want me to do what?....Really?" My level of leadership in this house just took another blow. I was relegated to chauffeur last night, not to my wife, but to a 10lb Tasmanian baby....

As we drove home from our weekly visit with Grandma, all was well and peaceful. (I love seeing him curled up on my mom's lap. You can see the baby effect radiating through her eyes.) The first sign of trouble was when I was ordered by Momma to change the radio station from my "turn down for what" song to NPR, classical. Now, I'm an opera singer so I can deal, but.....I wanted to ask, literally, turn down for what? But the dad senses kicked in.   All is well as we continue the tedious drive in rush hour traffic to the calming sounds of  NPR. Then, out of no where....this bellowing siren begins. I look around for an emergency vehicle but no....it was my Tasmanian baby. I know that cry very well; a cry that every father hates hearing because it's a cry that we can't do anything about...it was time to hit the bar, the milk-bar that is. I turn into Jeff Gordon. I was ready to switch lanes and be the most aggressive driver on the road, futile in DC.

We try every soothing maneuver we can but the back of the truck in now an amphitheater, magnifying this heart wrenching cry. There is only one thing that will calm this, the boob. But in my head, we'll wait it out and he'll get an extra round at home. Then, I hear these words...."pull over." I said, "pull over for what, " in my Lil Jon voice. We literally pulled out of rush hour traffic to the side of the road so this dude can get drunk at the milk bar. I sat watching cars speed by and the Jeff Gordon in me wanted to join the race but I was sidelined by a baby and a boob. This was as good as a time as any to get a power nap in.