Babies on a plane

Now I've survived it, I feel quite proud.  Travel with babies is one of those things that you hear can happen, and people assure you it does happen, but you can't believe it possible until it's done.  As a survivor, I can now assure you that it can happen.  It just won't happen in the way you're used to. 

I used to spend a day packing for myself before a trip.  Getting all the clothes out on the and undergoing a narrowing-down process always seemed better than choosing outright.  It also gave the opportunity to drag out old favourites that I'd never wear at home, but somehow would pass for holiday wear.  Kinda crazy, yes, but mostly really time-consuming. 

Then I'd hop on a train to the airport, pausing for a cappuccino at Liverpool Street, before heading to the tube and eventually the terminal.  Check-in, dump bags, browse duty-free perfumes before settling on a giant Toblerone, drink a glass of bubbly and sleep the whole way after take-off.

I was a good traveller.  But baby-on-board is a whole 'nother world.  The airport is no longer just a high-security shopping mall, but an obstacle course of temptations, unpleasant changing facilities and people for me to avoid with my huge pack of baby-supplies.  Even with my new improved packing technique, which is basically forgetting to pack my stuff and employing the narrow-down strategy to Ethan's clothes, we had tons to carry.  Milk, bottles, diapers  wipes, toys, snacks, blanket, change of clothes, extra change of clothes - well that was the small bag, anyways.  We packed whatever we imagined would save us from a horrid transatlantic adventure   

                                   'This toy?'  'Yes, one time it kept him occupied for 5 whole minutes.' 

                                   'How many wipes?'  'A pack?'  'We'll bring 2!

 

And don't other baby-carriers know it!  We would get anything from the sympathetic half smile to the full-out 'save-me!' grimace from other parents.  Babies are instant conversation starters, as always.  So we could even exchange survival techniques with out fellow baby-trekkers in the passport control queue.  Some unpleasantness out there, like giving the baby a dose of anti-histamine before hand.  But also some nice tips, like get them to eat something during take-off to combat the pain of popping ears.   

And then the flight itself.  The poor little fella was so tired with getting up early to get to the airport and disrupted nap schedule  but he was such a sweetie.  Smiling at other babies and the flight attendant.  He managed to sleep briefly, after some crying that I'm sure was more than the other travellers wanted to hear.  I had worried that his crying would be hard on my cabin-fellows.  Those lucky travellers who have had their duty-free and their bubbly and their Toblerone.  I had visions of a kind of airplane disaster film, a kind of Snakes on a Plane, but with babies.  Screaming.  Puking.  Unhappy and just generally causing an international incident.  But it was ok because I - and everyone else in the plane - just cared less than I thought.  No dirty looks over the seat.  So, all in all, tiring but do-able.  

Ethan liked the cartoons.  We made it safe.  Had a great time away.  And although I missed my bubbly, we did manage a celebratory in-flight wine on the way home.

Where have you been?

It's been so long since I've written. Over the past year, I have oftenthought about blogging, but life took over. Then after a while, so much happensand changes that I didn't know where to begin.

Now everyone around me is blogging away and so I return, kind ofembarrassed, I suppose, for not keeping it up. Also kind of excited to tell youall the news!

Ethan is 1 year old! Where did that time go? He's such a little mister now,crawling, walking sideways along tables, chattering away in near words,clapping and waving. We have come to visit my parents in Texas over Christmasand stayed for while into the New Year. He has been Lord of Manor, demandingall of his Opa and Oma's attention; directing them around like a little slavemaster. They give into him, offering him ice cream and whatever non-deadly bitsof household stuff he sets his heart on.

We are discovering new things about this little emerging person every day.And it's the most exciting journey. He recently informed us that he loves TexasBBQ probably better than any other food on the planet. We went to the SwingingDoor, a local place serving simple smokey BBQ foods. Paper menus and plastictable cloths all surrounded by the smell of the smokehouse out back. Signs ofgood BBQ.

On the evening we went, he was being a little crabby. Didn't want his toys.Wasn't interested in the bread served while we waited for our order. But oncethe food arrived, his eyes got wide and his little grabby hands went for everybit of meat within his reach. He was stuffing in green beans, rib meat anddirty rice like we'd starved him for a day. He smelled like BBQ sauce until Ishampooed him later that evening before bed.

Thom and I are trucking along. Having a baby takes its toll on anyrelationship. But we have also had a year of grief to contend with, and in casethat wasn't enough, we've both started businesses this year. Thom is followinga long-time dream and tattooing. His artwork has always been great, but now hemakes it all permanent and even gets paid. It's been an ambition for a longtime and it's wonderful to see him do it.

I am confining my psychology work to one day a week and have been luckyenough to work as a personal trainer around Thom and Ethan's schedules the restof the time. It keeps me busy, but also healthy and happy. Nothing beats beingaround fitness-minded people for positivity. I've lost the mum-tum and gained asix pack. In the next few months, I'll be preparing for a body building competition.Yummy-mummy category! Keep an eye out for my posts about my progress. Promise Iwon't leave it so long!

