I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss the days of being able to run out the door at a moment’s notice.

Remember that? What’s that? Need to run to the store real quick? Alright, wallet, keys, maybe a drink, gone. It was a beautiful, fleeting era of freedom and spontaneity.

Now? Now it is a meticulously planned three-ring circus of car seats and diaper bags, with a guaranteed side of tantrum.

Step I: The Car Seat of Doom

Our main event is always the car seat. Not sure if it is normal or not, but my daughter Lyla hates—and I really cannot emphasize that enough—her car seat at first.

The process is a carefully calibrated descent into chaos:

• Phase 1: The Suspicion. We set her in there. Her eyes are wide and ready to cry and fusses a bit. The warning siren.
• Phase 2: The Protest. We get the belts latched. Her protest becomes vocal and clear: she does not consent to these proceedings.
• Phase 3: The Meltdown. Then we latch the chest clip. Oh man. This is the point of no return. She goes into a full-blown, red-faced, heartbreaking meltdown. Hates it. Screams and cries like we’ve betrayed her in the most profound way.

Eventually, with enough rocking, pleading, and maybe a few silly faces, she will settle. Only then can we haul that 20-pound infant-car-seat-carrier contraption towards the door.

Step II: The Diaper Bag of Everything

But wait! We cannot forget the Diaper Bag. This isn’t just any bag; it’s a perfectly curated survival kit for any potential scenario in the known universe.

We must first run through the pre-launch checklist, preferably before we ignite the fuse on the Car Seat of Doom:

• Where are we going? (Park? Doctor? Target? The strategy changes for each.)
• What will we be doing? (Will there be a blowout? There’s always a chance of a blowout.)
• How long do we think we’ll be out? (Now double it. Double the time and double the supplies.)
• Do we need a carrier or a stroller? (This is a whole other logistical nightmare.)

Once we have our mission parameters, we pack the bag. It must contain the appropriate amount of:

• Diapers (x1000)
• Wipes
• Burp cloths
• Extra clothes (for her, and let’s be honest, probably for me)
• Pacifiers (at least three, because one will be thrown to the ground immediately)
• Bottles/Formula
• Baby carrier
• Spare tire
• Kitchen sink…

The Final Countdown

Gone are the days of the quick dash out the door. What was once a simple errand now feels more like a NASA space launch. We’re running through hundreds of checks, managing systems failures (see: meltdowns), and coordinating mission control.

We finally get everyone and everything loaded into the car, buckle ourselves in, and take a deep breath of exhausted victory.

And that’s when you realize you forgot your wallet. Or your phone. Or why you were going out in the first place.

But you know what? As I look in the rearview mirror at her peaceful, sleeping face—finally content now that the car is moving—I realize I wouldn’t go back. This military operation is my life now. And while it’s exhausting, it’s also filled with a purpose I never knew before my quick dashes out the door.

The destination is different now, but the company is so much better.