We’re going to visit my family in S. Georgia for the long weekend and I am terrified. First of all, the ride down there might get a little hairy since Joshua doesn’t really like to be in his car seat for very long. Second of all, since my whole family will be there, I’m afraid Joshua will get overstimulated and be his alter-ego, Captain Crankypants, all weekend. All of this is exacerbated by the fact that he has his two month shots at 9:00 on Friday morning. Yay shots…(do you hear the sarcasm in that??)
I started making a list of the things we need to take with us for the three and a half days we’ll be gone. It is going to look like we’re packing up and moving out because of all the stuff we’ll be taking with us for Joshua. Bathtub, bottles, blankets, clothes, diapers, wipes. When it’s listed out like that, it doesn’t seem like much, but when you start thinking about possible poop-splosions and needing multiple outfits each day, plus not knowing exactly what the weather will be like (despite the rainy/scattered thundershowers forecast) it all starts to add up. Every time I walk past the list, I add something new to it.
I’m also afraid that the small semblance of a routine we’ve established is going to get thrown out the window. Then we’ll spend all of next week trying to re-establish the routine. I’m not sure my family will understand my desire to keep this routine up while we’re away from home. I know that none of my aunts ever read a single book about raising a child when they were raising theirs. They’re all convinced that what worked for them will work for me, and while that might be true with some things, we’re talking about people who raised their children in the era when car seats were optional, if they even existed. The youngest child in my family next to Joshua is now, um, 8? 10? It’s been a while since there’s been a baby in the family.
My family is kind of, well, not by-the-book in their way of doing things, so I’m probably going to seem like a neurotic freak when I lose it on someone who tries to shove mashed potatoes in his mouth because the potatoes will “stick to his ribs.” (Maybe that won’t happen…but maybe it will…my mom has already said “He’s almost old enough to have some bland foods…” to which I replied with a blank stare and a “No, absolutely not.”) My desire to do things “right” with him will probably, and has probably already, come across as “uppity.”
The potential for drama this weekend (drama completely unrelated to my neuroses about child-rearing) is exponential. My family is large. And loud. Tempers can certainly flare. My grandfather is coming to our little soiree and he hasn’t seen one of my aunts in thirty years because of a pretty huge falling-out.
This could get very eeenteresting…