The agent crept across the floor, taking each step with precision. His stockinged foot landed on a sharp object unseen in the dark and he winced in pain, drawing a sudden, sharp breath to stifle a scream. He paused. Had he been heard?
“Whaaaaa!” The baby starting crying.
Any first-year dad would have known better than to walk in a child’s room in stockinged feet. Face it, secret agents have the glamorous life-style, but dads have the real skills.
I grew up watching spy movies and I wanted to be just like my on-screen heroes. In the elementary school cafeteria I ordered my chocolate milk shaken, not stirred. This earned me a blank stare from the lunch lady.
I invented complex recognition codes and forced my friends to use them.
“Oz never did give nothin’ to the Tin Man,” I’d say.
“Hi Kevin,” they’d try to answer, but I was too cool for a ruse like that. Until they gave the countersign, I stayed silent.
“Fine…” they’d sigh. “That he didn’t already have.”
Then I’d talk to them.
Come to think of it, I didn’t have a lot of childhood friends. Maybe the cloak-and-dagger stuff scared them off. Oh well, the life of a spy is never easy.
Which is why I still wonder from time to time; what if I had become an international super-spy?
Well, for one thing, it’s a good bet I’d drive something other than a mini-van. Spies get cool sports cars with exciting gadgets, leather upholstery and an exotic blond in the passenger seat. Dads get mini-vans with cup-holders, ground-up cheerios in the upholstery and … well, it’s best if we stop this comparison before getting to the passenger seat.
That’s not to say that the modern dad lacks for automotive high-tech. Instead of knock-out gas to keep the passengers quiet, Dads get in-car DVD players that perform much the same function.
Ejector seats? No. Car seats which perform the opposite function. If James Bond had ever strapped Odd Job into a car seat, Odd Job would be there to this day. For escape-proof, nothing beats the good-old BabyCo Twelve-Point Child Restraint System ™.
Spies travel with custom-made luggage that has secret compartments and all manner of clever gadgets; like a cigarette box that turns into a transmitter or a paperback book which conceals a bomb. Dads travel with diaper bags approximately the size of a third-world country. No radios or explosives here; just diapers, bottles, formula, teething rings, burp cloths, a change of clothes (for baby and – in case of an especially bad mess – Dad), Dr. Spock’s guide to Child Rearing, an emergency medical guide, a nasal aspirator, a full set of surgical instruments, the number of the pediatrician, the number for 911, baby aspirin, Benadryl, scotch (for dad), band-aids, a changing pad and seventeen pounds of assorted kid-friendly snack foods (just in case). Never let it said that dad isn’t prepared. It should also be noted that dad can’t stand up straight, but that’s not important.
Dads are also likely to be carrying some kind of nifty collapsible item…say a stroller or a playpen. The engineers at KidCo have spent countless hours creating baby tech gear which can be fold neatly for storage in your trunk or closet. All you have to do is memorize the two-hundred-and-seventy-five easy steps, perform them in the correct order, and avoid getting any appendages caught in any of the folding hinges. (Hint: You can always tell the new dads – they’re the guys with bandages on their fingers.)
Spies have bugging devices. Dads don’t. They have the next best thing…baby monitors. The primary function of a baby monitor seems to be to start violent domestic disputes at three in the morning over who has to get up. Perhaps this is why dads aren’t issued live weapons.
Which isn’t to say that dads don’t face life-and-death decisions. Your average super-spy only has to contend with simple challenges such piranha-filled pools or vicious henchmen with amusing names. If things get really bad and they can fall back on the trusty cyanide capsule.
Dads confront an unfortunate combination of death and possible suicide when they’re offered the chance to “taste this and tell me what you think.” Running close behind that for dangerous questions are “How do I look in this?” and “Do you mind if my mother comes to stay with us for a month?” Any dad would rather have the location of the secret plans beaten out of him than answer those questions.
Maybe dads should be spies, though. Sometimes having a baby is a great disguise. Let me tell you a true story.
Years ago, when our youngest son was a babe-in-arms, my wife and I went car shopping. We had a growing family and it was time for me to trade in my still-barely-on-the-outskirts-of-coolville sedan for a solidly-in-the-middle-of-dullsville minivan. At the car lot we noticed an amazing phenomenon. The person holding the baby was invisible.
Really.
If my wife had the baby, the car salesman talked only to me. If I held the baby, the salesman talked only to my wife. Once we realized what was happening, we traded off every couple of minutes just so we could watch the salesman swivel back-and-forth like a mechanical Santa Claus. Perhaps the CIA should study this. If there was some way to harness the awesome cloaking power of babies, spies could waltz right into any car dealership in the world – completely invisible until they hand their babies to their wives.
Of course, spies have one thing that dads don’t – an arch-nemesis. Then again, who needs a super-villain when they have a toddler or – worse yet – a teenager?
