To Be Or Not To Be a Godparent

Lord knows that I’m not a model Catholic. I rarely make 10am mass on Sunday even thought it’s the only one out of seven held every Sunday that’s in English. (My Spanish, Vietnamese, and Haitian aren’t what I would call current.) I can’t tell you (sadly) the last time I was at confession, which is of course one of the reasons I don’t go to confession. And I seem to always forget about even the biggest of church holidays. (Ash Wednesday was when?) But for my inability to be totally committed or consistent, getting baby baptized was a must.

The Unofficial Baptism

The way my  husband and I look at it, baby actually had two baptisms. One was held on a Saturday in the presence of… well, actually nobody but my husband and me. It was simple, sweet, and a little southern in that it was nothing more than a first dunk in the mighty St. Lawrence River off my parents’ dock. It’s the fastest way to get christened as a River Rat.

The Real Deal Baptism

The second baptism was more traditional, although I imagine that certain parts of the Catholic Church would be less than impressed with our ceremony. There was a priest, but other than that it in no way resembled any other christening I’d been to. There was no church; the scene was my parent’s house with the River as the backdrop. The guest list had only marginally more people than at baby’s first, unofficial baptism. Parents, siblings, and godparents.

Choosing baby’s godparents was an interesting exercise. My husband and I decided that we would each pick one godparent. Neither one of us could veto the other’s choice, and the only other caveat was that whoever we picked couldn’t be family.

That might sound a little strange. But here’s how we thought about it: Family automatically plays a big role in a baby’s life–good, bad, or indifferent. A baby’s godparents are an opportunity to invite someone outside the clan to help raise baby. And when I say raise, I don’t mean as a go-to babysitter.

Godparents are people who can uniquely enrich baby’s life. They are removed from the family headaches, drama, and other nonsense, so they can model different–and sometimes better–behavior. Not only that, but chances are they have discrete talents, perspectives, and priorities than baby’s parents and family. And in our minds, that’s a good thing. More exposure to diversity of thought and action equals a more well-rounded person. At least in theory.

Fortunately we are blessed with many close friends who would make spectacular godparents. So, we started considering another factor–geography. There’s no doubt that godparents are more influential when they can actually see the baby from time to time. Being military, there are few guarantees that D.C. will be our last stop. But there’s one place, we always–and will always–go back to: the River. We’ve got the most family concentrated in the area and the River itself is tangled up in our whole relationship. So, we needed to find baby godparents who, if all else failed, would be close(ish) to the River so we could all see each other.

And so long story short, baby has a wonderful set of godparents (to include their respective spouses who are just as amazing as they are) who more than fit the bill.

But the whole exercise really made me realize how lucky we are to have such a fantastic circle of friends, all of whom would–and will–have amazing things to add to baby’s life. The whole decision process left me wanting to have a whole slew of kids so they could each experience the richness of all of our closest friends. How many ways can I count my blessings?

On the Road Again

As all good things must come to an end, baby and my summer at the River ended on Labor Day Weekend.

The original plan was for my husband and I to caravan back to D.C. on Sunday, beating what we imagined would be crazy traffic on Monday. The plan was completely foiled when my husband got sick on Sunday morning. So, Plan B had us up at 5am for a 5:30am departure. Both trucks were packed up, so all we needed to do was throw the baby, dog, two cats, and ourselves in the car.

Baby and dog–no problem. But the cats… to ensure that they’d be around in the morning, we’d put them on a 24-hour fast. We figured a little jingle of kitty kernels in their porcelain dishes and we’d be able to do our own snatch and grab and we’d be headed south. All went according to plan, baby and dog were in the cars and the cats came running at the sound of food. We were good to go–right up until the second cat started clawing, growling, and spitting. Steps from the car she squirmed right through my husband’s hands. He leaped forward to grab her again, landing chest first on the gravel driveway. All I saw was a fluffy black tail disappear into the woods besides the garage.

