Babies leak. They’re not really waterproof – I mean they are on the outside, but not exactly from the Inside.
As soon to be parents we were told that there were two types of leaks in children: let’s just say chimneys and basements.
We had a chimney baby, and took it in stride that we were responsible for maneuvering a soft uncovered pint glass filled with delicious formula. Every so often it might tip over, or we’d squeeze it a little and then gravity and physics took over and we were but peasants in the line of Pompeii.
Then we met a basement person. They were so much calmer than we would have been in their situation…if our life was volcanic then theirs was… well, worse. We approached our challenge with a splendid array of darling little kitchen towels in our kit bag, but theirs was no simple salvation.
I have a Christmas Day photo holding a happy three month old… she has an adhesive and staple free bow on the top of her head. It is from a series of photographs, the first one dry, the rest not nearly as dry. It is among my all-time favorite photos of the holidays.
It is not just in comparison that I remember those times so very fondly: that plane ride home when my daughter was only 1 and she “burped” as we were descending into JFK, and I only had the one shirt and undershirt so I had to take that off and wear only my suit coat like Grace Jones.
Zoe decided it would be better if I held the baby on the way through customs, as it would soften my “Chocolate Hotness” image and legitimize me in some way as a loving parent rather than a sketchy semi-nudist landing from Europe.
I strapped her into the little kangaroo holster, hiking it up as far as I could. She looked like a very extravagant vest. I remember telling her “Now, play it cool… we have to get past this nice man in the pseudo military outfit or you’ll be visiting me every six weeks bringing gluten-free cakes with long metal files baked into them”. She seemed to understand.
The customs guard barely raised his head; he took my document and scanned it and glanced at it, then scanned it in the other machine (one horizontal and one vertical), then glanced at me and then back at the document…
…and then glanced at me again,
and the passport again,
and then just straight up looked.
“They’re with me, we’re all together!” said my completely unsuspicious wife. It became immediately evident that her reputation was now tainted by the company she kept, as now he looked at us all.
“Were you traveling for business or pleasure?” he asked with slightly narrowed eyes.
I was two seconds away from saying “…mmm, beeznooz.” in a proto-European accent and letting it ride to see if I could get away with it, but the baby felt this foolishness rising and answered the man herself. It wasn’t in English, but it was definitely a direct answer to the man’s question. Even he recognized that, though he did not take the bait.
“And your final destination?” he added.
“Home. We’re home! We live in Brooklyn!” My wife excitedly replied. I’m sure she thought I might begin to wax lyrical about where any of us are truly headed, which was ridiculous (yet entirely accurate).
“Hmn.” He didn’t say it, but that was the look on his face…Hmn. Then with a shrug that said “Do I really need this today? No, I don’t.” The Nice Man gave us our passports back, mumbled a dismissive “Welcome Home.” over his left shoulder and we were on our way.
Now I was a free American, wearing a baby. My walk took on a more fashion runway sass. My daughter kept on talking and Zoë was happy it was all over. We got our bags and got in the cab and I remember that ride home… it was hot, and the windows were open to get what we delusionally refer to as “fresh air” in New York. I remember the BQE, and the buildings in Williamsburg, and here I was, a part of this city, and that moment, THAT moment, was glorious.
That’s what I think about when the Christmas carol goes “comfort and joy”.
You might think that moment was anything but comfortable and joyous, but the relief of heading back to our own tiny apartment with our chatty and entirely empty child brought me happiness, a moment I can still vividly remember. A taxi ride from one concern to the next, where things were OK, after it seemed like they might not be, and we didn’t know what to do – but things had worked out. Ah.
Christmas, as Hans Gruber reminds us, is the time of miracles, but the best ones last longer than the holiday; a decade old memory is impossible to wrap, but it never gets old and goes great with everything I wear. We each have our own stories to share, and we should share them as much as we can with the people we love this month. Call somebody, write it down, or pull them over to the quieter corner of a holiday party and tell them about that time that thing happened. Share your own tidings!
Ok, I did have to look that word up.
And don’t take off your shirt at the airport…that’s more of a summer look.
Comfort and Joy.