How to Barely Survive Christmas with the In-Laws

(or, Read This for Birth Control)

Picture this: in-laws living in a large Louisiana city. No, not that one. Make your left hand into the shape of a capital L. Point to your thumbnail. That's New Orleans. That's probably the one you were thinking of. Now point to your pinky. That's where you're going: Shreveport. Headquarters of Standard Oil of Louisiana until the 1980s. Halfway between Dallas, Texas and nowhere, Louisiana. If you want to barely survive Christmas, go there.

Travel with very small children. For an added challenge, ensure both are in diapers, and one still has a bottle. They are seven months old and twenty-one months old. (You aimed for an eighteen-month gap but undershot.)

Spend a morning Googling how to travel with two small children without going crazy. Become frustrated with mommy bloggers who imply that their children sit quietly for the duration of the flight. Give up on Google, and switch to Amazon. Spend a small fortune on mouth-friendly, easily-cleanable toys.

You book a flight from BWI to Charlotte, North Carolina, and then to Shreveport. Bitch about the fact that there are no direct flights into the Shreveport airport from any of the three area airports. 

More choices to consider: drive to the airport or Uber? You decide to drive since you don’t want to lug two car seats in and out of an Uber. You did ensure your in-laws had secured their own car seats, so at least they can pick y'all up. (You’ve inherited the lingo long ago, bless your heart.)

Your son, the twenty-one-month-old, is a bouncing ball of energy. You swore you'd never be one of those parents who has their kid on a leash, but you also don’t want to be one of those parents who lets their kid run amok in an airport corridor. “Plane!” your son shrieks incessantly, desperate to say more but not knowing how. “Plane, plane!” he wails as he bolts down the corridor, tugging the leash taut as if he were a dog who’s spotted a squirrel. The leash is attached to a backpack that is clipped around his chest. 

You’ve secured a row of seats that encompass two on each side of the aisle. You place your seven-month-old daughter next to you. She coos during taxiing and doesn’t cry as much as you thought she would when the pressure changes. This will be easier than I thought, you think, stupidly, drafting your own mommy blog in your head. 

After takeoff, you hope she’ll look out the window, but she grows bored of the clouds and chews on the arm of the seat. You shove a pacifier into her mouth and hand her a crinkly book. She loses interest after about 30 seconds, so you try various toys in turn: her plushy elephant, Eric Elefante–rhymes with Harry Belafonte–tossed on the ground; a plastic container of Gerber puffs–drummed on the back of the seat instead; even a baby game on your iPad–until the iPad nearly becomes a teether. Eventually, you give up and relinquish your own hand for her to play with. It simultaneously becomes a chew toy, a hairbrush, and a patty-cake tool. 

On your right, your husband is faring no better. Your son is restless and fidgety. Neither coloring books nor toy cars soothe him. Your husband spends the flight saying “quiet.” You cringe internally. You’re one of those parents on a flight.

Land in Charlotte. Wrangle children and husband for diaper changes and snacks. Silently congratulate yourself for being alive and not killing your children–yet. Attempt to get your children to nap during the layover. 

Like Sisyphus, push against forces bigger than yourself and board the plane to Shreveport. You sit next to your son and let the iPad entertain him, thinking since he’s tired, he may be able to sit still for a few hours. It’s a success this time: a small victory. 

Upon deplaning, you’re stiff and cattywampus. You follow your husband to baggage claim, like a zombie. You packed extra sets of clothing for the kids in your carry-on, but not for yourself. There is spit-up on your shirt and eau de wet wipes wafts from your hands. At least we’re here now, you think, that was the hard part. 

If only you knew.

You find your luggage and pile everyone and everything onto various wheeled vehicles. You head to the entrance to meet your in-laws: salt-and-pepper-haired Pop in business-casual shirt and slacks, and blonde Granny with perfectly manicured nails, wearing her cross necklace and a fashionable yet matronly sweater. You ponder about the oddity of DNA, observing your denim-donning, t-shirt-loving, got-out-of-the-South-as-soon-as-possible husband. 

The humidity is palpable, even in 40-degree weather. An exit ramp takes you into their neighborhood, thronged with sprawling houses and a lack of sidewalks. The last time you were here was two years ago – before kids. 

