This year thus far has been chock-full of firsts. First baby. First round of sleepless nights. First time cleaning poop off of my bedspread. And if you follow me on Instagram, you already know we just experienced our first flight as a family of three to visit my family in Nashville. What you don't know, however, is the sheer mayhem behind our trip home yesterday. I'm still in recovery mode aka napping and eating copious amounts of ice cream like a champ.
As a self-proclaimed control freak with a
Now I'm realizing that having a child puts us way way way past the hard-and-fast line of tardiness.
Babies seem to be a part of a strange time-space continuum, where time goes to die and you're not even aware of it.
Our flight was at six a.m. (First mistake.) We got up at four, or as I like to call it the boobing hour. Sawyer always seems to be especially ravenous around this time. I had already packed us up the night before, so all we needed to do was change her, feed her, and say our goodbyes to my mom and sister before my dad took us to the airport.
Forty-five minutes later (The nugget has been chowing down on the boob buffet for how many weeks now? And every time I'm still amazed at how long second breakfast takes.), we were finally headed to the airport. Another thirty minutes go by, and we're finally arriving. We now have forty minutes to check our bags, go through security, and board. Oh, and everyone and their guitar happened to be in Nashville that morning. Making our flight seemed about as impossible as resisting that fifth strip of bacon.
Panic mode started to set in as we waited in the grueling line for bag check.
We tangoed with thoughts of desperation ("Oh god, we're gonna be stuck on standby all day with a newborn!") and total ignorance ("Psh. We have plenty of time. In fact, let's get breakfast burritos before we board.")
Fifteen minutes later, our bags were checked and we frantically made our way toward the TSA line. I half expected the airport to part like the Red Sea. "Lady with a newborn, running late! Make way!" But all we saw were disgruntled Nashvillians thrilled to be awake at the ungodly hour.
Another huge line awaited us. We began to pray to the security gods that people wouldn't be as slow as molasses getting their belts and shoes off. (Yes, I'm talking about you, lady, who decided it was a good idea to wear her hooker heels to the airport.)
By some miracle, we made it through the line with four minutes to spare. Grahm grabbed the diaper bag and mumbled something about running ahead to the gate. Before I knew it, I was alone with Sawyer in my arms trying to sprint toward our gate while I watched my barefoot husband several yards ahead dodging the swarm of people.
An excruciating three minutes later, I rounded the corner to our empty gate where Grahm was waiting. We did it. We made it. I could've cried I was so happy. We were the very last to board, and (thanks, Southwest) there only middle seats available. But we ignored the "Oh my god, they're so late AND they have a baby" stares of the people in the plane and considered ourselves victorious. Hallelujah.
The real miracle is that Sawyer not only slept through the whole ordeal, but she didn't make her mamma whip her boobs out while sitting between two large businessmen who were just thrilled to have us at their sides.