Flying with the stomach flu

“Since this is so awful, everything after this will feel easy . . . Right?”

I recently took a plane trip alone with Graham and KyrahAnne. Wrestling a 2-year-old and an 11-month-old on an airplane is not, I discovered, for the faint of heart. We survived the trip down, complete with several absolute meltdowns on both flights, but I would soon find out it was nothing compared to the trip back.

At 1 a.m. on Monday morning, I woke up to the sound of Graham vomiting next to my head. Our flight home was scheduled for 11 a.m.

For the next 10 hours, Graham consistently threw up every 30 minutes. By the time we got to the airport, he was pale and unsteady. He laid on the floor anytime we stopped moving: in security, in the public airport bathroom, and at the gate. As soon as we got on the plane, he put his head on my lap and went to sleep.

The peace lasted for about half the flight—after that, Graham threw up about every 10 minutes until we arrived at our gate.

I walked through the airport, with my shirt and pants soaked in vomit, surrounded by the distinct aroma of stomach bile, wishing I didn’t have to make the 3-hour drive from the airport. My wish did not come true.

But somehow we made it home, and Graham recovered eventually from the stomach flu, and today it’s all just a happy memory. Well. It’s a memory.

Here’s the important part.

The guy sitting next to me was on the higher end of his 60s, and every time Graham threw up, I apologized profusely, to which he responded,

“Oh, it’s okay. Your kids are really good, and your son is a trooper.”

And every time, I started to cry. Because I was exhausted, and embarrassed, and filthy, and he acted like it was his privilege to sit next to us. He was unbelievably kind and gracious.

Be that guy.

This one's for the mothers

No one tells you what it’s actually like to give birth.

Sure, there are plenty of encouraging platitudes—”You’ll do great,” “It’s not that bad,” even, “You won’t even remember the pain.” Some people paint the most realistic picture possible, describing big needles, puddles of blood, and weeks of soreness at every step. Everyone tells their own birth story, hoping somehow to encourage you with tales of their own survival.

But at the end of the day, when the contractions start and your first baby’s arrival is imminent, it doesn’t matter how many birthing classes you went to and how many Lamaze videos you watched: No one can accurately describe the battle of giving birth, and the colossal feelings of victory and delight when the wailing baby appears, wrinkled and grumpy and so, so sweet.

You wish you would have known, but somehow, when it’s your turn to talk about it, your description falls short. You can’t quite figure out how to put the miracle into words. But that’s normal.

Because this is motherhood.

And nothing prepares you for motherhood, because some things are too deep to describe.

Motherhood is showing confidence when you are clueless and terrified.
It is exhibiting strength when you are weak and tired.
It is giving when you wish you could take.
It is stepping back to watch the first steps, the first drive, the first dance.
It is surrendering when you wish you were in control.
It is being kind and gentle and supportive even when you do not understand.

Motherhood is a terrifying miracle, an astounding simplicity, a joyous heartbreak. None of us really knows how to “do mothering well.” We just do the best we can, and ask Jesus to please, please guide and protect our sweet babies through to old age.

To the mothers who have babies,
and to those who have lost them,

To the mothers who have raised their own children,
and to the ones who have loved the children they did not bear,

To the mothers who are doing it all alone,
and the ones who are doing it differently,

To the mothers who have no clue what they’re doing,
and are just hoping to survive the next 24 hours,

To the mothers who are strong, and courageous,
and so, so beautiful—that’s all of them—

This one’s for you.

---

I asked Curtis (he’s very wonderful) this week when everything would stop being a novelty with Graham. Maybe someday I won’t be excited to see how he looks with a hair cut, or when he takes a few steps without falling over—but for now, everything is all novelty, and I’m 100% okay with that.

The 4 Types of Baby Talkers

Walking around with a baby is a little bit like walking around with a sign overhead that says, “Talk to me! Really! I’m not crazy!”

Graham hasn’t yet learned the societal dictate of avoiding eye contact (an unfortunate expectation that I’m always trying to buck anyways), so whenever someone is close enough to look at, he looks them right in the eye and studies them seriously.

This makes a few people uncomfortable. They look away, become busy examining their nails, or remember an urgent matter they have to text their childhood best friend about—but it delights most people. Eye contact is an open invitation for conversation, and eye contact from a cute baby (biased) (but true), is the equivalent of donuts on a Saturday morning, or the first warm wind of spring. It’s euphoria.

ANYWAYS. When my baby makes eye contact with someone, he elicits a few very predictable responses.

The Grey Elders. “Hi, bud-dy, can I have a smile?” [Reaches arms out for baby, then immediately has to maneuver baby away from dangling jewelry and glasses.] “Oof, you’re an active one, aren’t you? And so solid.” [Holds baby for a few minutes, usually searches for a chair to rock baby in, then hands baby back. Baby smells faintly of perfume for next several hours.]

The Casual Conversationalist. “Oooo, your eyes are so blue! Hello! Yes, hi there! How are you? What did you do today? Is that your mommy?” [Pushes face up close to baby’s face, repeating one or all of the questions, then waits for sign of acknowledgement.] [Baby usually studies the face for a while, then smiles and presses his head into my shoulder.] [Nothing is more precious/melting than the “Baby Head Press.”]