Pop lets you in through the garage, and the tykes are immediately enthralled with their new surroundings. In their den, a plastic, fake-snow-filled Christmas tree is already replete with presents. “Tree! Tree!” your son points. “Yes,” you sigh, feeling drained and dirty. You follow him into the adjoining living room, where he yanks open the cabinet, squealing with joy at discovering new toys. You leave the kids there, joining Granny in the large, light-filled kitchen, where she opens a bottle of wine. You pour yourself a generous glass. 

The kids are occupied, so you enjoy adult conversation. You were looking forward to seeing Alice, your husband’s sister, who lives a mile from her parents–perhaps the only rose in this otherwise barren garden. You’re in similar fields and enjoy the same things, so you’d like a chance to catch up. But, Pop says, she has the flu. You may not even see her for Christmas.

In the evening, you silently celebrate bedtime and drink another glass of wine.

*****

The next day is Christmas Eve, the day your in-laws traditionally host a wine and cheese party. They are occupied with readying the house. Granny goes grocery shopping. She asks if you want anything. Already, you’ve discovered you’ll need more formula. 

Your four-year-old nephew Ryan plays with your son and your daughter squeals, enthralled by the boys. You take this opportunity to do some laundry. Everything you own is covered in spit-up; your daughter is a firehose. 

Relatives arrive for wine and cheese. Your children are thrilled about the influx of people. There are second cousins who play with them, great aunts who dote upon them. The house swells with people “settin’” down around sweet teas, murmuring “bless your heart, honey” and “how y’all doin’?” Your husband and you spend most of the time with his cousins from Baton Rouge, whom you can easily banter with. You begin to relax. You’re actually enjoying yourself.

*****

Christmas Day is quiet, but fraught with underlying tension. Your in-laws own rental properties, and at least one needs emergency maintenance. They cannot get in touch with their contractor since it’s Christmas.

Granny is constantly on the phone with her sister, to provide a salve for some dramatic family issue that you want no part of.

Everyone attempts normalcy. Alice makes it after all, along with her husband and Ryan. She is clearly not well, but she wants to be with her family for Christmas. They stay just long enough for everyone to open presents.

Things are calm through lunch. But afterwards, things fall apart; the center cannot hold.

Your daughter now seems to be sick. But you’re not sure, since she’s never been sick before. Granny takes you and your daughter to Urgent Care. Y’all wait for quite a while. Since it’s Christmas, they are understaffed. How good is this care unit? you wonder. 

The strep test was negative; the doctors couldn’t do much else, but they guessed she had the flu. You stop by the pharmacy to buy infant TheraFlu before going home. 

Your daughter does not take it, though you can’t really blame her; you also think it’s disgusting. You put a tiny bit in her bottle, and she downs it. But two minutes later, as you cradle her against your chest, she turns into the girl from The Exorcist and projectile vomits the orange-white liquid all over you. Screaming, you hand the baby to your husband. She pukes all over him, then gets passed around the remaining adults like a hot potato. Your son starts shrieking since his baby sister appears to be possessed.

Finally, she seems to have emptied her stomach. You change her clothes and yours, do more laundry, and wash off Eric Elefante. Granny gives her a bath and attempts to get her to sleep. There seems to be no choice but to bring her into your bed. She wants mommy, nothing else. She falls asleep and you try to move her to the crib, but she’s having none of it. You are stuck. Attempting to reread For Whom the Bell Tolls, you cannot focus. You heard somewhere that Hemingway once said, “I love sleep. My life has the tendency to fall apart when I’m awake, you know?” You said it, Ernie.

Your husband takes a shift so you can eat dinner and take a shower. You still can’t seem to get all the spit-up off. Eventually, he puts your son to bed and gets into bed himself. None of you sleep.

*****
The next morning: you’re groggy, cranky, and feeling hungover yet are completely sober. And surprise! Now your husband is sick! “I think we should postpone our flight,” he says. 

You agree, and call the airline. You’re on the phone for what seems like an hour while your husband takes over with your daughter (two sicknesses for the price of one!). Your son whines at you, wanting to play. Where are Pop and Granny? You’re resentful that they’re busy with their own things, and not tending to your children. We came here so they could see their grandchildren! But you try to keep it in perspective–they have their own chaos to deal with.

