So a few months ago, Joe and I binge watched a few seasons of ER (using the magic of the internets!). One of the episodes dealt with someone who was sick and dying (shocking, I know) and they were told not to worry, they’d pull through. They’re a “trooper.” Joe looked at me thoughtfully for a moment, and said something to the effect of, “I don’t think anyone would call you a trooper in that situation.”
Dude. Yes. I am NOT a trooper. I would be a total baby. I relish in my whining, moaning, groaning, and complaining. It’s indulgent and an excuse to eat my feelings (spoiler alert: my feelings taste like donuts) and I don’t care.
On a related note: I recently traveled with a one year old, teething, sleep-fighting hellspawn!
Let me first get this FAQ out of the way.
“Who the f$@& complains about a weeklong vacation to Hawaii???”
Me. I do.
Ok, not all of it. The days were AMAZING. We had the great fortune to stay in a beautiful condo right off of the beach, walking distance to a farmer’s market AND a shave ice place, the weather was gorgeous, we met some nice people, and the boys were filled with unbridled joy when they played in the sand and the ocean. It was rad, and I would do it again in a heartbeat just to see those kids smile like that again.
See? God, don’t you want to punch me so hard in the face right now? Look at that beach! Holy shit, so beautiful! Look at those babies in the sand, look at those smiles!
But I took a vow to avoid the whole “fakebooking” trend so prevalent nowadays, so here’s the flipside:
You know that feeling you get when you get on an airplane, find your seat, and then notice a family with a baby is sitting right behind you? That sucks, right? Trust me: it’s about a bajillion times worse for the parent who is in charge of that baby. Especially when it’s a seven hour flight, the baby has a cold, and is the Worst Sleeper Ever. Joe and I mutually decided that we would never speak of that plane ride again, so if you were hoping for some hilarious tale, you’re SOL. Sorry.
My immune system also has impeccable timing, and decided to crap out on me the day after we arrived. I had a really fun cold, and then a really fun fever, exacerbated by lack of sleep and high stress levels. I was not a trooper.
On average, I got about four hours of (broken) sleep, but my favorite night was when he woke up at 11 PM. For the day. And he only took 15 minute naps. On me. At 6am (when I’d been up for seven hours already), I threw him in the ergo, hiked over to a bakery, and spent $25 on pastries and coffee, because fuck the world, that’s why. We also watched approximately 8.4 katrillion hours of Sesame Street, because fuck studies about screen time and developing brains, that’s why. THAT IS WHY, OK? (I bet a trooper wouldn’t have just yelled at you. I bet a trooper would have said that way more politely.)
Anytime anyone asks me how our trip was, I try to say, “The days were fantastic!” Because they so were. And I loved seeing those boys playing in the surf.
But traveling with a one year old? Never. Again.