Have you ever tried looking for a black cat in the woods in the dark? Good luck, sucker.

It took us an hour to chase the cat into the garage, where she immediately hopped up on top of some 8 foot cabinets, curling into a ball right in the unreachable part of the middle. As my husband was standing on two milk crates, trying to pry her from her spot with a broom handle, I finally was able to pull the hammock that she was sitting on toward me enough to where I could grab her, stuff her into a milk crate, and wrap the whole thing in a smock to keep her from escaping before we got her in the car.

It was 6:45am. We hadn’t even pulled out of the driveway yet and it felt like a really long day.

I was glad we waited and got the cat (I seriously considered leaving her at the River until Thanksgiving), but I kept thinking about how the romp in the woods totally screwed up our time line. And when traveling long distances with an infant, it’s all about timing. I could just imagine get 15 miles down the road and having baby wake up and want to eat. That thought was so depressing to me because it was a reminder that not only did we have a long way to go, but we were going no where fast.

Fortunately, baby was pretty much the angel that he always is throughout the whole trip. We stopped twice to feed him, which coincided with a run to D&D and a stop for gas, and only lost a little more than an hour. The traffic gods must’ve been smiling on us because we hit no traffic despite the giant stretches of construction.

The Pace Car

My husband took the lead for most of the drive, so I got a good, long look at the ass end of our gypsy truck . Despite my husband taking one carload of baby gear back to D.C. with him in early August, both of our vehicles–one Toyota 4-Runner and one Volvo XC90–were packed to the brim. (Yup, the roof rack totally came in handy once again.)

But how did we accumulate all this stuff in the matter of a couple months?

The Caravan Caboose

I went north with one overflowing car and now we were coming back with two. It was so bad that when we pulled off for coffee and bagels, my husband got out to walk the dog and there was another guy walking his dog and he says to my husband, “Why don’t you just get a Winnebago?”

Seriously.

While there were some miscellaneous items brought home–a cast-off grill from my parents, a sewing machine, and a rice cooker–the vast majority of stuff was baby stuff. Until I packed it up, I hadn’t realized how much new stuff I had received as gifts from wonderfully generous friends and, as much as I hate to admit it, how much stuff I had bought for baby.

After all the baby showers, I couldn’t imagine that this kid would need anything else for a long time other than stuff like diapers and wipes. Not so. All summer, I found myself buying cute things I saw in sizes 9 months and 12 months under the rationale that he really didn’t have much past 6 months. Even his 6 months wardrobe seemed a little skimpy. Not to mention that it’s really hard to say no when you’re seeing end of summer sales, where the cutest little jammies and onesies are like $3 or $4. I couldn’t help myself.

But now that I managed to fit it all in the car–or cars, to be more exact–I just have to figure out where to put it in my house.

Things They Are a Changin’ (Sort of)

I was on the phone with my college roommate the other day–it had been an embarrassingly long time since we had last talked–when she asked me what the biggest change was for me post baby. It seemed like such a simple question, but I really was at a loss for a good answer. Where do you even start to answer that?

Sure, there are a lot of things that are different. My pant size and my cup size for sure. But those are minor and (hopefully) temporary. But the other big changes are that we really can’t do things on a whim (sure, let’s swing by so-and-so’s barbecue on our way out) or change plans midstream (you want to meet at what bar instead?). We haven’t really had any big nights on the town or those days where you’re on the boat or at a baseball game at 1pm and then next thing you know it’s midnight and you’re in a bar and haven’t eaten dinner. (I’m ridiculously afraid of what I’ll feel like the morning after.)

But it’s not like we’ve been holed up in our house for the past three months either. We go out for coffee, lunch, and dinner several times a week (sometimes even all three in a day). We go out for walks, yoga class, and boat rides. We’ve visited friends, gone to happy hour, taken in a couple concerts, and also entertained at our house. So, in that way, we’re still pretty much the same.

