Month 19: Baby's Worst Xmas?

We head out tomorrow for the holidays, so I'll be on a brief blog hiatus. Here's an essay I wrote about last year's trip. I'm still having flashbacks.

Baby's First (or Worst?) Christmas
Last Christmas was my first as a parent. I should have been excited. Baby’s First Christmas is supposed to be magical. I know this because people gave us ornaments that say so. Instead of being filled with the joy of the season, however, I was filled with fear and dread.

You see, our brand-new family was bravely embarking on a trip to our relatives’ six states away. As nervous new parents, my husband and I were apprehensive about traveling with an infant for the first time. But it was Christmas.

Packing presented the first challenge. How many changes of clothes would the baby need? Did diaper rash cream count as a liquid, and therefore need to be transferred into a clear plastic bag per airport security requirements? I feared I would forget some key baby item—say, that crucial extra diaper—and be forced to construct one out of airsickness bags and cocktail napkins.

At the airport, we filled an entire baggage cart with our gear, including a car seat bigger than the baby himself. I had always prided myself on my ability to pack light. These days, entire marching bands travel lighter than I do.

Disassembling and reassembling the baby apparatus to get through security nearly caused us to miss our flight. And preboarding is one of the few perks of traveling with a small child. Then, by the time I had unpacked the baby’s blanket, pacifier, rattle, bottle and bib, the plane was landing. So we repacked our gear, reassembled the stroller and retrieved our bags. With a flurry of straps and buckles, we managed to install the car seat in the rental car.

Upon our arrival at my in-laws’ house, we—I mean, the baby—were greeted by several generations of relatives. My son, Miles, was the first grandchild to come along in seven years, and the first grandson in seventeen years. His reception rivaled that of a young maharajah. Children shouted. Lights twinkled. Cameras flashed. It was Overstimulation Central.

Even at seven months old, Miles was a social little guy. He clearly felt it was his duty to entertain two sets of grandparents, six cousins and countless aunts, uncles and other visitors with his repertoire of cute baby antics. A rousing game of peek-a-boo? You got it. A photo beside the decorative reindeer? No problem.

Someone decided it would be fun to have “Santa” give out the presents. Ah, the presents. Stacks taller than the baby towered everywhere. Miles would have been happy with just the bows and wrapping paper. But no, he was gifted with toys galore, including a bilingual bongo drum that chirped in Spanish and English. Miles hadn’t even mastered his mother tongue yet, let alone a second language.

He took all this in with wide-eyed wonder. Then an ancient uncle came in sporting the Santa hat. One look at the evil red pom-pommed cap, and the baby’s lower lip began to quiver like a bowl full of jelly. This episode marked the beginning of the end of our fun family festivities.

When it was time to wind down in the evening, Miles didn’t. He woke up every two hours all night long, complaining loudly about the accommodations—a rickety old portable crib rescued from a neighbor’s attic. After the comforts of his cushy digs at home, he wasn’t having it.

By the fifth night of this, we had all had enough. Much to the grandparents’ dismay, we flew home early, arriving exhausted and tense. Incredibly, we came back with even more stuff than we’d brought.

The next morning, all was well with the world. Miles lolled in his crib, cooing over the baby monitor, while his dad and I snuggled up in our own bed. There were no more airport security lines, no more car seats or portable cribs, no one we needed to entertain—and most importantly, no Santa hats in sight. Thank goodness Baby’s First Christmas only happens once.

--Abigail Green