菜鳥老爸：我是新手，請多關照

The week before I boarded a plane with my 1-year-old daughter I was routinely explaining to others， most often my wife， that I did not think it was a big deal.

Doubters weren’t so much concerned I was traveling with my daughter as they were concerned I was traveling without my wife.

It was just Gigi and me. And a sippy cup1） and another cup with a rubber top that allows her to reach the Happypuffs2） without， theoretically， spilling them all over the place; two pouches of formula3）; two bottles; 32 diapers; a changing pad and wet wipes; a stroller （doubling as car seat， so way too heavy）; various toys， plush4） and electronic; and teething tabs—most of it in plastic bags dangling from the stroller. A few items made it into my bulging backpack where I managed to stuff all our clothes for five days. My computer bag was， presumably， somewhere in the mix.

My wife dropped us off curbside shortly after 8 in the morning， kissing Gigi until I convinced her it was time to go. And it wasn’t until she pulled away and I turned toward the revolving door that I panicked.

Just a little bit.

Until then， flying alone with Gigi had been an idea. But when it came to practicalities and logistics—whether the stroller， with its dangling bags， would fit through the revolving door， and how I would deconstruct the stroller to get through the X-ray machine—a certain reality set in5）.

But fate intervened： The smiling woman at TSA6） who checked my boarding pass against my ID awakened me to the perks7） of traveling with infant. And that is the exact phrase—“with infant”—on the boarding pass in extra small font that hadn’t yet caught my eye. The TSA employee redirected my smiling， waving baby （and me） to the special Pre√ security line， where I was not asked to remove my shoes or belt or computer， and another TSA employee kindly held Gigi’s hand as I fed her stroller through the machine.

And the world kept spinning our way： Gigi remained calm in her seat all the way through to the terminal. It wasn’t until we were at the gate—me in a chair， Gigi standing between my legs， leaning on my knee， gumming a croissant—that a certain discomfort set in.

Not for Gigi or for me but， seemingly， for those around us. First there was the 30-something woman two seats down from us. Her smiles for Gigi were unabated， but the two she threw at me were uneasy and restrained. Gigi kept trying to make friends with her， walking over to stare for 30 seconds at a time. Finally， after several minutes， the woman said to me， “Mom’s in the bathroom.” I suppose it was officially a question， but it just as easily read as a hopeful assumption.

“No，” I said. “Mom’s working and can’t make the trip.”

She nodded like she may or may not believe me.

Then it happened again， when we joined the cluster of passengers nearer the jet bridge， waiting to board. Another woman with a concerned expression asked， “Is she your daughter？” I confirmed that I was， in fact， the father of the child clinging to my leg， playfully waving the copy of Gigi’s birth certificate that I was carrying with me. The woman smiled， still with some reservation， and turned away. I wasn’t quite sure what possibility she might have been considering： Uncle？ Brother with a massive age gap？ Kidnapper？

Still， Gigi and I boarded without a hitch8）—in Group 2， of course， right after first and business class because we did， indeed， require extra time getting to our seat. Before ditching the stroller at the end of the jet bridge， I had to remove the three bags I had concealed in the stroller’s pouch in advance of getting my boarding pass scanned—the extra carry-ons surely would have earned me surcharges. The flight attendants on the plane did not have the gall to9） challenge me on the extra bags as I struggled down the aisle with babe in arms. Nor did they challenge me on my liberal use of the overhead compartment. Clearly I needed all the space I could get if I was going to ride it out10） in the middle seat—yes， the middle seat—with Gigi in my lap for two hours and 56 minutes.

Somehow that flying time from New York City to the Dallas-Fort Worth airport went unpredictably well. Naturally Gigi had serious bouts of squirming11）， but she fell asleep at all the right places—mainly takeoff and landing when， on a previous flight， breast-feeding was the only cure for her aching ears. We made it through the terminal and hopped into our rental， heading to the house of a couple of old friends， David and Bill， who were eager to meet Gigi.

At one point， David made a confession： He was terrified in anticipation of our arrival because he assumed my marriage might be in trouble. When I asked why he thought this， he confessed it was because my wife did not make the trip with us. He had tried to put the thought out of his mind but， being a hair stylist， he shared his worry with several clients who， much to his horror， concurred that the situation seemed fishy12）.

I could tell David felt relief saying this—and even more relief that his assumption was wrong. I told him about the suspicious looks and questions I got at the airport， reassuring him he wasn’t alone in his perplexed reaction to a father traveling alone with his daughter. The image of a mother juggling13） documents and luggage with a kid is not unfamiliar. Apparently a father traveling alone with his kid suggests a deeper narrative. But I had no back story. I was taking on a challenge of parenthood， a challenge not bound to motherhood or fatherhood.