Maybe the biggest change is that we’re just going a little slower day to day. Whereas maybe we used to do six activities a day (a walk, coffee, boat ride, happy hour, dinner, drinks), we now do one, two, or maybe three. (Some days just getting the baby and ourselves cleaned up seems like a big deal.) So maybe baby has just made us Sarah and Ian light.

My husband probably wouldn’t like to think of ourselves as slowing down–he’s a pedal-to-the-metal kind of guy–but we definitely are easing off the gas in a lot of ways. And I think it’s making us saner.

It’s impossible to rush with a baby. And consequently we overcommit and overextend ourselves less, which means less stress and craziness. The little things that seemed to get blown out of proportion (you forgot what? you didn’t take care of what?) remain more in perspective and more manageable when you’re not speeding through your life.

So, the answer I would really give my friend about what’s changed is: not much. We’re just taking a little more time to enjoy the things we already love to do.

The Bottomless Pit of a Baby: Part II

As a newbie mom, I have not stopped worrying about whether baby is getting enough to eat. This is of course ironic because I’ve got a baby that qualifies as a chunker on my hands.

Tomorrow baby turns three months old, and although I don’t know exactly how much he weighs, I know he’s a load. At last check–his two-month check-up–baby was encroaching on the 15-pound mark. And judging by how tight some of his onesies are across his belly, he’s not slowing down. A week ago I was amusing myself by doing shoulder raises with him and the next day (sadly) I was sore.

Whereas during his first few weeks of life, I stressed about whether I would produce milk period, these days I’m worrying about whether I will be able to keep up with the eating machine that is my son. So far so good, but every time I’m in the formula aisle at Target, I wonder if I should pick up some formula just in case. And then I think, “Just in case of what?” At this point, nothing seems to be broken, so why am I trying to fix it?

But there’s this little fear in the back of my mind that I’m not going to be able to keep up with his rapacious appetite. All it takes to remind me is watching baby suck down a 4 oz. bottle in what feels like record time. Left up to him, he’d prefer to take it in one fell gulp. At three months of age, my baby actually gets annoyed with me when I try to remove a bottle from his lips before it’s empty and he’s sucking air.

An Impulse Buy

So, the other day, I did it. I actually bought formula basically out of fear. I bought four 8 oz. cans of Enfamil Premium Lipil. What that means, I don’t know. All I know is that these cans were the only ones on the shelf that didn’t list high fructose corn syrup (or solids, which is even freakier) in the ingredients. (Two mommy-friends warned me about this; otherwise, I wouldn’t have even bothered to look.)

And even though they’ve been sitting in my pantry for the past week–and probably will sit there for many more weeks to come–somehow I feel better. I have no intention of using them, but there’s security in knowing that I’ve got back-up.

Shot Through the Heart (And Thigh)

Baby recently went in for his two-month shots. I think there were five of them all together. One three-in-one vaccination that went into one chubby thigh, two single-dose shots into the other chubby thigh, and then one kinder, gentler vaccination administered orally. As to be expected, there was a lot of crying and screaming. Fortunately none of it was from me.

I seriously worried that I might rain a few fat drops down the old cheeks watching the wee one scream bloody murder. Especially when the nurse started telling my husband that she used to be really bad at administering shots to babies. She used to work in geriatrics but then switched to pediatrics; but we weren’t supposed to worry because she was really good at it now. Wow, comforting.

Although that conversation was less than assuring to my husband and me, I will say she was a pro. I couldn’t believe how unbelievable fast she had the shots over and done with. (Guess that comes with practice.) So fast, in fact, that baby almost didn’t know what happened. The shots went in and there was this second of pregnant silence before his little round face just crumpled in on itself and turned red and he let out a cry that pretty much said, “Moooommmm! Why did you do that to me?”