 

Mourning

Mourning.

Mourning is like a river. It takes you under its powerful, raging rapids. To the darkest, deepest depths. And you lose the strength to swim as it sweeps you along, like a helpless drowning insect struggling against its tide.

Mourning is like a dark starless night. Leaving you blind to all else and afraid of what lays ahead.

Mourning is like a long hard winter. Where nothing seems to survive the harsh cold. It freezes you to the core and leaves you petrified. Suspended in time.


Mourning is like a river. It swells and rages in places and then dwindles and calms in others. Making peaceful gurgles as it rolls gently over your toes that you can dip in to feel its cold waters.

Mourning is like a dark starless night. Where the daylight creeps in, silently, but predictably. Illuminating things that felt frightening with warmth and light, even though the darkness will come again.

Mourning is like a long hard winter. That eases slowly to reveal the life hidden all along under its icy crust. Blossoms will bloom and warmth arrives again, in time.

Baby-time Voretx

I saw the date of my last post and was shocked.  Where has a whole month gone?  I scratch my head and look around and realise I know exactly where.  Into the baby-time vortex.  As little people get bigger, time gets smaller.  Didn't Einstein say that?  Baby=Mama-time/2?  Or something...

Ethan has decided that anything Mama does, he can do.  As I have tried to settle into a blog, or even a little email checking, I hear a persistent 'Uh, urhh, urhh!' behind me.  No longer content to explore his little section of the room, he is glaring at me.  'Get me up there!' his eyes say.  So up he comes to my lap, which buys us about 2.5 seconds of contentment before he decides he's ready to use the mouse.  So we find a compromise.  We watch Ernie singing 'Rubber Duckie' on YouTube and I forget my writing all together for the day.

He's also become mobile.  No textbook crawling yet, but he can wiggle and pull himself around, eventually getting to what he wants.  Baby favourites to scoot towards are unfortunately remote controls, iPhones and dumbbells.  He's an independent little fella and isn't always satisfied when he is given something rather than getting it himself.  Time to baby-proof the house!  I'm thinking bubble wrap around every corner and the computer in a locked room that he can access when he needs it for university.

Days of easy, low-clean-up baby milk are gone.  We can finally see a little tooth poking its way through his gums and he is excited to use it on anything we serve him.  He liked chicken, and then he tried dad's roast chicken.  After that, all other chicken got a disapproving look, like a Michelin star inspector sampling a McDonalds burger.  We are cooking extra and freezing baby-size portions, which he is working though faster than we can cook.  And again, whatever mama/daddy have is always exactly what he needs.  A picnic in the park over the weekend saw him grabbing handfuls of salad directly off our forks and shovelling them into his own mouth.  He makes a little face, with a rumpled up nose like a great white tucking into a seal, as a crams it in and munches away.

Its all fun, but busy.  And as I reflect, it's less a lack of time and more that I'm just zapped by the end of the day.  A great consolation has been his wonderful sleeping habits and the warm summer evenings recently.  So after his dinner, cleaning up the carnage that follows, a bath and a bottle, I have time for the last few rays of sunshine and sip from a bottle of my own.  Now that's mama-tatsic.

Family lazy Sunday munch-fest

When Ethan was younger, the whole day was centred on his eating schedule.  Every two-three hours at first. I remember not long ago when Thom and I eating a whole meal together was almost impossible and I would survive the day on nibbles of toast.  Now, Ethan is awake for a far greater portion of the day and yet we can eat much more normally.  That and the 12-hours baby sleep last night makes me feel relaxed and hungry.  In fact, on this rainy Sunday, I'm noticing that all three of us have tyrannosaurus-style voracious appetites.

 We started the day with Oatibix all-'round.  Thom with skim milk and a dusting of sugar, Ethan's with a mixture of formula and whole milk.  Mine - a scattering of blueberries and yoghurt.  Ethan loves breakfast.  Once his bum hits the high-chair, he is straining towards the spoon, arms out and mouth open hoping to catch any fly-by foods.

After some playtime and a drop more milk, he's off to a nap.  Today he woke earlier than expected, catching Thom and I tucking into our second cups of coffee and some toast.  Ethan joined us by munching on a wholewheat and apricot breadstick while we ate our toast.

Now midday and I have made no effort towards getting dressed, although we have tidied the house and baked flapjacks.  The rain's still falling, so it's cups of tea and flapjacks before lunch.  My Jasmine green tea temporarily calms my rainy-day appetite, but Ethan's just waking and it will soon be time for baby lunch of pasta, avocado and pears.  Wonder what Thom and I will have?  Bread is almost done, so maybe cheese-on-toast with bread fresh form the breadmachine?  Today, we are indoors, hibernating pigs.  Must get outdoors and justify some of this lazy piggery!  It's very, very rainy.....maybe tomorrow.

