This last week your dad and I celebrated Christmas back home in Idaho—the last Christmas we’ll ever have as a childless couple. While it was a wonderful Christmas (as all of them are), we confessed to each other that it felt right that it was our last without you. You probably won’t understand this concept for many, many more years, but after a while Christmas becomes a little less exciting the older you get. I think that many of us lose that sense of holiday magic once we grow up, and can’t get it back until we have kids of our own. But it was nice to have one more holiday with family, unencumbered by parenthood and other obligations. Next Christmas you’ll be about six months old, and while you won’t have any idea what Christmas is, you’ll be high maintenance nonetheless I’m sure.
That reminds me: when you do arrive and visit Nana and Grandpa Paul’s house, whatever you do, don’t fiddle with four little holes in their couch cushion. This last week Uncle Daniel’s dog bit into the cushion and left four tooth marks in the leather. Grandpa Paul said it wasn’t the tooth marks he was worried about, but rather your little fingers prying around in them and making them bigger. I resented that you were getting in trouble already at such a young age and for a crime you did not yet commit. So I think it would be best if you steered clear of the couch just to spite Grandpa and to prove to him that I am the most amazing mother with the most amazingly well behaved child ever.
Otherwise, our Christmas was spent with Grandpa Scott, Great Grams, some of Dad’s extended family, my family, and some of my extended family. I was reminded how many people you have to get to know in the next year—all of whom are very eager to meet you.
We still don’t know what the plan is for your dad’s doctorate and where we’ll be in the next several months. I’m not allowing myself to start freaking out about our lack of answers until at least February, and at that point I’ve begun to brace your father for an all-out panic attack.
You better hope that at some point we move closer to home, because after our adventure flying back to Boston I have pretty much sworn off holiday travel forever. Your dad and I were scheduled to take a midnight flight from Salt Lake to Boston on Tuesday. We arrived at the airport only to discover that our plane was delayed an hour due to mechanical problems. While waiting for the plane to arrive, I whispered to your dad that I had a bad feeling about this flight and that it might be canceled.
Eventually we were able to board, but we sat parked on the tarmac for a half hour and waited in line for the plane to get de-iced. After waiting another half hour while the plane actually got de-iced, the pilot came on and announced that the flight would have to be canceled since his co-pilot had apparently maxed out on his hours as per federal regulations. I turned to your dad and just said “told you so.” So we de-boarded the plane around 2:00 AM, stood in line to get our luggage, stood in line to book a flight for 9:50 AM the following day (or, rather, that same day) and took a shuttle to a hotel at 3:00 AM for about three hours of “sleep” until we had to wake back up and haul our butts back to the airport to do it all over again. Once we finally arrived at Logan the next night, we had to wait to de-board the plane for a military processional, and then we had to wait for about another hour to get our luggage due to the same processional.
All told it was about 36 hours of pure, unadulterated holiday travel and I am BURNT OUT. It could have been worse, I suppose. There were several families on our plane with small children. I imagined how hard it would have been if you were here and we had to go through all the pain and torture of getting you on and off an airplane, to a hotel, and back on and then off an airplane again all in one night. Even though I technically had a child with me, you were pretty manageable and it was me who was most prone to throwing a child-like fit.
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