Music to Mommy's Ears

I probably will sound like a terrible mother to say that there was something so incredibly cute about the sheer shock on his face before he opened his mouth wide to let out that wail. I think I may have even smiled a secret little smile as I picked him up and hugged him tight to me.  (I can’t believe I’m even admitting to this on the Internet.)

Baby had only shed two real tears before that day. One was when I accidentally clipped the alligator clip that tethers his pacifier to him to the skin on his chest. (Oops.) Number two was when the dog jumped up on the bed as I was changing baby and in the way that 90-pound dogs can be sweet, accidentally smashed baby on the head. (Double oops.)

I hate saying it, but there is something about seeing baby cry his first tears that can bring a little smile to my face. Part of it is knowing that these moments are temporary; no permanent damage has been done. But the other part of it is seeing such raw, innocent emotion. When a baby cries, it’s a simple cause and effect. Baby got pinched, knocked, or pricked and it hurt, so that means there are tears. How simple and beautiful is that?

It’s no longer like that for adults. I can’t speak for all mommies or daddies, but I would venture a guess that the vast majority of things that make most adults cry at this point in life have nothing to do with physical pain. Tears come from four main sources: disappointment, frustration, humiliation, and sadness. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to go back to just crying when you just hurt yourself?

So, I think that’s why I can smile as I hold my wee one when he wails, clinging on to my shoulder. At this point in his short life, I can kiss the boo-boos away. It won’t be like that for forever, so I better enjoy it now.

The White Gold Rush

We’re nearing the end of World Breastfeeding Week, Aug. 1-7, so I figured it’s probably an appropriate show of support to post an update on how my own babe-to-boob experience is going. If it’s any indication, we now refer to breastmilk as white gold.

I’ve passed the two-month mark and as you might guess from my lack of recent posts on the subject, no news is good news. It was a bit stressful in the beginning because quite simply I didn’t know what I was doing. But it wasn’t too long–maybe a couple weeks–before I hit a stride that I was comfortable with.

For me, that meant going against everything I’d read and introducing a bottle early–like within the first week of bringing baby home. I felt kind of guilty about it for some crazy reason, but it wasn’t too long before I realized that pumping and bottling totally enhanced the quality of life for me with the wee one. I felt more mobile–all I needed was my mini cooler pack full of breast milk and I was good to go. And it felt like I got more free time (if there is such a thing once you have a kid) in between feedings where I could get essential tasks like paying bills, doing laundry, and getting myself together done.

The best I can figure on that one is that baby eats more from a bottle in a single sitting than from the boob and, therefore, sleeps a bit longer. In fact, I credit the two 4 0z. bottles that baby downs around 9pm every night for getting him to sleeping through the night. (As an aside, that’s been so wonderful. So wonderful that I’m afraid that it’s too good to be true. The thought of going backwards is really depressing.)

Now, just to clarify, I’m not pumping exclusively, although I’m fascinated by the couple of mommies who I know who’ve gone that route. (Sometimes pumping  feels so time consuming.) I still nurse, but only for a few–usually two or three–feedings a day. The rest of baby’s feedings are given by bottle because they’re given on the go, anywhere from a park bench to a parking lot. (Turns out having a baby hasn’t slowed me down much; I just carry more luggage.)

But the one thing that comes with pumping is a heightened sense of how precious whatever expressed milk you have is. The first time you open up the mini cooler to find out the top to one of your bottles wasn’t screwed on tightly sucks, plain and simple. You feel so cheated because you worked so hard to produce that milk and it’s gone but baby didn’t benefit from it. (You get the same feeling when you have to pump and dump, only it’s worse because you feel intentionally wasteful.)

And there’s always this worry that you won’t have enough bottles to keep baby satisfied while you’re running around doing your thing. That’s a real concern if grandma is babysitting, but it’s really not that big of a deal if you’re busy with baby; after all, you can still nurse at any time, even if you’d prefer not to in public. In the case of a wailing baby emergency, it’s nice that you’ve got that option.