Separation anxiety

The first night sleeping in California, I woke at 5 am and started frantically looking around the hotel bed for Ethan.  I must have searched for 3 minutes before I realised where I was.  It was a difficult to allow my brain to stop being on high alert all the time.

By the time I got on the return flight from LA, I had relaxed.  I allowed myself to stop worrying about how Ethan would be without me and I slept for most the flight, skipping the stinky, plastic air plane food and waking just in time for coffee being served.  I slapped on a generous layer of moisturiser to my odd, seatbelt-shaped sunburn (sunburnt from being turned stupidly happy at the opportunity for uninterrupted sunshine on the drive back to LA in the drop-top) and legged it back home as fast as I could.

By the time I got in, Ethan had been bed-time-routine-ed and was sleeping soundly for about 30 minutes.  I crept up the stairs and cracked the door just a little to have a peek at him.  It was good to see him snoozing away, but I wasn't really happy until he woke at about midnight.  He was hardly awake, just squeaking, and probably would have continued sleeping had I left him alone.  

But I jumped up and picked him out of his crib.  In the dark, I could see the whites of his eyes as he looked up at me with surprise.  I wondered if he would cry.  Or if he would remember me at all.  After what seemed like a long stare-down, he smiled and grabbed for my face, taking hold of my nose with one hand my bottom lip with another.  I breathed a sigh of relief.  He remembers and he missed me.  That felt good.  

The baby milestone chart I've been consulting says to expect separation anxiety around 6 months.  They didn't mention that the anxiety would be mine.  It's been great being at home with him, there for him all the time.  But it has lead me to believe a little that he needs me.  He does, but he is also a big, tough guy now.  Those little irrational voices telling me that he would melt down without me were just that - irrational.  

I'm really proud of him for being such an adaptable and brave little man once again.  He must have been confused when Nana fed him breakfast or dad gave him his bath.  And  he did let them know he wasn't totally okay with these changes being brought in without his consent.  He even has had a slightly mama-clingy day when it just seemed easier to carry him about in the sling.  But he did eat, he did sleep and I've come home to a bigger and more grown up Ethan, all the wiser and better for having the experience.  As am I.  

A study in distance and perspective

I am in heathrow, sans baby, waiting for my gate announcement for a flight to LA. Grandpa is 90 and the family are gathering for much deserved celebrations. This year for me is a year of a new perspective on life and turning 90 seemed like a good reason to jet off and surprise the old, old man...hopefully not too much, though.

Life and death suddenly seem very entwined to me. Having been someone who thought herself to be accepting of the inevitability of death, I was surprised to find that I actually held a more 'them-not-me' attitude.

Since the birth, the trauma, Noah being taken from me too soon, I find that I am actually a terrified wreak of a woman. Since Noah died, my whole life feels divided into before and after. Before, I never considered the worst case scenario could happen. After, I am overly cautious, imagining horrific scenarios at almost every turn. Death seems so near. And it changed me.

At this moment, the nearness of death has inspired me to see my 90 year old grandfather before its too late. It makes me want to say 'blow the expense, I'm going!'. But it also makes me worry about what will happen. Will I return? Will Ethan be ok? Consequently I went a bit mad on the insurance-front with my rental car, now that I anticipate the possibility of the worst being a reality.

But surrounded by strangers, as I observe my fellow travellers, I know I must also acknowledge the best possible realities. Look at all of us, each with a life story, still travelling onwards. I think of sweet, but tough, little Ethan. Life still holds joy, as well as terror and pain.

Months after Noah passed away, I switched on the TV after Ethan had gone to bed. I am often so touched by his soft sweetness as he drifts towards sleepiness that I grieve Noah all the more in the evening.

That evening, I was hurting. I boiled inside with the injustice of it and collapsed onto the sofa under a cloud of grief. There on the TV was a news story about an 11-year-old Congolese boy whose arms were blown off by a bomb while he was tending his family's goats. He sat in the corner, silent, as his father explained the tragedy.

I realised that life holds injustice for us all, even the most innocent and undeserving. I now scan the faces of the people around me and know that each set of eyes conceal their own personal pain. Tragedies, horrors that touch each person. I imagine a league table, a hierarchy of pains from each of us written out in black-and-white on giant chalkboard. And I would hazard to guess that despite my pain, I may not be on the top of the list.

Cheery? No. But true and strangely it imbues me with a sense of calm and compassion for my fellow humans and gives hope for myself. When I was caught up in my own tragedy, I felt overwhelmed; weak and like I wanted to run away. Now, people-watching and taking perspective, I feel stronger. And more than ever happy and tied to my own little family, in my own stories, tragedy and all.

So here I come LA.