Where's the return address for this kid?

Infants, I've discovered, seem to have bad days. Sure, young Master Aidan/mini-me, has had times where he's been less then happy and expressing himself through a frustrated cry here or there and, this being normal I've come to just accept it. Last Sunday was a little different.

Anya was committed to attending a shower of some sort; baby, bridal, ivory - who knows what kind it was, I'm not really sure there's much difference between them anyway, other then the ivory as it is 99.44% pure according to all the marketing materials. As a result, I was left in charge of watching Aidan... And watch him I did. I watched him cry, I watched him scream, I watched him bellow, I watched him sniffle, whimper and cry some more. And I'm not talking about just the normal 'I'm bored with this toy and want another' cry, this was more of a 'Someone gored me like a luau pig and I want you know I'm holding you responsible for it' cry. The full on, closed, watery eye, mouth can't be opened any wider, cheeks red as cherry tomatoes, full lung use type of crying.

There was just no stopping it. Food didn't help. A pacifier (ironic name in this instance) only seemed to make matters worse. Changing positions - front to back, back to front, laying down to standing up, being held horizontaly, being held vertically, being held upside down (while i found it funny) didn't help. Chaining a diaper that was hardly used didn't help. Nothing seemed to appease the poor kid.

Figuring he must be broken I immediately started looking for the return address and a receipt. Strangely enough, he didn't seem to have been delivered with either. New humans should have some kind of warranty provided by Babies R Us... They charge enough for everything you can't live, or, more accurately stated, your baby can't live without - they should provide some kind of kid return process when all the items purchased from their store don't seem to help stem the raging river of tears and torrential onslaught of yelling, searching noise coming out of Aidan's tiny body. Oddly enough, they only accept return with receipt, which, of course, I didn't have. I have a sneaking suspicion Anya has hidden or filed the receipt for Aidan, knowing such a day of torment was inevitable.

A break in hurricane Aidan was provided only after Aidan had worn himself out from crying so much that he need a nap. Which he took. On the floor. On his face. Apparently the most comfortable position he could find.

Whew! An entire 15 minutes of silence. Yes, 15 minutes. Then it was back at it for Aidan - more loud crying, more trying to feed him, pacify him, adjust him, change him... All to no avail.

At last I decided there was only one thing to do.... Go to the boat. Why should I be so selfish as to horde all this parental bliss for myself? Others would surely wish to experience and bask in the glow of all that was Aidan this fine day. I packed up the diaper bag, poured a new bottle of formula to take with us, packed up our sobbing, red faced, tearing child and off we went. Once arriving at the boat and unloading Aidan all was well with the world. He even took a nap. A real nap.. Not the previous kind of nap where he's only pretending to nap so as to lull you in to thinking you are actually going to get reprise from the ongoing wailing only to whisk it away after you've gotten comfortable on the couch and select some random program on TV.

This break/nap was encouraging. It was nice. It was healing. It was short lived. While it did last around 40 minutes, it seemed to have only provided Aidan with a fresh set of lungs and allowed his tear ducts to refill themselves... Then we were at it again. So we packed up the diaper bag, packed up Aidan and headed home. Anya was there when we arrived home.

Oddly enough, the crying stopped.