For newbie moms considering going this route, here are a few things that I’ve learned that have totally helped me out:

• Start early. So-called nipple confusion, the idea that baby will never take the breast once the bottle is introduced, is largely a farce. However, there is now more evidence that mommies can wait too long to introduce an artificial nipple, making for a rough go down the road. For me, I introduced the bottle very early and have found that my wee one goes from breast to bottle seemlessly.
• Go slow flow.Milk comes out faster from a bottle than the boob, so you probably want to go with a slow-flow nipple that’s made especially for newborns. The slower flow best simulates breastfeeding, forcing the wee one to suck pretty hard. Not only is this good for developing the mouth muscles and reducing dribbles, but it helps babies switch from breast to bottle a little easier. However, you really
  

  Baby's Favorite Bottles

  need to check out the packages to make sure you’ve got the right nipple. For example, I use Avent bottles. (I love them, by the way; they’re PBA free, reasonably priced, and you can buy a converter kit that works with just about any pump, allowing you to pump directly into the bottle from which you’ll feed.) The newborn nipple is labeled with a 0+ versus a stage 1 nipple, which is good for 0 to 3 months. I’ve noticed similar labeling issues with other bottle manufacturers.

• Pump en primero. This is by far the best piece of advice I can give pumping mommies–pump before you nurse not after. I had started experimenting with this technique when a friend of mine mentioned it as a great way of building up a milk supply, especially when returning to work. When I pumped after a feeding, I was able to get out maybe a couple of ounces per boob after what felt like forever. When I pump before I nurse, I end up with double that stored up in about the same amount of time. And baby’s not suffering for it. Turns out that babies are impressive little suckers and are able to out milk a breast pump. And if I was ever in doubt, I could check for a mini milk moustache on baby when nursing. (He never disappointed.)

Those are by far the best tips I can give any mommies going for the bottle in the near term, but I saw a few more in the article “Breast & Bottle” in the August issue of Parenting. Check it out here.

Look at the Baby, Look at the Baby

My husband and I never get sick of the movie Old School. We’ve seen it a gazillion times and still get a kick out of all the awesome one-liners. One Vince Vaughn zinger that my husband and I particularly find hilarious has taken on a totally new meaning for us post Baby Aleksi’s arrival.

Watching, Judging

The quote to which I’m referring comes from the wedding scene, where Beanie (Vince Vaughn) tries to talk Frank (Will Farrell) out of getting married.

Frank: “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Beanie: “Why don’t you give that six months. You don’t think that’s gonna change. I got a wife, kids. Do I sound like a happy guy to you Frankie? There’s my wife. Now, see that: always smiling, hi honey, judging, watching. Look at the baby, look at the baby!”

(Better yet, listen to the actual movie quote here.)

For me, there’s something insanely hilarious about that last line: “Look at the baby, look at the baby!” Pre baby, my husband and I would whisper that line to each other every time we were around a baby that everyone else was oohing and ahhing over. We always giggled at our little inside joke; “baby” was barely in our vocabulary.

Not only am I now living that quote, but I’m totally one of “those” parents.

Nearly every morning, I spend probably a good 15 minutes just lying in bed, staring at the baby, memorizing every little curve of his face. I’m not really thinking about anything; I’m just looking, looking, looking, as if something in his round, little face could have changed overnight.

And it’s just not me and it’s just not the mornings.

I’ve caught my husband doing the same. He puts his face right up to the baby’s and just stays there until he’s got his fix. Sometimes he even calls me over so I can stare with him. (Ok, I admit it; I do that, too.)

Same thing when I’m having dinner with my parents. The baby moves or makes a peep (or even just sits there), and conversation at the table stalls out and we all just stare at him. I’m half surprised that our mouths don’t drop open and drool starts falling out.

What is it about babies that makes grown people do this?

