Yo Quiero Enfamil

You got to give credit to the ad wizards that have been at the helm of Taco Bell for the last decade. The stupid Chihuahua has become an advertising icon (and microwave fodder for the boys of Governors Square), the bell sound is now synonymous with their Gorditas Bajas, and other than the one misfire campaign of Taco Neck Syndrome, they’ve been influential, trendy, and cool.

Enter Fourthmeal.

For the last several months, the Bell has been trying to convince America that there’s a meal that rests between dinner and breakfast. No, not Second Breakfast, you Hobbits – we’re talking Fourthmeal here. Because of Taco Bell’s late, late drive-thru hours, their marketing push hopes that you will consume some tasty high-caloric junk food and precisely the time when your metabolism has turned in for the night. Now don’t get me wrong – there’s no fast food eatery that sounds better after a night at the bar, but I can’t say I’ve left my apartment to grab a Crunchwrap after the clock has struck 12. So while I may not enjoy Fourthmeal, I certainly know somebody who does.

Clara.

Depending on when her last feeding of the day prior to turning in for the evening is, Clara may open her eyes sometime between dinner and breakfast and look around. Her eyes adjust to the dim glow from her nightlight, and she’s quick to discover that all is quiet in her house. Seems like a perfect time to demand additional sustenance.

Now since someone has yet to gain the know-how to walk themselves to the kitchen and rummage through the pantry in the middle of the night, our daughter still likes to order out. Instead of a phone, she babbles. Instead of a menu, she babbles. Instead of tipping the delivery guy, she promises to pay later via making his t-shirt a darker, wetter shade of whatever color it previously was. When it’s time for Fourthmeal, anything is possible.

Now while Clara still sleeps in our room (we’ve yet to break out the high tech walkie-talkies – I can’t wait to teach her trucker lingo,) I’m a good 10-12 feet walk over to her little butterfly-lit corner of the room. If I’m up and walking around in the middle of the night, it’s either because she’s called out for takeout or I’m lost. When I get over there, I witness the same thing every time.

1. Eyes wide open.
2. Baby’s head turning back and forth like she’s watch Nascar.
3. Rest of body still contained within the Swaddle – amazing.
4. Pacifier inexplicably a good foot from her mouth. When she decides it’s time to sing, that thing takes off with the thrust of a space shuttle.

A baby’s range of activities is very limited. She can choose to sleep, eat, fill her diaper, sit and admire our interior decorating skills, lie down and wonder why no one paints their ceilings anymore, stare at the television, swing, or just smile and give her parents the impression that they have everything under control. But when it’s completely dark in the apartment and the tall one’s hands are entering the crib, the realm of possibility is limited to one: chow time. There’s no other reason Captain Groggy could be elevating her at that time of night.

When we make it to the other room, my objective is simple. I need to obtain formula, fee formula to baby, return baby to crib. If pre-planned, this will take no more than 10-12 minutes. You see, sometimes you can have forethought to prepare Fourthmeal ahead of time, store it in the fridge, and a few microwave buttons later, Fourthmeal is served. This is the much-preferred method of midnight feeding.

And as awake as Clara was when she was awaiting her train to the kitchen, she feeds with her eyes closed. Now, I know she’s awake, since there is no reason for babies to have mastered the art of sleepeating – with such a small agenda, there’s no reason to multi-task here. And I know I’m awake, because I’ve seen more episodes of the Drew Carey Show then I even knew existed.

(It will be interesting to see what Clara’s impression of Cleveland is when she’s older.)