After a week of introducing Gigi to cousins and aunts and uncles， we returned to the airport to head home， seasoned14） pros.

But of course the trip back was a disaster.

We were not sent to the TSA Pre√ line. Apparently it is not really the phrase “with infant” on my boarding pass that had worked magic on the outbound15） flight， as the stern man at the security station in Dallas let me know. I was， he underscored， lucky at my earlier security screening when I was sent to the special line. I asked why he considered the kindness of strangers luck， but that did not elicit an answer， much less a change of heart.

Gigi and I did， however， enjoy an unexpected moment of Zen when we finally made it to the X-ray machine： I set her on the ground and before releasing her from my grip I said， “Daddy really， really， really needs you to stay right there. Please.” I doubt any of the words beyond “daddy” registered16）， maybe “please，” but certainly she understood something in my desperate tone as she proceeded to do just as I asked， standing at my side， hands clasped together， smiling at anyone who made eye contact. Such a stationary moment had never been experienced and has not been experienced since.

Chaos resumed shortly thereafter when I sat on my coffee， sending ice-cold liquid both down my legs and up my back. I forgot that I’d hastily placed the coffee on my seat as I’d lunged17） for Gigi who lay sprawled out， fattened lip bleeding， silently filling her lungs， preparing for the ear-piercing screech that materialized just as I sat on the plastic cup. I managed to stop the bleeding with an ice cube fished from my coffee-soaked crotch18）. She managed to stop crying.

We both managed.

She held it together， despite vacillating19） wildly between intense bursts of energy and can’t-hold-my-head-up-anymore fatigue. And I held it together at the store across from our gate when I discovered Gigi 8 feet to my right， fat lip and all20）， with five bags of potato chips clasped in her tiny right hand， four in her left. We can debate the wisdom of placing potato chips on such a low shelf， but that point aside： In the instant it took to reach down and grab my daughter—a slow motion “noooooooo” rumbling out of me—she dropped the bags in her hand， swung her arm across the shelf to knock down 10 more， and stomped on everything as if completing a rain dance21）. And it worked because the skies opened with thunder and lightning， and our departure was delayed by an hour.

During that time， and again on the plane， more strange looks for me， the man with the baby， the man with something missing. Gigi cried for much of that flight—there’s one on every plane—and I could tell she wanted to see her mom. I did， too. But we managed. Her heavy head eventually settled for my shoulder.

我是一位菜鳥老爸，這可是我第一次獨自帶娃外出。在我設想中，帶娃這事兒沒啥難。妻子給我帶足了“裝備”，女兒又那么乖巧可愛，我還有什么可擔心的？不過，事情似乎沒那么簡單……這該死的嬰兒車要怎么才能通過旋轉門？為什么總有人懷疑我拐賣兒童？負責安檢的大哥，你就不能行行好讓我走個后門？親愛的寶貝，求求你別再哭鬧了好嗎？嗨，各位，我是新手，看在孩子的分上，請多關照。

在我帶著一歲大的女兒登上飛機的前一個星期，我不斷地跟別人，通常是跟我妻子解釋說，我覺得這沒什么大不了的。

與其說那些持懷疑態度的人擔心的是我要帶女兒出門，倒不如說他們是擔心我出門時妻子不在身邊。

只有我和琪琪兩個人，還有一個鴨嘴杯和一個帶橡膠蓋的杯子——理論上講，這個帶蓋的杯子能讓她在吃禧貝泡芙時不會灑得到處都是。此外還有兩小袋配方奶粉、兩個奶瓶、32片紙尿褲、一塊換尿布用的墊子和若干濕巾、一輛嬰兒手推車（也能當兒童安全座椅，所以超級重）、各種各樣的玩具（有毛絨的，也有通電的），還有牙咬膠——大部分都放在嬰兒車上掛著的塑料袋里。有幾樣東西被塞進了我那鼓鼓囊囊的背包里，包里是我好不容易才裝好的我倆五天要穿的所有衣服。我的電腦包大概就在這一堆東西里的某個地方。