Babies are definitely cute, but it’s something more and it’s definitely deep and it’s definitely profound. It’s like there’s something in us that recognizes that this is a new, fresh life, one so full of possibility, that forces us into a temporary state of awe.

Or maybe it’s that something in us recognizes that this little person is one of us, that he (or she) belongs to us, with us. So, we get a little glimpse of how big our responsibility is to this wee one. Maybe it’s our sense of how big the job is and how small we are that gives us reason to pause. We need a moment to see how much it’ll be worth it.

Or maybe it’s just that we see ourselves in these round faces and curious eyes. And in seeing our reflections, we feel so much less alone or insignificant in the world. We know this little person is glad to see to see us, will look up to us, will love us and so the longer we look, the better we feel about ourselves.

Then again, maybe it’s none of these things that drive us to linger a little longer on a pair of lovely lashes or bright eyes, a button nose or a pouty mouth. And maybe it really doesn’t matter. Just look at the baby.

Growing Pains

I’d always thought of growing pains as something that kids experience as their bodies and brains stretch, but I’m starting to think they’re more something that parents go through as they watch the whole process.

This occurred to me the other day when I got a message from a friend who is a mommy-to-be. Turns out that her baby boy is likely to arrive a couple weeks early, so he’s probably going to be a little tinier than she and her husband were expecting and she wanted to take me up on my offer to give her some of the newborn outfits that baby already has outgrown.

A Box Full of Memories

Of course I was thrilled to help, even if it was as simple as throwing a bunch of onesies into a box and mailing them to her. But as I was putting the box together, I found myself getting a little verklempt.

Blame it on the baby blues (damn those hormones once again!), but it was somehow really sad to be packing away these little, itty bitty outfits. I found myself taking extra care in folding them, lingering a little longer on the ones that I thought looked really cute on baby. I ran my fingers one last time over the embroidered designs and pulled some of the snaps together for old times’ sake. I may have even put a couple up to my face and taken a deep breath, as if I was never going to smell baby smell again.

It was almost heartbreaking to think that even though he’s still a wee one, he’s never going to be that small again. In the matter of a few weeks, he’d grown so much. He suddenly had a past.

And then it hit me that I have a lifetime of more moments like this. My baby isn’t always going to be a baby. He’s going to be big, and then bigger, and then really big and then suddenly he’s going to be a man and then an old man. And it feels like it’s going to go by so fast that it might be easy to miss something.

When I was growing up, I don’t remember seeing parents–or at least moms–hysterical all the time over their kids. Of course, I’m sure I saw a parent or two shed a couple of quiet tears on the first day of kindergarten or at high school graduation. But with how I felt folding those oh-so-soft onesies and footie pajamas, I think I might find a reason to get misty every day (or at least every other day).

Every day he’s going to learn something new, develop more personality, become a little more independent, and leave a deeper imprint on the world around him. And for as wonderful as that growth is to watch, I know part of me will be wishing there was a big pause button I could push so I could hold on just a minute longer to the really special moments that I know we’ll have.

No wonder my grandmother always carried a Kleenex in her sleeve. There are tear-worthy moments to be had every day.

A First in Flight

So, I’ve finally returned from a 10-day whirlwind tour of the East Coast, where I’ve ping ponged my way from Northern New York to North Carolina to Washington, D.C., to Jersey and back with a six-week-old. Traveling with infants… definitely not for the impatient or disorganized (of which I am both).

He's got a ticket to ride

Out of the four different legs of the trip, I was most worried about the flight to North Carolina. I was stressing that baby would totally be that kind of baby that airline passengers don’t feel bad about hating. Think a hot, sweaty, totally over-booked plane meets wailing, screaming, and other forms of inconsolable crying.

But if the truth be told, it wasn’t so bad; the five hour drive from Fayette-nam (Fayetteville, N.C., home to Fort Bragg, for those of you non-military wives reading this) with just baby and me was much, much worse. All things considered, baby’s first flight was fantastic.

