Post-Partum 1

****The first few posts of the story may seem disjointed because they were meant, obviously, to all go together in a chapter. That's an awful lost to post in one post, so I tried to break them up the best I could and thus it may not flow wonderfully. Also, there is a lot of detail in the first few sections but won't be in following ones.****


I started writing the story from the conception with the intent of going back and writing some kind of exciting, hook intro, so this is the story starting from conception.



It was the day before Christmas Eve, 2005. “I can’t believe we are doing this,” I grumbled, really more to myself than anyone else. Big B shoved another suitcase in the back of our already full Honda CRV.

“It was your idea, not mine,” he muttered.

We were loading the car to drive to the airport. The three of us, Big B, our 15 month old son, Sweet Pea, and I were flying to Washington D.C for a large family Christmas.

It was the first time in years that my extended family had gathered for the holidays. We used to spend every other Christmas together at someone’s house. My parents, two younger sisters, and I would drive to Iowa or fly to Boston or New York. Sometimes the family would come to us in Nashville, for a warmer, southern Christmas.
One memorable year, we drove to Des Moines and hit a snowstorm on the way. We struck out from Nashville in the predawn hours, a clear sky and twinkling stars overhead. We slept or pretended to sleep the first couple of hours. I always liked to close my eyes, feel the bump,bump,bump of the interstate and listen to the hushed voices of my parents in the front seat. The smell of their coffee in the old green thermos would fill car while V. and C. and I would be snuggled in sleeping bags or blankets in the back of the station wagon. Daddy would fold all the seats down to create a bed for us and we’d roll around all the way to Iowa. This was obviously before the days when people worried much about seatbelts.

I can’t remember where we were in the snowstorm struck. I just remember looking out at the ice pelting down and the snow blowing around on the interstate. It was funny because my parents, typically, got in an argument over what to do. Family trips were often marked by arguments, but now having traveled with a child, I can understand why. Mom thought we should stop, but Daddy insisted we solider on. Mom, of course fussed and worried, and the girls and I were terrified we were going to slide off the road. It was a tense few hours, but in the end we made it, safe and sound.

I hoped that this trip would not be as difficult as that long ago drive to Iowa, but I was worried. It would be our first time flying with a child. Flying with a toddler during the holiday season seemed like it could be suicide. I had tried to prepare for the worst. My diaper bag was full of books, a light up phone, an Elmo scribble toy, and other assorted diversions, many noisy and annoying but I figured passengers would rather listen to electronic beeps and whistles than to the screams of my child.

We were carrying a small army of bags and entrapment's with us. We had a suitcase for each person plus a gigantic carry-on with assorted unwieldy goods including a child feeding seat. We had a baby backpack for carrying Sweet Pea around, a car seat, a diaper bag, my purse, and last but not least, a backpack of reading material, mostly Big B’s because I doubted I’d have a spare second to read. We were way, way overpacked.

“We need to leave now,” I yelled at Big B. I was worried that being a post 9/11 holiday, the lines at the airport would be hours long. I wanted to make sure we had plenty of time to get there and get all of our worldly possessions checked in. I struggled to get Sweet Pea into his blue parka with the flying dog on the sleeve, and tie his matching doggie hat under his chin. I found my coat buried at the bottom of the closet and shrugged in to it. Hat and gloves seem to have disappeared into the depths and I gave up on them. Gathering up my diaper bag, I made sure I had sippy cups and snacks to spare. Cheerios? Check. Goldfish, Check. Cereal Bars? Check. Valium? Check, check. We did a last minute inspection of the doors and thermostat, deemed everything sealed and set, and finally departed.

The trip to the airport was short; Knoxville, Tennessee is not a large city. Its primary claim to fame is the University of Tennessee and the UT Vols. Tennessee orange appears everywhere here, on people, on cars, on billboards, on the cookies at Kroger, on pets, everywhere. Locals like to say their blood runs orange and children here are named after Vol great Peyton Manning. We live out in west suburbia, land of the subdivision and SUV. It’s not the most exciting of locales, but it works for what we need now.

We moved here from my hometown of Nashville. Big B, a software engineer, received a job offer too good to pass up and the housing market in Knoxville is much more affordable than that of Nashville. We knew that we could afford a fairly large house in a great neighborhood and top-notch school zone with enough left over for me to quit teaching for a while and stay home with Sweet Pea. Big B’s family is also in Knoxville, so we would have a support system and built-in babysitters.

Leaving all of my family behind in Nashville was more difficult than I had anticipated. My parents were none to thrilled that we were taking their first grandchild away from them. The day we left Nashville, I cried for the first 50 or so miles. For months, each time we pulled away from my parents’ house after a visit, I cried. Gradually, though, we have learned to like Knoxville, orange and all. Big B enjoys his job and I joined a playgroup and found a wonderfully supportive group of other mommy friends.

One big benefit to living in such a small city is the ease of travel. I was pleasantly surprised as we walked into a relatively calm airport that morning. The lines at the ticket counters were nonexistent and the security line held 10 people at the most. Apparently most Knoxvillians don’t fly at Christmas.

We went through all the lines and checks, no easy task with all our encumbrances, and settled in at the gate. Because my dear old dad taught me to always leave enough time for a flat tire, we now had an hour to kill in a boring airport with an overly excited toddler. Sweet Pea and I embarked on a tour of the concourse. We browsed the gift shop and the snack bar. I let him run around the empty gates and climb on the chairs. We checked the restroom for wildlife. We managed to kill about 15 minutes this way. I decided that Daddy should have a turn entertaining the wee one and deposited Sweet Pea on Big B’s lap. “Enjoy,” I said, smiling.



I'll post the next section tomorrow.