Finally, you find flights back. There were complications, since you have to land in BWI–that’s where your car is–and you do not want to arrive after 9pm, fearing the wrath of overtired kids. 

You spend most of the day in bed with your sick baby. She is still refusing her crib, and cannot keep anything down. You’re terrified that your daughter may be more sick than you realize. Is throwing up this much normal? Is the lack of food causing any other adverse effects? If only you were at home, where you know where her pediatrician is, where you can bring her something she recognizes, where you would have the support of your own parents. Suddenly, you want your own mommy.

*****

The next few days are a blur. All you know is you don’t leave on December 29, when you were supposed to. Your son doesn’t want the toys he’s already seen even though they are brand new, and you don’t know where to take him. Granny and your husband offer to take care of the sick baby, while Pop takes you and your son to a church. You’re confused at first, but this church has a coffee bar (even better, he refuses to let you pay) and an indoor playground. As you inhale the aroma of fresh coffee and collapse into the large leather sofa, you feel your shoulders loosen. 

But your repose does not last long. It turns out the indoor playground is a jungle gym that loops around and up through multiple levels. Your son is too scared to climb into it by himself. You don’t dare ask Pop–his knees wouldn’t be able to handle it. Vanquished, you slam your half-finished coffee down, take off your shoes, and climb in with him. “Climb! Climb!” says your son. So you do. Your 34-year-old knees pledge to seek revenge.

You head back to the house, queue up a TV show for your son, and discover that your daughter is feeling much better, giggling about Eric Elefante’s squishy belly. Maybe you can relax this afternoon. But somehow, you doubt it.

*****

Your husband is also getting better. But you don’t want to risk him getting your son sick, so he cannot provide much help with childcare. You want to go for a really long run to anywhere else, but you know you’ll get lost by yourself. Though you still consider it–maybe you don’t want to be found.
You finally go out to dinner with your slightly sick husband and Alice, who is feeling better. But all you want at this point is your own bed.

December 31 comes, and you have never looked more forward to a flight in your life. You’re probably sick, too, but you fight it off just like all the other bedlam in your life. Granny and Pop drop you off at Shreveport Regional Airport, and once again you heft strollers and suitcases en route to your destination. 

It’s snowing in Dallas. The Dallas airport is not equipped for snow, even though it’s less than two inches. When you arrive at the gate in Shreveport, you are told that your flight is delayed.

“But we’ll miss our connection,” your husband states.

Like boxers in the ring, your husband and the gate attendant go head-to-head. 

Attendant: “There’s a flight into Reagan.” 

Husband: “It needs to be BWI.” 

Attendant: “There’s a flight into Atlanta soon, then Charlotte, then BWI.” 

Husband: “We’re not making more than one stopover.” 

After trading several more punches, she finds a flight into BWI from Dallas that will leave late enough for us to make. But it won’t land until 9pm – and that’s assuming it’s on time.

Best laid plans.

Your airport adventures mimic much of what happened the first time: pushing boulders uphill. You’re pretty much numb to the nonsense now, and you no longer care if you’re one of those people. You just want to be home.

You and your husband vow not to visit Shreveport next Christmas.
                                                                                  *****
At long last, you land at BWI. It’s twelve degrees outside. The kids are bundled and asleep as you head to the parking lot, but the bitter cold shocks them awake, and a continual, ear-splitting shriek accompanies your mad dash to the car.

Get lost in the labyrinthine parking lot, but finally find the exit. (At this point, seeing a Minotaur there would not have surprised you.) 

Mercifully, both children fall asleep for the 40-minute drive back home. They wake up and shriek again upon exiting the car, but fall back asleep in their own cribs almost immediately. It is 11pm on New Years’ Eve. You collapse into your own bed, bundling the covers up around you.

Happy fucking New Year.

Elaine Ferrell lives in Silver Spring, MD. She is a Communications Specialist at a non-profit organization. Elaine also enjoys baking and spending time outdoors. Elaine has been published in Months to Years Magazine, The Santa Ana River Review, Small Leaf Press (UK), Soliloquies Anthology (Canada), and ellipsis… literature & art. Follow Elaine on Twitter @FerrellWithAnE, or find her at elaineferrell.com.