Of course a few things helped.

Number one: my mom. Yup, she went with me as my sherpa. She schlepped pretty much everything besides the baby–my carry-on (a.k.a. diaper bag), her purse, cooler pack full of breast milk, dirty diapers, stroller base, etc. I so needed her extra set of hands.

It would seem like with two of us, we’d have everything under control. But all it took was the top to snap off of one of my mini canisters of breast milk and it felt like the wheels were starting to fall off. Of course, then I was reminded of my utter incompetence when I saw a girl probably 10 years younger than I, toting her infant son onto the same flight with what seemed like half the amount of stuff and no mom.

But I digress… my number two savior was the Charlotte USO.

Now, for the non-military readers out there, the USO (United Service Organizations) is a group whose mission is “to provide morale, welfare, and recreation-type services to uniformed military personnel.” That encompasses a lot of things, but one of the cooler things they do for military–and that includes active duty military, national guard, reserves, retired military people, and military families–is operate a number of airport lounges, where people can hang out and rest up before their flights or during a layover.

And there happened to be one in Charlotte, where my mom, baby, and I had a three-plus hour layover.

This was my first time using a USO lounge. In fact, my mom and I had first headed to the US Airways club lounge, armed with her American Express platinum card and a hope that they had reciprocity with card members. (They don’t.) Rejected and wondering where we were going to find a suitable place to hang out (I was probably going to need to nurse given how fast baby sucked down a bottle of pumped milk on the first flight), I suggested we try out the USO.

It took us awhile to find it, but once we did, it was so worth it. The people

The Charlotte USO = Godsend

were so friendly, warm, and welcoming; they showed us every corner of the place from the video message center to the DVD viewing room to the kitchen area (complete with bottled drinks, fresh hot dogs, and other snacks) to the nursery (equipped with gliders, a pack ‘n’ play, and a bunch of toys and books for kids) to the bathrooms with the infant changing station. Our host even thought to tell me that I just needed to let her know if I needed diapers, wipes, or formula. (How awesome is that?)

It was so nice to be able to use the USO to regroup. I was even able to nurse comfortably (I’m still not totally down with whipping out the boob anywhere, anytime) while my mom put her feet up in an overstuffed leather recliner while watching the news and reading the paper.

Now, I realize that a lot of people reading this probably don’t have access to great services like the USO, so here are a few lessons learned:

• Book a hotel. If you have a very early morning flight, seriously consider getting a room at the airport hotel for the night before. It probably is worth the money because you won’t have to get up so darn early, so your kid is likely to be less cranky, and you won’t have any last minute snafus like a late start, a pit stop for gas, heavy traffic, or flat tire.
• Good things come in small packages. If you are bringing expressed milk on the plane, consider using smaller quantity canisters. If your bottles are under three ounces, you’ve got a green light to go. If they are bigger, it’s still no big deal–the TSA people will ask you to open the bottles so they can wave this paper strip thing over it and conduct a vapor test–but it will cost you more time getting through security.
• Bag it. Bring a plastic garbage bag with you. When traveling with itty bitty babies, you will likely have them in their car seat with the clip-in base. (I have the Baby Trend Snap and Go, but there are other brands out there.) This stroller system makes it so easy to get to your gate, particularly if you’ve got luck like mine and you have to change terminals during your layover. But you’ll have to check it at the gate. I put the whole car seat part of the system in a plastic bag before giving it to the runway dude who threw it into the belly of the plan. It may sound strange, but think about how dirty it’s got to be–from the workers’ gloves, to the carts on which the baggage is transported, to the under carriage of the plane. Ewww. Plastic will protect the seat fabric.
• Double bag it. I went for the bag-within-a-bag as my carry-on and I think it worked out really well. A friend had given me this great oversized, water repellent bag as a baby gift, so I packed that thing full of all my baby and travel essentials. And the bigger the better. I was able to fit my diaper bag, the cooler pack, my giant wallet, and a few other miscellaneous items in the thing and it was easy and compact to carry. Here’s a pic:

A carry-all carry-on

So, thanks to smart packing, planning, and a personal pack mule, baby’s first flight was pretty painless. However, although I’ve lived to tell about it, I’ll say that I wouldn’t exactly say that I’m ready to be a frequent flier family. In fact, I’m trying not to think about the trip to Hawaii that we’ve got planned with baby. (How long is the flight, again?)

