Like a champ.
September 12, 2013 § 1 Comment
I was a wreck before we went to Alaska.
To say the least.
First of all, our boy was only five-weeks-old and we barely knew him. His habits and behaviors were still foreign to us and we really still had no idea what we were doing, let alone having to do it in another state.
How would he sleep? How would he fly? Would he ride in the Ergo all day? Does he even really like the Ergo? What the heck are we thinking? We didn’t know any of these answers.
At the time, I had hardly ventured to the grocery store more than once and now we were boarding a plane.
The idea made me nauseous.
Two days before we were set to leave, our boy decided that was the perfect time to show us just how well he could meltdown. It was pretty impressive. We literally didn’t know he had it in him.
We walked him. We rocked him. We fed him (okay–I fed him). Nothing worked. Our neighbors looked at us sympathetically as we strolled, once again, around the block to calm him.
“This is it,” I thought. “I survived labor, but this baby on a plane? I’ll die.”
I. too, melted down. My poor husband, taking care of two babies.
It didn’t help matters that I’m just not a great traveler to begin with. From the minute I have to start packing to the minute I return home, I’m unsettled. I’m stressed, snippy, overwhelmed. A ball of fun, if you will. Especially if I am flying. Geez, I hate to fly. Security makes me nervous and annoyed, staring way too long at my license (which is actually a very nice picture, thankyouverymuch). TSA leaves me doubting my understanding of mL, wondering if I’m accidentally armed, and calming my racing heart as they stop and start the conveyer belt my precious and vulnerable things are at the mercy of. Let’s also forget for a moment that actually sitting on an airplane is comfortable for NO ONE and that airplane air makes my nasal passages feel like they are full of helium. Instead, let’s focus on the fact that you no longer get anything more than a bitty bag of mixed something covered in cheese powder and just the one drink. They’re only pretending to try to make the experience enjoyable and I’m not buying it.
Combine all of these warm and fuzzy travel feelings with having an infant in tow and you have a recipe for me out back with a ciggy.
All of his things. Being a mom outside of my house. The confinement amongst all the people with this little mystery, I mean person, able to make or break our two hours and 12 minutes in the air.
But lo and behold, this story has a happy ending. The day we were set to leave and still needing to pack, our offspring blessed us. He slept at the right times. He cooed us on and barely fussed all day.
This mama’s spirits were buoyed. Maybe we could do this. Yes, he gave us a scare by FREAKING OUT on the way to the airport (causing me to tell Kenny on the way to our gate, “I could turn back right now.”), but he ate and slept on the plane and made us proud. Same thing on the way home.
Phew. Crisis averted. We did it.
And were never doing it again.
And then my brother and SIL decided they’d have a baby after they moved to Texas and that pretty much meant getting on a plane once again with my little boy in order to meet my niece.
But here we are, on the eve of our crack-of-dawn flight and my son has reprised his role of Sleepy Infant While Mom Packs after yesterday’s favorite, Cranky Baby No One Wants To Take To Texas, that gave this mom a scare. He’s been a rockstar today. Just when I was ready to enact my plan to knock us both out (me: wine, him: baby Benadryl) at 50,000 feet, my son reminds me that every day is new and there’s no need to panic. Just maybe we can do this. Again. And just when you think it can’t get worse, it does.
But it always gets better.
Let’s just hope I don’t rue the day I jinxed my luck by posting all this on the blog, ya’ll.
Here we go.