早上八點剛過，妻子把我倆載到路邊。她一個勁兒地親琪琪，直到我說服她說我們該走了才放手。她駕車離開，我轉身走向旋轉門，直到那一刻，我害怕了。

只是有一點點害怕。

在那之前，獨自帶琪琪坐飛機就是一個想法。然而，一旦涉及實際情況和實施步驟——掛著一堆袋子的嬰兒車能否通過旋轉門，以及我要怎么把嬰兒車折疊起來好通過X光安檢機——真真切切的現實就擺在眼前。

不過，命運出手擺平了一切：TSA那位負責核對登機牌與身份證信息的面帶微笑的女士讓我意識到帶嬰兒隨行是有特殊待遇的。“嬰兒隨行”——印在登機牌上的就是這個詞組，字體超小，我都沒看見。那位TSA的工作人員將我那微笑著朝人揮手的寶寶（還有我）領到了提前安檢的特殊隊伍，那邊沒人要求我脫鞋、解腰帶或是拿出電腦。而在我把嬰兒車塞進安檢機時，另一位TSA的工作人員好心地拉著琪琪的手。

一切都一直很順利：去往航站樓的路上琪琪一直都安安靜靜的。到了登機口，我坐在椅子上，琪琪站在我兩腿之間，倚著我的膝蓋用牙床嚼羊角面包——直到此刻，某種不自在的感覺出現了。

感到不自在的不是琪琪，也不是我，貌似是我們周圍的那些人。先是與我們隔兩個座位的一位30歲左右的女士。她給琪琪的微笑一直很燦爛，但她拋給我的那兩個微笑卻局促不安又相對克制。琪琪一直在試著向她表示友好，走過去一口氣盯著她看了有30秒。幾分鐘后，這位女士終于對我說：“媽媽在衛生間吧。”我感覺這表面上是個問句，但也很容易解讀成一個希望得到肯定的假設。

“不是的，”我說，“媽媽在上班，來不了。”

她點了點頭，一副不置可否的樣子。

后來我們跟一大群乘客一起走到離登機廊橋更近的地方等待登機，之前的場景又重演了。又有一位女士滿臉關切地問道：“這是你女兒嗎？”我向她證實，我的的確確是這個正抱著我腿的孩子的爸爸，并開玩笑地揮了揮我隨身攜帶的琪琪的出生證復印件。這位女士仍有些保留地笑了笑，轉身走了。我不太確定她之前可能把我想成什么人了：叔叔？年齡差距極大的哥哥？人販子？

盡管如此，我和琪琪還是順利無阻地登機了——當然，我們是第二組登機的乘客，就排在頭等艙和商務艙后面（編注：國外航班通常會將乘客分組，然后請乘客按各組順序依次登機，頭等艙、商務艙和帶小孩的乘客往往能優先登機），因為我們的確需要更多時間才能走到自己的座位。在把嬰兒車留在登機廊橋盡頭之前，我得把藏在嬰兒車袋子里的三個包拿出來，那是我在掃描登機牌前藏起來的——不然額外的隨身行李肯定得收我附加費。當我懷里抱著孩子掙扎著走過過道時，機上的乘務人員不敢質問我多帶的幾個包。他們對我隨意使用頭頂上方的行李架也沒什么異議。顯然，我要想安然度過在中間座椅待著的時間，就需要我能爭取到的所有空間——沒錯，中間的座椅——琪琪得在我膝蓋上待兩小時56分鐘。

不知怎么回事，從紐約到達拉斯沃斯堡機場的航行時光出人意料地順利。琪琪自然有那么幾次很厲害地動來動去，但在所有恰當的時機她都睡著了——主要是在起飛和降落時。上次坐飛機起飛和降落時，只有喂母乳才能緩解她的耳朵疼。我們順利出了航站樓，然后跳進租的車里，直奔兩個老朋友戴維和比爾的家，他們都等不及要見琪琪了。

戴維一度坦白：在期待我們到來時他很害怕，因為他以為我的婚姻可能出現了問題。我問他為什么會這么想，他承認說是因為我妻子沒能和我們一起來。他曾試著擺脫這種想法，不過，身為發型設計師的他還是把自己的擔憂講給了幾個顧客聽，而讓他非常害怕的是，這些顧客一致認為目前的情況看上去很可疑。

我能看出來戴維在說這話時感到如釋重負——在得知自己猜測有誤后他更加安心了。我告訴他我在機場也遇到了懷疑的目光和詢問，并安慰他說對于爸爸獨自帶女兒出行感到困惑的不只他一個人。媽媽在應對文件和行李的同時還要照顧一個孩子的場景并不少見。顯然，爸爸獨自帶孩子出行則意味著這背后有故事可挖。但我可沒什么幕后故事。我接受的是為人父母的挑戰，這種挑戰并非只與母親或父親密切相關。