Not So Hot on the Hormones

I have written before about hormones–the ones that make you sappy, weepy, and hysterical. But it turns out the hormonal changes that happen after you have a baby can have as many physical side-effects as emotional.

Up until a few weeks ago, the only hormonal changes I was experiencing was resulting in tears and more tears. But an e-mail from a mommy-friend warned me that there could be more to come. She wrote:

“SWEATING… do you have that? Hot flashes from the hormones leaving your body? I was in shock and had no idea what was going on in the hospital until they explained that one to me. Nothing worse than getting up after only an hour of sleep in the middle of the night AND being drenched!”

So, I never got the night sweats right after giving birth, but mysteriously about a few weeks after giving birth I started to smell differently. And by differently, I mean not good. My normal smell was altered and no amount of deodorant seemed to tame it.

At first I thought it was just something my hyper sensitive nose could detect. However, my mom confirmed that others indeed could smell the new, pungent me. I had gone for a walk with baby and then picked her up. It was warm out, but not outrageously hot. We got into the car and I said, “I stink.” She replied, “You do.”

Wow. How’s that for honesty?

Sadly I thought, “Hey, that’s better than night sweats.” (Those came later.) But the other really weird thing was a skin rash.

After another walk with baby (maybe it was the same one where my mom confirmed that I, indeed, did stink–I can’t remember), I got in the car. I took a quick look in the mirror–my neck had been a little itchy–only to find a wild-looking red rash, very much akin to a heat rash.

Now, I’ve had heat rash before. It was a sunny day when I took my walk, but the sun at the River (we’re near Canada for god’s sake) in June had nothing on the sun in the Dominican Republic in March the last time I got heat rash.

I popped a Benadryl and just wrote it off as a one-time thing; I really hadn’t been exposed to a lot of sun of late.

Then it happened again. And again.

So, this is weird. I’m a person who tans, damn it.

A few days ago, I mentioned this skin irritation to a dermatologist friend. She immediately fingered, as I suspected, the sun as the culprit. Other than popping a Benadryl here and there or lubing up with anti-itch cream, her prescription was to get out in the sun. Weird that a dermatologist would prescribe that.

But the worst were the mosquitoes.

It was one of those perfect River nights, complete with to-die-for sunset and my family decided we should enjoy a glass of wine on our limestone terrace. Sounds absolutely perfect, right?

Under Attack

So, I nestled into one of the super comfy faux-wicker chairs. Baby was asleep so I was ready to savor a glass of some delicious chardonnay. I took one sip, only to be interrupted by a buzzing mosquito.

Okay, that’s annoying.

But what do you say when you’re swarmed?

I’m so not joking. Within three minutes of sitting down, mosquitoes were everywhere. Buzzing around my face, pricking me through my leggings, biting me on the bottoms of my feet.

“It’s because you’re lactating,” my mom said.

Okay, I’ll accept that. Breast milk is after all super sweet and sticky. But I was still under attack.

My step-dad busted out the bug spray and I sprayed myself down with some kind of DEET without hardly a second thought about bug spray on baby. (It’s so worth the view, I assure you.)

These damn bugs were immune. They were swarming around me.

I was totally squirming, covering baby so he didn’t get hit, and trying to fend off attacks.

But, it was too much and they overcame me. I gave up and sat myself and baby on the couch in the living room, happy to just yell through the screen door while my parents offered them up for sacrifice.