Not being a true Christmas celebrant, Ralphie's epic quest for a Red Ryder b-b gun is the reason for the season as far as I'm concerned. And here I sit in my hotel suite (upgraded b/c they ran out of king sized beds before we checked in), next to Husband and my diaper-clad, raspberry-blowing, squealing son, I am settling in to watch "A Christmas Story" and wonder if there is such a thing as Xmas Eve room service.
But that's not what this entry is about. This entry is about what a champ Ethan was on his first plane flight, and how we gave him his first haircut today.
Yes, the Donald Trump-do is no more. Husband & I somehow managed to keep Squirmy E still long enough to snip the one Rapunzel-esque lock that was forever being combed over--it was getting to that freaky "wrap around" point, where the comb-over actually went waayyyyy around behind the ear; never attractive, in my opinion, but less so at 7 months. But I will get to that in a minute (after I watch Flip stick his tongue to the frozen light post during recess).
First, let's talk about my son, the phenomenal traveller. The "fussy" switch in him has apparently magically been switched to the "off" setting and a heretofore unknown "placid baby" switch has been found and is working overtime. Happy, happy, joy, joy!
In my obsessive need to pre-board before anyone else (this is a perk I plan to take full advantage of for the next several years), and considering it was one of the busiest travel days of the year, we arrived at the airport with several hours to spare. What with finding a parking space and waiting for the shuttle bus to the terminal, waiting to checking the bags, inching through the security line while wondering what technically is and isn't a liquid and is my chapstick considered a suspicious item, and the bjorning and un-bjorning of the baby, I envisioned hours of drudgery ahead of us at BWI.
There was parking. We were 6th in line to check our bags. There was NO wait at the security line. For a moment I was afraid we had slept through Xmas altogether and were travelling next week. (Then I remembered that indeed I had barely slept the night before & therefore knew that it was the day it was supposed to be). So we got through security and to our gate with two hours to spare. Yes, two hours to spare with a 7.5 month old. I anticipated melt-downs and crying jags. Instead there was some nursing and napping.
So I figured he was saving it up for the flight; that somehow he knew soon we were going to be a confined space with a bunch of cranky adults and he was gearing up to "release the hounds" at about 10,000 feet. I imagined my vocabulary whittling down to one abashedly muttered word to everyone around us for the hour long flight: "sorry". Oh and maybe, "please, please sweetie; shhhhh for mommy."
But no. More nursing and napping. Although, to be honest, I kind of wish he had screamed a little bit--just to piss off the jackass next to Husband in the aisle seat of our row. "Eh, three minutes in the air and that kid will be fast asleep." Um...no one calls my kid "that kid". Thanks, Dr. Spock, for your expert evaluation of infants and air travel. I hated that he was right.
But then there was the peace and quiet that came with it and I got over it.
Aside from the fact that my head almost exploded on the descent (I've never flown with a head cold before--there aren't enough synonymns for "agony" to sufficiently express the pain--I'm still waiting, three days later, for my left ear to equalize), it was the perfect flight.
After visiting with friends and family, we realized that our son's hair was just beyond explanation at this point. Something must be done to the original hair left on his head. You've seen it; the "flock of seagulls" lock that months ago served as a hip faux mohawk. It has been the highlight of more than one pic on this blog. But it has, as of late, become unmanageable and absurd. It was time for it to go. And Husband and I thought it was appropriate that last of E's original hair was the bit that we should save in an envelope in his baby book. So Husband ran down to the front desk of the lobby (because who travels with envelopes?) and returned with one bearing the name and address of the hotel (extra sappy sentimental points!) and we snip-snipped that first little lock, stuffed it in the envelope and sealed it up.
It is bizarre to say, but E looks like a totally different little boy without that pesky lock. I don't really miss it because he is so handsome and grownup looking without it. But it's one of those things--another "first" that we'll never get back. A lock of hair that came into this world with our son is now in an envelope and that means all the hair on his head is brand-new. Good lord, someone get me a drink and tell me to get a freaking grip.
I have pictures. And I'll share them tomorrow without any consternation because I am on Husband's computer and I know how to make the pictures work on this one. But right now I have to curl up with Husband and Ethan, watch Ralphie beat the snot out of that Farkis kid with the yellow eyes and do some research on Xmas Eve room service. My Xmas wish is some sort of ice cream.