The Baby Snatchers. “Can I hold the baby?” [I hand the baby over, unless it’s a total stranger like the lady last week. Then I keep the baby and smile and say, “No, that’s okay. He’s fine.”] “Anyways, how are you?” [Baby watches me from this unique vantage point of someone else’s arms. I simultaneously engage in every un-sophisticated form of interaction with baby.]

And best for last.

The Teenagers. “Hi Graham! How are you?” [Pats baby on the back. Asks to hold baby. Plays with baby. Gives baby back to me whenever I ask, or keeps baby until he cries.] Babies love kids, even the mostly-grown-up kids. Graham spends a lot of time with teenagers, and he loves them. [Perhaps one of my favorite “baby and teenager” scenarios is the person who, without fail, comes up to Graham, pats him on the head or holds him, and says, “Child.”]

Babies (when they’re not crying) bring out the best in people.

On a more philosophical day, I’d say it’s because the adult human soul longs for purity and innocence, and babies are the epitome of pure innocence.

On a less philosophical day, I’d say it’s because babies are cute and sweet and charming (especially mine).

Either way, it’s a pleasure and a privilege to raise a baby in a community where he is universally known, loved, and interacted with by every single type of person, even the ones I didn’t mention.

We are blessed.

Graham’s favorite part of watching his daddy coach basketball is EITHER chewing on the candy bar wrapper, OR finding little morsels of popcorn under the benches.

A Post-Thanksgiving Email

I sent an email to a friend today, and realized I’d included some noteworthy pieces that might be interesting—or at least entertaining—to more than one person:

For Thanksgiving, we went to PA to visit my sister’s family. My sister had a baby boy two weeks earlier. Graham seemed hulking, comparatively. ;)

Other noteworthy items

- Graham is trying to learn how to crawl, eating solid foods, and keeping us pretty busy with his antics. This weekend we had the first real snow here, and I pulled him around the back yard in a sled. So far, parenting = subjecting the child to my whims. We'll see how long that works well . . . haha

- After an entire autumn with 12 dogs (Our dog, 10 puppies, and a friend’s golden retriever), we are down to just 2 again. Chicago, the puppy, recently chewed up a baby spoon and a baby bowl, and also threw up on the floor three times in a row. I think this is what they call "Domestic Paradise."

- In the fall I started selling things on Facebook Marketplace, and have been utterly delighted by how people will buy anything. Really. Actual words I said to Curtis (he’s very wonderful): “People will pay you for your junk, and then take it away for you.”

- When you go out in public with a baby, everybody talks to you. It’s so fun to have a good reason to interact with people. I love how Graham always brings an automatic smile.

- On the flipside, here are a few things that cause irrational grumpiness: Sleep deprivation. When the baby wakes up from a nap early. When the baby wakes up in the middle of the night. When the baby falls asleep on the way home from anywhere and then can’t sleep for his nap. I underestimated how fixated on sleep I would become as a parent.

That’s all, for now. Oh, and of course, a picture.

Newton’s Fourth Law: Give the baby lots of fun toys, and what does he want to play with? The heat vent.

Fireworks and Fathers

Our city takes the Fourth of July very seriously. The day’s festivities include a parade that draws an audience of around 4,000 people (twice the population of our town), a party in the park, and of course a grand fireworks display.

The city shoots off the fireworks at the airport, and hundreds of people tailgate in parking lots and by businesses around town to get good seats. As dusk falls, the anticipation grows and people blast off their own fireworks as they wait for the real show to start.

Of course, like good citizens, we partook in all the day’s events, rounding out the evening by parking in the local grocery store parking lot and eating cookies while we waited. When it was finally dark enough, the show started with a grand introduction of dozens of fireworks scattered across the night sky.

Because we were parked across the highway, Graham was fine with the distant rumbling. I’m not sure how well he could see the fireworks, but he looked across the field with rapt attention and wide blue eyes.

Apparently, though, the personal firework shows don’t stop when the town firework show starts—in fact, more begin. As we sat on the hood of the car and watched the horizon, oblivious to what was happening in the parking lot near us, someone lit off a peony (the classic firework) a few cars away. It rocketed into the sky and crashed in a gorgeous explosion of green and purple.

A moment later, Graham’s terrified wail started as a whimper and worked up to a fever pitch. He was not impressed by the proximity of the boom.

Curtis (he’s very wonderful) held onto him tightly, saying, “It’s okay, it’s okay, Graham,” and Graham buried his sweet small face into Curtis’s plaid shirt. With his daddy’s arms wrapped around him, Graham’s tears subsided. For the rest of the fireworks show, Curtis held his hand over Graham’s head, covering his ear every time the parking lot pyromaniacs lit off another blast. He was completely nonplussed by the rest of the display.

Hopefully, Graham didn’t suffer any permanent trauma from his first fireworks show—in fact, hopefully it taught him instead that he is safe and secure in his dad’s arms.

Perhaps the worst-lit selfie ever taken.