James learns to control his voice levels like a red-blooded American.

I really thought I would update this while in the US but, you'd never guess, when you vacation with a baby you have zero time for anything at all. Anything. ANYTHING. Showering was still difficult. I said to him, "Mister Man, do you not know I am supposed to be on vacation right now? WE are supposed to be on vacation? Together? Do you see me crying? Do you see me NEEDING my mama all the time?"

Then he turned his back to me in his excersaucer and flipped me off.

Vacationing with an infant is hard. Vacationing with a large infant on your own is damn near impossible for me. A cousin of Bub's lives in Australia and often makes the trip over to Ireland with her children alone. She doesn't fuss about it, she just gets on with it. Oh, and did I mention she has three girls under the age of five? No? Well, she has three beautiful girls under the age of five. I'm pretty sure she has only traveled with two of them but knowing her this will soon change and she'll be on a plane with three little girls. She will be the picture of calm and collected and when she gets to Ireland you will ask her, "How was the billion hour flight?" And she'll look at you like you just asked her if pooping in a toilet is difficult.

Seven hours and 15 minutes was seven hours and 15 minutes too long for James and I on the way over. Him and I have different speaking styles. I speak to him in hushed, calming tones and he screams. Screams for fun, screams for sadness, screams for food, screams for tired, screams for bored, screams to hear himself scream. He's not always like this, no, but he was on the way to the US. The tallest couple I have ever seen sat next to us in those bulkhead seats and, man, do they regret it. I'm sure they asked if there was room for them to move to the overhead compartment. A short run down of our flight:

Boarding and perfectly fine. Sleeping in the moby while mama gets herself settled in the seat.
Awake and drinking bottle during takeoff. Brilliant start!
Bassinet is set up. Mister Man looks at it like it's an intruder and shall be punished.
Mister Man proceeds to punish bassinet by screaming at it, hitting it and refusing to sleep in it.
Mama and bassinet feel despondent.
Sleeps in bassinet for 20 minutes but wakes up while lunch is being served.
Mister Man poops. Twice. He hasn't pooped this much in three hours since he left the hospital.
Time for another bottle! More screaming!
Tall couple jump out of plane without parachutes.
Let's try some solids?
Instead let's squirt them on mama's arm and make a mess!
More sleeping on mama while drinks are being served.
Try to watch Peppa Pig. Peppa Pig can suck it.
Play in bassinet!
Nah, instead prevent mama from having the lunch that was saved for her!
Sleep on mama for 10 minutes, then heavy turbulence. Wake up.
Landing! Another bottle and MORE SCREAMING.
Touch down and charms the pants off of Geema who refuses to believe child was difficult at all on the plane.

Did I say short? I meant "dramatic run down of our flight". Silly me.

We arrived at my parents place, was loved by Geema and Pop, met Geema's friends and future American girlfriends, went to the beach and face planted in the sand, went to the park and went on his first swing, went swimming in a pool, met non- related aunties, met related auntie and cousins, went to Chilis and went to a mall, and partied like it was 1999 even though he was born 10 years later.

Flight back was easy. Mister Man smiles, entire crew and all passengers were charmed. Child slept. I watched You've Got Mail and then was complimented on my parenting skills by friendly, random people.

In short, I think you should fly Continental but only going from the US to Ireland. The other way and your child will freak out and the passengers do not feel your parenting skills are as honed as you had hoped.

I now know I need a vacation from my vacation and I also know that it will be like this for the next 18 years. Hopefully he'll stop screaming when we want him to eat on a plane by the time he's 15. Maybe? Fingers crossed.

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Liz in Dublin