在一周的時間里，我帶著琪琪認識了表親、嬸嬸、叔叔，之后我們回到機場，準備返程回家，這回我們可是駕輕就熟的老手了。

不過，自然地，回家的旅程是一場災難。

沒人送我們去TSA的提前安檢隊伍。按照達拉斯機場安檢處那位苛刻的男士的說法，在離港航班上發揮神奇作用的顯然并非真的是我登機牌上印的“嬰兒隨行”那幾個字。他強調說，早先在安檢掃描時有人送我去特殊安檢隊伍，那是僥幸。我問他為什么要把陌生人的善意看做是僥幸，但他沒有回答，更別提改變主意了。

不過，當我和琪琪好不容易到達X光安檢機時，我倆出乎意料地經歷了禪意般不可思議的一刻：我把她放在地上，撒開她的手之前對她說：“爸爸真的真的真的需要你就待在這兒。拜托了。”我懷疑除了“爸爸”這個詞，可能還有“拜托了”，其他任何一個字她都沒聽進去，但她一定從我絕望的口氣里明白了什么，因為接下來她就是照我說的做的，站在我身邊，雙手握在一起，誰跟她有目光接觸，她就沖誰樂。如此寧靜的時刻我之前從沒經歷過，自那之后也再沒經歷過。

這之后沒多久，混亂就又上演了。我坐到了咖啡上，冰冷的液體有的順著我的腿流下，有的濺到了背上。我忘了自己匆忙間把咖啡放在了椅子上，那會兒我正躥出去扶琪琪，她四仰八叉地躺在地上，磕腫的嘴唇流著血，她正無聲地吸氣，醞釀著刺耳的尖叫聲。就在我坐到那個塑料杯上的一瞬間，尖叫聲如約而至。我費了好大勁才用冰塊止住了血，那冰塊是我從被咖啡浸濕的褲子底下摸出來的。琪琪也好不容易才止住了哭。

我們都努力做到了。

盡管琪琪狀態極不穩定，一會兒精力超級旺盛，一會兒又累得抬不起頭，但她撐住了。在我們登機口對面的商店，當我發現琪琪在我右側八英尺遠的地方，嘴唇還腫腫的，小小的右手緊抓著五包薯片，左手緊抓著四包，我也忍住沒有崩潰。把薯片放在這么低的貨架上是否明智雖值得討論，但我們暫且不談：就在我彎腰去拉女兒的一瞬間——一聲低沉、緩慢的“不”從我口中冒出——她手里的幾包薯片掉在了地上，她手臂一揮，又從貨架上劃拉下來十多包，然后把所有東西都踩了一遍，像在跳祈雨舞。這舞確實管用，因為天空開始電閃雷鳴，我們的航班延遲了一個小時。

在那段時間里，以及后來在飛機上，更多的人向我投來奇怪的目光，看著我這個男人帶著個娃，卻缺了點什么。在那趟航班的大部分時間里琪琪都在哭——每架飛機上都有這么一個娃——我能看出來她想見到媽媽。我也一樣。但我們挺過來了。她那因困倦而發沉的小腦瓜最后終于耷拉在了我的肩膀上。

1. sippy cup：鴨嘴杯

2. Happypuff：美國禧貝泡芙

3. formula [?f??（r）mj?l?] n. （嬰兒）配方奶

4. plush [pl??] adj. 長毛絨的

5. set in：（不好的事情）到來

6. TSA：Transportation Security Administration的縮寫，美國運輸安全管理局

7. perk [p??k] n. 特殊待遇

8. without a hitch：順利地

9. have the gall to （do sth.）：膽敢（做某事）

10. ride out：安然度過（困難期或危險期）

11. squirm [skw??（r）m] vi. （因緊張、尷尬或疼痛）動來動去，來回扭動

12. fishy [?f??i] adj. 可疑的，值得懷疑的

13. juggle [?d??ɡ（?）l] vt. 盡力同時應付;盡量兼顧

14. seasoned [si?z（?）nd] adj. 富有經驗的

15. outbound [?a?t?ba?nd] adj. （航班）離港的

16. register [?red??st?（r）] vt. （事物）受到注意，被意識到

17. lunge [l?nd?] vi. 猛沖，撲

18. crotch [kr?t?] n. 胯部;褲襠

19. vacillate [?v?s?le?t] vi. 搖擺;波動

20. and all：〈口〉也

21. rain dance：（尤指印第安人的）祈雨舞