This past Christmas, my wife and I took our toddler son, @bebeJosito, to meet up with family. By the end of the trip I felt like the fattest of Alberts competing in some Japanese reality show where I’m being repeatedly punched in the junk by cast iron boxing gloves mounted on spring-loaded meerkats.
To give you a taste of what I went through here’s a brief description of one fraction of one morning out of seven mornings that I firmly believe were spawned from the depths of Nicholas Cage hell.
6:32 AM. Jose wakes up, pops his head, and mutters, “Mama?” To which my wife replies,”I’m right here.” He then turns to me and says,”Dada.” And I cordially reply, “Yeah, bud?” The little fella giggles, waddles his butt, then lays his head back down with a mischievous grin whispering “Night night” into his pillow. Once we recognize his decision and return our eyes to the closed position, my son pops his head back up and continues to call out for “mama” and “papa.” Over and again, six or seven times, until eventually my wife and I give in to the fact that sleep time is over. A mere 8 minutes into our morning and the Magic 8 ball concurs, today is most likely going to be a long, roshambo kind of day.
6:40 AM. My wife stays with Jose and I jump in the shower since I’m in no shape to run as I’m still feeling the 12 meals worth of meet-and-greet food from the night before. Not long after I turn up the water I hear my son repeatedly saying “no” to my wife’s suggestion for pato pato (to him this means bath, to the rest of the Spanish speaking world it means duck). He shakes and wiggles his way out of her arms, but not before she manages to peel off his pajamas, pee-soaked diaper included. I’m then handed a reluctant and very vocal toddler. Soap, shampoo, kick to the face, rinse, punch to the eye, repeat, and he’s back with mom. Now, just 13 minutes in, I finish my business, get dressed, and tap my wife’s hand for my turn in the ring.
6:53 AM. By now my nieces are awake and eager to play. Me, I just want coffee. Jose and I head upstairs. “Neow. Neow.” He sees Egon, my sister’s black and white cat. “Neow.” My son cries out again with a “puppy with two peters” smile on his face. He proceeds to pet Egon gently, then less gently, then flat out grabs a chunk of the old cat’s back. Egon opts not to turn the other cheek and “Neow” turns to full on tears followed by cries for “Mama” (who is still getting ready). Jose waves his hand in front of everyone and is given healing kisses in return. “Neow.” He’s back to petting Egon. My day is only 22 minutes old and I’m ready to call it a night.
Got thoughts on traveling with a toddler? Got a story to share? Leave a comment below or send me an e-mail at TiTy@y2kemo.com.
Related posts:
