Tomorrow morning we head out bright and early with one sweet but angrily-teething baby (who will be assuring our otherwise glamorous trip remains firmly categorized as “pilgrimage”) and 2 suitcases. We’re connecting through NYC and then straight on till Rome. Once we’re on the ground in Italy, we’re headed directly out of town to Napoli (and Pompeii, which my 7th grade ancient-history loving heart is positively atwitter over), and then the rest of the trip is very much oriented toward visiting shrines, churches, and other pilgrimage sites.
We’ll be visiting the Church of Gesu Nuovo on our first day, where lies the body of St. Joseph Moscati (a medical doctor canonized by St. John Paul II.) I’ll be praying there especially for my doctor friends and for a decisive defeat of the physician-assisted suicide bill on the Colorado ballot this fall.
Still in Naples, we head to the Basilica Shrine of Our Lady of the Rosary and learn about Blessed Bartolo Longo, mentioned by name in JPII’s apostolic letter on the rosary as an “apostle of the rosary.” So far the count of “saints I’ve never heard of” stands at 2.
The next morning we head out for Padre Pio’s stomping grounds, Pietrelcina. We’ll be visiting the house where he was born (!), the church where he was baptized, and the church where he celebrated his first mass. Then we head to Piana Romano, the site where he received his stigmata. Finally, we head to San Giovanni Rotondo, where he served as a Franciscan friar for 52 years.
Day 4 is the day I think I’m most excited about, and I’m not even totally sure why. We’re headed to the Grotto of St Michael, which is the oldest shrine in western Europe, a site that St. Francis of Assisi made a pilgrimage to but felt himself unworthy to enter, so he stayed and prayed outside the door. He carved the “tau” cross into the doorpost, which I’m hoping is still visible? But I don’t know. I’d never heard of this place before seeing the itinerary for the trip, but I’ve been crazy excited to visit, even without knowing much about it. Next we head to Lanciano, which my computer wants to correct to “Lansing, Michigan” desperately. Every time. Lanciano is the home to one of the most famous Eucharistic miracles, dating from the 8th century, when a priest doubting the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist said the words of consecration and was astonished to find the bread and wine physically transformed into human flesh and blood. Type O negative, universal donor, to be precise. The flesh is preserved in a reliquary and has been vetted by countless doctors and scientists over the years as the real deal. It’s incredible.
Next we’ll head to Loreto, reportedly the dwelling place of Mary when she was visited by the Angel Gabriel at the Annunciation, (I know, geography…bear with me for a minute) and then where the Hoy Family may have spent their early years. Pious tradition has it that the house was physically transported to Italy from the Holy Land in the 14th century by “angels,” which is sometimes how the Crusaders are referred to in historical writing. I’ll let you know what I think.
Finally, we head “home” to Rome for 4 days. We’ll hit all the usual spots and I’ll be stopping in to St. Peter’s to walk through the Holy Door for the Jubilee Year of Mercy, and of course to visit my main man, JPII, where I’ll be leaving all the intentions we’ve carried with us there with him, like we did last time.
If anyone wants to leave specific intentions, please feel free to do so in the comments, or if you want to remain more anonymous you can message them to the Facebook page. (I’ll be updating IG with shots from our trip in the evenings, but staying off social media during the days in the spirit of actually being on pilgrimage.)
Prayers for a sleepy flying baby and healthy, happy kiddos at home with grandma and grandpa much appreciated!
This is a little fluffier than last time, because I like to keep you guys on your toes. Also, because I’m staring down the barrel of packing for 10 days with a messy 13 month old and no idea whether we’ll have laundry facilities at our disposal. Which is a good thing to check on in advance, actually, so maybe I’ll send an email to the travel company as soon as I tap this little missive out.
We’ve done a fair bit of international travel with our kids, and all our long flights with kids have been with ages 3 and younger. I think as they get older it will probably get easier, but as we no longer live abroad and their tickets aren’t “free” any more, (ask me about international taxes on lap babies. My upper thighs are a tariff-able region.) we’ll probably never find out.
Or maybe we will. I don’t know why, but our family seems to have been given a travel charism of sorts. Or at least a “travel to Italy” charism. It’s one of those ridiculous this-doesn’t-make-sense-at-all God things, but since we got married almost 7 years ago, we’ve had the opportunity to make the trek for work or as a ridiculously generous gift at least once per year, and always with kid(s). (So to the narrative that laments “your life is over once baby is born” I issue a resounding “nuh-uh.” At least not mine.)
By now I should be a travel guru where lap babies are concerned, but of course, I’m worried afresh about how Luke my very mobile, cusp-of-walking, pushing 30 lbs chunka love will do on the New York to Rome leg of our journey. I haven’t started worrying about the return trip yet because to date, every return trip across the Atlantic is a blacked out blur in my mind, and hopefully this time will be no exception.
But I do know how to pack a suitcase. And a carryon. And in case anyone out there in blogland is gearing up for holiday travel season with minions and sweating a coast to coast flight, I got you.
Here are some of my non negotiables for friendlier skies with babies on board, in no particular order. Well, maybe in order of size. We’ll go with that.
1. The umbrella stroller. I know you have a great stroller, maybe an amaz$$$$ing jogger with a super comfortable seat and undercarriage storage for days. That’s awesome. Don’t bring it with you. At least not for an international trip.
First off, cobblestones and inner tube tires do not play nicely together. Secondly, if you will be jumping from plane to train to automobile, the last thing you want is anything larger than a simple umbrella handle to sling over your arm as you wrestle bebe+bags onto a crowded vehicle or into a diminutive seating compartment. I asked around this time because our last umbrella stroller retired somewhere between babies 2 and 3, but alas, I had to resort to a very sophisticated Mickey Mouse model found at Walmart for right around $20 bucks. I’d love to have a Uppababy or BabyJogger version just for such occasions one day, because the construction is so superior, but for the price and with the distinct likelihood that this thing will get super beat up during our trip, Micky Mouse it is. Bottom line: leave the fancy stroller at home.
#howtodad
2. The baby carrier. Yeah, you’ll have a stroller with you. But once you hit the airport, that bad boy will be pulling double duty as a rolling luggage rack, and you’ll want baby strapped on for the ride until you clear security. (Bonus tip: around the same time the x ray scatter machine things came into vogue, I had my first baby. I’ve only traveled +1 since then, and I’ve never had to go through the scanner. Just step to the side of the line, put your palms out for a bomb wipe down, and be escorted through the center aisle for a simple wanding. Voila. Plus, you get to keep baby strapped on the whole time.)
I am not a huge baby-wearer outside of travel, but when we’re on the move, I wear at least one kid for the majority of the day. I try to wear them during the majority of the flight, too, thought some airlines will make you unstrap them during takeoff and landing. It helps keep baby calm and contained, distinctly increases the likelihood that they will sleep, and makes your arms a whole lot less sore as you’re pacing the rear of the plane for hours. And hours. Once my babies fall asleep in their carrier (I like the Ergo Sport, but I haven’t really tried anything else), I can usually settle gingerly back into my seat with them still strapped on and sometimes enjoy up to an hour or two(!) of peaceful seated flight time. Once you get to wherever you’re going, and especially if you’ll be doing a lot of touristy stuff or walking (like on a pilgrimage) having a front to back carrier is basically essential to having any sort of a good time. And you can always toss them back into the stroller when you’re both too sweaty and too tired to go on.
3. The food. Bring baby foot pouches or applesauce squeezes. Injecting liquid nutrition straight into an angry toddler’s gullet is a proven delivery system. I usually bring about 40% more food than I think they can possibly eat, and then they eat it all and I spend the rest of the flight changing diapers. Which brings me to my next point…
4. Diapers. Bring so many more than you think you will need. And if you cloth diaper? Don’t do that for the flight. Just trust me on this one. I figure 2 diapers per flight hour is a safe bet, while accounting for delays and tarmac sitting too. So for a 3 hour connection to La Guardia and then a direct flight from NYC to Rome, I will bring 24 diapers. Isn’t that ridiculous? Yeah. But you know what’s worse? Repurposing a blown-out diaper with some cocktail napkins and crossed fingers. Don’t be that guy.
5. Change of clothes. I bring a single onesie for the baby and I layer the older toddlers so that if one layer gets blown, they can get peeled back to a clean base layer. I’ve definitely arrived at my destination with a shirtless diaper-wearing cherub, but usually the backup onesie is a sufficient plan, and doesn’t bulk up the carryon.
6. Muslin swaddling blanket or scarf as wrap/nursing cover/swaddle/comfort object. Don’t bring their beloved stuffed animal, unless they truly won’t sleep without it. Do bring a super soft, versatile something they can cover up with, rub their face against, and which becomes your umbrella stroller canopy-extension once you’re on the ground.
7. A water bottle with a suction pop top. My little man is currently in the throes of weaning from an actual bottle, but he will be appeased by the sucking action this little water bottle requires. Plus, there are no sippy cups in most restaurants in Italy, so we’ll be able to dump his cappuccinos into this.
8. That’s it. Did you think there’d be more? Trust me, you are already going to be a human pack mule. Don’t exacerbate the problem by overpacking or bringing 10000 fiddly little toys and stickers (okay, maybe 1 sheet of stickers) to try to keep track of on the flight. It’s crap that will get dropped or thrown away anyway, and most airlines offer complimentary tv (cartoons!) on individual screens for long haul flights anyway. Plus, plastic cups and drink stirrers make great toys. If you simply must pack something, bring an activity book with stickers and let them go crazy on the tray table (maybe test the stickiness first) or inflight magazine. I have done the 824 dollar store toys in the bag trick before, and it’s not worth the hassle nor does it keep their attention or keep them from fighting. Flying, as my friend Rachel eloquently notes, is already super stimulating for kids. Let it be that.
What to find/buy/borrow at your destination:
A crib or packnplay (most hotels have these, call ahead. Or look up friends in the area and ask for them to lend you one/borrow one on your behalf. You can even buy one at your destination and then gift it to a friend, local charity or church when you leave, and that will still be cheaper (and less of a hassle) than checking and paying international fees for your own trusty Graco model.
A carseat. This one is personal preference of course, but when we’re going to be traveling a lot by train/bus/taxi, we don’t bring one. Some parents are okay with this, others are not. When we lived in Italy our kids didn’t have carseats because we didn’t have cars, and carrying around multiple carseats + kids while navigating public transportation would have rendered us effectively homebound. If you will spending time in a car, or if you have a scheduled airport limo pickup or tour bus, most companies will rent you or find you a carseat or booster, too. Ditto for rental car companies.
diapers and wipes. Bring what you need for the flight plus day one, then plan on buying the local brand at your destination. It’s actually sort of fun.
Babyfood/formula: ditto. Unless your kid has specific food allergies and needs something special.
Traveling with kids is a little bit stressful. But travel in general can be a little bit stressful, and there is something kind of magical about experiencing a new and exciting place with your kids. Plus, people are really so kind, sometimes especially when your baby is having a hard time. We’ve always been blown away by the charity and kindness of strangers, the flight crew, servers in fancy little restaurants you’d swear were coming to yell at you but really just want to take the baby for a stroll around the dining room, etc. It’s a great way to see the world. (Also, popebait.)
Buon viaggio! (And pray for us on Friday if you think of it. Fingers crossed for a very sleepy Luke.)
(p.s. follow along on our pilgrimage on Instagram.)
Remember when blogging was just basically long Facebook statuses? And bloggers wrote about mundane minutia and nothing was brand conscious or beautiful or filtered? Sometimes I miss those days. I think readers do too? I’m not saying I wish all blogging was still raw paragraphs and embarrassing fonts and sparkle GIF signatures, but it is nice to revisit a simpler past from time to time. And I know I always love when my favorite bloggers write day in the life kind of stuff. So, without further ado, some disconnected thoughts and things I’m loving lately.
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Mother Teresa. I love her, my husband has a super big devotion to her, and she was bffs with my favorite saint of all time, so I can.not. get enough of these video montages and all the coverage of Rome gearing up for her canonization on Sunday. Her love and her clarity and her pragmatism have rescued me in some of my darkest moments of motherhood. Some of my favorite quotes of hers:
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2 weeks until we leave with Luke for Rome, Lanciano, Manoppello, San Giovanni Rotondo, Pietrelcina, Pompeii, and a couple other places so awesome it makes my head spin thinking about it. We’re going on pilgrimage for the Year of Mercy with our wonderful Archbishop, and we’ll be seeing Italy in an entirely different way that does not involve schlepping 2 toddlers on public transportation and changing diapers on the floors of every major basilica. (Actually that last part is still totally going to happen. But the tour buses will be a significant upgrade.) I would be honored to pray for you while we are visiting the different holy sites and shrines. And I very much covet your prayers for a well behaved lap baby who is newly mobile and can hardly be contained on my person for for 11 minutes, (I’ve been practicing and nervously timing him so I know this) let alone 11 hours.
Feeling like a fresh new mom all over again while I countdown the hours till takeoff. Wine and melatonin. Wine and m-e-l-a-t-o-n-i-n.
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Our new neighborhood is great, but it isn’t our old neighborhood. The street is significantly busier, the foot traffic is 100% more, and the kids are kind of struggling with the concept of an off-limits front yard, however great our backyard (will eventually be/)is. I’m trying to think of all the ways this house is an improvement even though we miss our old hood, and I’m trying to unleash my inner gardener/manual laborer as we gear up for a long weekend of laying mulch and generally de-crappifying a quarter acre of complete horticultural neglect. I wish I was as outdoor crafty as I am indoor crafty.
Lovely,Still basically serviceable,And then it gets real. Reminds me of my Steubie days.
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The downstairs/main level is looking pretty great. Dave worked hard laying these floors which are actually (drumroll) plastic. They’re luxury vinyl planks, installed to the tune of $1.99/sq foot after the Pergo engineered hardwood we’d ordered was so damaged during shipping that it was unusable. 4 frustrating hours later we surrendered and took the stuff back to Lowe’s, who to their eternal credit returned the entire order no questions asked. Customers for life. And this plastic stuff? I can clean it with a diaper wipe, a wet rag, a mop, a vacuum, whatever. It doesn’t really feel like wood, but it does look pretty good, and I’d do it again in heartbeat. When the kids are older and we’re richer (that’s a thing, right? Hahahaha…..no.) we’d love to do hardwood, but for now, plastic floors are mother’s little helper. Holler.
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Madame Secretary. Everyone I’ve talked up this show to has wrinkled their nose at me and asked “isn’t that about Hillary Clinton?” to which I respond “Only in that Tea Leoni is also blonde and has a female reproductive system.” because, no. Just no. It’s the most awesome show on the Netflix right now, and Dave and I eagerly gobble up an episode every night once the kids are abed. This week we’ve had a slew of nighttime obligations and last night I was longing to be curled up in front of the laptop watching the Secretary help save the world, along with her winning staff and clever dialogue. Watch it. You won’t be sorry.
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Christy came to my rescue earlier this summer and filled my ear with book recommendations. I’ve loved everything she’s told me to read, but I’ve especially been obsessed with Kate Morton. So far I’ve read the Lake House, the Forgotten Cottage, the Secret Keeper and the Distant Hours. I think the Secret Keeper was my favorite, but I loved them all. It’s so rare to find modern fiction that isn’t either trashy, super gruesome or just … bad. And these are none of those, and set largely in Cornwall, England, and I love everything about them. The end.
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Grace shouted out these jeans from Old Navy and I might have to squeeze myself into a pair this weekend and see if the hype is warranted. I love ON jeans because you can wear them … a lot of times between washes. Which is unhygienically important to me at this stage of life.
See you over at Kelly’s (who wrote the most beautiful piece earlier this week or maybe last about prayer as a special needs parent)
I’m delirious with excitement (and a little bit of denial, apparently? Because I’m woefully behind in laundry so packing remains but a glimmer in the hazy future) because Luke and I are venturing eastward for my first official girl’s weekend in years. Maybe ever? Definitely since having kids. And by “girl’s weekend” I mean “crashing at one mama friend’s house for a byob (bump or baby) DIY home renovation weekend (pics and tutorials to come!!) Plus wine.
It’s a mouthful.
But my beautiful best friends from Steubenville glory days are both Virginians, and while that is very sad news for our phone calling schedules, it’s very good news when I do get the chance to head out there because it’s a twofer.
One sweet friend is getting her house ready to sell, and after virtually advising her via Pinterest and Voxer and text messages about whitewashing bricks, I decided to jump on Southwest and see what could be found for under $200.
A round trip ticket for 1+ lap baby to DC, that’s what could be found.
So Luke and I are headed out, and since I’ve flown solo with him once before, I know the drill, but more than that, I know the thrill that is now flying with one single solitary lap baby on board.
I guess this part depends on your individual baby and his or her good – or not! – nature, but I am personally looking very much forward to the 3.5 hours of uninterrupted baby-on-lap airtime. Because free wifi, free drink coupons, uninterrupted snuggles with my youngest, and a loaded Kindle.
My favorite way to travel with kids is hardcore minimalist. For example, I’m not bringing a car seat. I phoned a friend and scrounged up an old Graco she’ll bring to the airport when she picks us up. Saved: 20lbs of heft and mommy’s right elbow joint.
Next on the chopping block? A stroller. Unless I’m going to be walking a lot at my final destination, I don’t bring one. If there will be walking and the need to put baby down somewhere (like at a conference or event) I’ll bring a cheap umbrella stroller that I don’t care about losing. Only if we’re traveling internationally (see: cobblestones) with more than one child do I bring the big kahuna. It’s easy enough to break down and fly with, but I’m always wary of the wear and tear and the possibility of losing it when we check it.
My best trick when we do bring the big stroller is to use this mommy hook to clip the two seats together, pile them directly on top of the frame, hand it off to the gate agent, and stow the seat post pegs in my carryon bag. I feel safer gate checking it than sending it through at the get go, but make sure you confirm with your airline that it’s not getting sent through to your final destination, unless you want it to.
(Though you may not have a choice, and you may end up laid over in Copenhagen for 7 hours with 2 exhausted toddlers and nowhere to stow them. Until you find the complimentary on site airport prams the Dutch are kind enough to populate their airports with. But I digress.)
I am not much of a baby wearer except under duress, for example, during Mass or baseball games or, you guessed it, travel. But when flying, I never leave home without my Ergo Sport. It’ll be 6 years old this fall and I’ve washed it, um, never mind actually…but it’s a work horse. And an added bonus? I’ve never had to go through the X-ray naked image screening booth (technical term?) because I’ve had a baby strapped to my midsection, either via Ergo or pregnancy, every time I’ve flown for the past 6 years. Which is convenient. And funny.
(You will, however, get bomb swabbed every time. Because you are wearing a baby, and therefore you might also be wearing a bomb. Palms up, ladies.)
I always bring 5 more diapers in carryon than I calculate needing in the absolute worst case scenario. And I’ve never.run.out. I’ve been down to a single undersized soldier scrounged from the bottom of my purse, but we’ve always made it off the plane in time.
I also like to bring a little cash for airport sundries, a squeeze pouch of food for whomever might need it most desperately, baby advil or tylenol, and a backup paci and onesie. Luke actually met the Pope in his backup onesie, and wearing his very last diaper of the day. Nicely timed, son.
Don’t forget your nursing cover or a gallon of formula either.
This might not be everybody’s jam, but I love sipping an adult beverage before I board, if I’ve allowed for the time and it’s not 8 am. It soothes the nerves and alleviates the fear that junior will kick your $8 watery white wine spritzer off the tray table. (If you’re flying internationally, of course, all bets are off, and you’ll need more than one glass to get you across the Atlantic. Godspeed.)
I also bring my phone and my super basic Kindle with a book or two that I’m currently reading. It’s hard to read a real book with a baby in your lap, and it’s even harder to read a newspaper or magazine, which is a shame because print media is normally my guilty alone time pleasure. But you’re not really alone in this scenario, c’est la screen.
Finally, and most importantly, remember that you have a right to be there, and that so does your baby. I’ve had very few uncomfortable travel experiences with our kids, but when I have, a single gracious and sincere apology for their somewhat inevitable and entirely age appropriate behavior is all you owe your seat mates. I heard someone say once that babies and toddlers just express with honesty what everyone else on the plane is feeling. Particularly if you’re stuck on the tarmac 😉
But truly, the calmer and cooler you stay, the better the odds that your fellow travelers will grant you grace. Don’t be flustered if your baby freaks, and by all means if a friendly older woman offers to hold him to spell you, take her up on it! Flight attendants can also be generous along these lines, and I’ve had no qualms handing a happy baby to a Southwest agent while I pop in to the restroom. It’s a lot easier than the alternative.
So happy travels, fellow baby toters. And don’t be surprised if your little bundles of joy get you an upgrade, a preferred seating option, or a door or two held open for you. Chivalry in air travel with little people is definitely not dead.
Remember to put on your own mask before assisting the tiny drunk guy next to you.
It was a beautiful, arduous, anxious, prayerful and exhausting 12 days abroad. Mostly it was wonderful, but there were definite moments of “what were we thinking” and “please let me lose consciousness soon.”
Mostly to do with air travel, which, I am convinced, will somehow factor into my experience of Purgatory. I actually told Dave whilst sprinting through Newark in hot pursuit of a ridiculously tight connecting flight, pushing a double stroller with a two-year-old strapped to my back in the Ergo, fastened tightly across my floppy mom gut in just the right accentuating way, that if I end up there (in Purgatory, not in New Jersey. Although…) it would somehow involved extreme heat, an airport, public nudity and many, many TSA agents.
I briefly altercated with a particularly inanimate specimen of said agency after my hands were wiped for bomb resin and then wiped again, 15 seconds later, after being pushed through the metal detector with babies falling off my back and front and with my stroller being inexplicably held hostage for 6 long minutes while two of the fine men in black discussed Call of Duty or online poker or something. I felt my blood pressure spiking as the sweat poured down my back and the minutes till our flight began boarding ticked away. As we were re-entering the US, we still had to reclaim our bags, check them again, and then go back through security before we could take a bus to our departing terminal.
Anyway, I didn’t get arrested, or even detained, and the brilliant individual in the shiny badge did eventually finish polishing the stroller with a bomb-detecting diaper wipe. Twice. But I am never less Christian or less ladylike than when the TSA is involved. End rant.
Oh, and they only lost 2 out of 3 suitcases en route back to Denver, so I’d say our international travel record is only improving.
But back to international travel with children, which I know is the real reason you read this blog. Even if it isn’t, indulge me, because I’m ignoring at least 7 loads of nasty European-scented laundry to accomplish this post.
The kids were moderately well behaved the entire trip, even during the 8+ hours we spent in the Square itself for the Canonization, thanks to a combination of YOUR prayers (I have no doubt), carefully administered melatonin to ensure speedy circadian adjustment to new timezones, and an absolute lowering of standards in my “acceptable behavior” handbook. Some examples: days and days without naps, gelato on demand, tv whenever available, and pretty much anything food-shaped for major meals. We were after calories, not balance.
Gelato at 4 months. Completely responsible.
We also tried to remember (I think Dave may have tried harder than me) that we were traveling with little, little kids with short fuses. Even our kids who are well-accustomed to travel are still small people with short fuses and limited supplies of patience and endurance. Though I’d like to think after these past two weeks they’re in a lot better shape, minus the hours of free-airplane-cable-programming, that is.
We tried to include burn-off time in our daily itineraries, like laps around piazzas and visits to fountains that may be capable of producing a cooling mist of spray, however disgusting that is when one thinks too long and hard on the water quality…
Absolutely enthralled by the Trevi Fountain.
We aslo availed ourselves of the several playgrounds we knew of around town, even though it meant trading out time from more enjoyable (to the adults, anyway) sightseeing ventures. And finally, and perhaps most painfully, we spent some nights (and parts of some days) simply sitting in our apartment decompressing and allowing the kids to be, well, kids. It was especially painful on the solitary night we spent in Florence to sit in our beautiful bed and breakfast mere steps from the Duomo from 8 pm on, listening to the city come to life below our window while our exhausted children slept off the train ride and the touristing of the day. But, c’est la vie with little ones, especially on the go.
8 hours in the Square? I’m done. I will lie here in filth, and I shall not be moved.
Would I have traded it for a childless trip abroad? Aside from the one night in Florence…not at all. It was hard, it was messy at times, and it was definitely a level of stress one does not generally associate with vacation, but it was so precious to me to think that we were sharing this moment of tremendous import and historical significance with our children.
I thought frequently about the seeds of vocation this trip might be planting in little hearts (in no way am I saying you have to take your kids on globe-crossing pilgrimages to inspire vocations, just that it struck me as really amazing that they were experiencing the beauty of the Universal Church at such tender ages). I wondered if someday, 20 years from now, one of my sons might be studying at the NAC a few miles away from St. Peter’s, and whether they might somehow recognize this experience as formative to their call to serve the Church as priests.
Then again, they might just want to go back for the gelato, the nutella, and the cornetti.
I wanted to let you know how very grateful I was to have all your prayers to take along with us. It felt immensely important to somehow leave them there, in Rome, with St. John Paul, so you know what I did?
After drinking over them, that is.
I waited in line to get into the Basilica to visit my main man’s tomb, now freshly inscribed with “Santus” and no longer “Beatus,” and, waving Dave over to block me from view of the Basilica guards, I crouched down and slid the little book under a divider in front of his altar. (Where, consequently, a Polish priest was saying Mass over his tomb.)
So there you have it: your prayers and intentions are safely in the hands of St. John Paul the Great, so to speak. I hope it’s a long time before somebody discovers and removes my little leave-behind, but either way, you’ve been entrusted to his paternal care.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have bills to pay and laundry to cycle. Back to reality…
(That’s what the Italian press were calling it, anyway)
We’re well into our fifth day in Italy (and our nightly bottle of chianti) and I cannot even fathom the amount of things we’ve done and seen in such a short span of days. I can hardly feel my toes (or see them, thanks pasta) but we’ve accomplished more than I’d dreamed possible with three bambini in tow.
Before I go any further I have to thank you for your prayers – they were felt! And they have been so effective. The flights over here were absolutely flawless: kind seat-mates, sleeping children, and earlier-than-stated arrivals. And then the big day itself… Pure grace, plenty of Divine Mercy, and a couple of legit guardian angels waiting for us in the Square. After being ushered in through a side gate (along with a stray bishop and a handful of religious) we came down a ramp and entered a cordoned-off area that seemed very like a VIP entrance to St. Peter’s Square. The only person who even looked twice at our press passes and three children in tow was a solitary Swiss Guard, but a Vatican police officer convinced him that we weren’t worth bothering with.
Once in, we made our way to the obelisk in the center of the piazza, choosing a vantage point just slightly behind and to the left (facing the basilica) and settled in to wait. We arrived around 7:30 am, and the Mass didn’t begin until close to 10.
The weather began to turn liquid about 15 minutes into the Divine Mercy chaplet, and we were waved over to a pair of women waving French flags and perched on folding stools. They gestured to a soft pile of sleeping bags and jackets around their feet, indicating that we should lay the kids down there. And then one of them opened her umbrella and insisted on holding over me and Evie, closing it intermittently between showers. She eventually insisted that I take her seat, as well, and thus was I found breastfeeding by a reporter for La Repubblica, Italy’s largest newspaper.
Oh yeah, but first this happened:
I don’t know, I guess it was a slow news day. Or we were the only family crazy enough to enter the square toting three stroller-sized pilgrims. I’m fairly confidant that might have been it…
We were treated to a lovely and poetically-timed break in the clouds when John Paul II and John XXIII were declared “Santo” and we were delighted almost to tears when Pope Emeritus Benedict appeared with the rest of the cardinali.
Oh, and we got pretty close to this guy, too:
It was a pretty amazing day. There were some rough spots, to be sure, like when Joey broke the reverent silence during the Consecration with a very audible scream of “pee is in my shoe!” as a visible dark stain spread down the leg of his jeans. But other than that, it was a peak lifetime experience for sure.
Even with the screaming children, the aching backs, and the seeming inability to concentrate on almost any of the Mass or really even reflect on the enormity of the moment, and our being there for it. Lucky for us we have a lifetime to unpack it, and a few more days in Italy to drink away the memory of John Paul putting his mouth on the cobblestones of a piazza only partially and recently vacated by of hundreds of thousands of fragrant pilgrims because he just couldn’t take another minute of it. And so he licked the ground. And scratched between the cobblestones with his fingernails, looking for God only knows what.
Rome, you never fail to disappoint. And St. John Paul II, my love for you grows and grows. Thank you for this trip, and thank you for loving our family so well.
(This book is so good. A must read for the JPII generation, and all others, for that matter.)
We’re leaving tomorrow morning at 7 am, so naturally, I’m not quite done packing. Nor are my dishes done, but eh, what are frantic 11pm housecleaning sessions for?
What I am doing right now is camping out on my couch writing out the prayer requests we’ve received. I bought this adorable turquoise moleskin notebook with 100 pages and thought, meh, overkill…but it’s more than half full already, and I’m not even done unloading my inbox. I am honored and deeply humbled that so many people have entrusted us with their prayer intentions. I felt really strongly that we needed to physically carry them with us, hence the notebook. Now I just hope I don’t run out of pages.
We just found out an hour ago that we have press passes – journalist credentials, in other words – for the canonization ceremony. Which means access to the press entrance into the Square. Which means WE’RE GETTING IN!!! But if you could throw up a tiny, selfish prayer that the guards, um, turn the other cheek when they see us toting our equipment and three miniature assistants with us? I’m not sure it’s totally normal (or even remotely permissible) for the press to bring their bambini along. So yeah.
I’ve got to go scoop this baby off the floor now but please, please know we are praying for you!
I don’t know what kind of interet we’ll have at our apartment, but if I can snag some wifi, you know exactly what I’ll do with it.
Oh, and pray for a 12 hour nap for everyone in our family under the age of 4 tomorrow. Pretty please?
I did not set out to a be a mother who specialized in travel with small ones, particularly travel of the international sort. I don’t really like flying, and I probably did it half a dozen times by the end of college. Fast forward to my present motherly self and I’ve probably logged 50 or more flights, many of them with children, in as many years as I’ve been mothering them, which isn’t all that many. I’ll tell you right now, it doesn’t get any more pleasant the more you do it, but it does become more tolerable and certainly more predictable, as in, “I predict that one will freak out at 30,000 feet approximately 90 minutes into our 4 hour trip.” And then bing bing bing, you’re right! And your prize is a 400 calorie deficit and sweat-soaked underwear after wrestling a bear cub on a sugar high in a confined 12×12 inch space.
But it’s not all bad. There are some practical tips a mama can employ to make sure the skies are, if not friendly, than at least not prone to profanity laced rants from fellow passengers aimed in the general direction of your offspring. Promise. Sorta.
The first and foremost rule of flying with children is thus: be prepared, be prepared, be prepared. You will lose a paci in the toilet of the airport restroom. Better have another (of darling’s preferred brand, or else) ready and waiting in your purse. Cringing at the thought of paying $14 for a chemical-laced cheeseburger at Chili’s, Too in terminal C? Load that diaper bag down with string cheeses, rice crackers, goldfish, fruit leathers, and any other low-sugar, moderate-carb portable snacks you can think of. Kids and babies aren’t subject to the same idiotic stringent TSA regulations pertaining to food and drink, so pack it in!
Nursing and bottle feeding mamas, you’re in luck! You can bring bottles of breastmilk, preprepared formula and formula powder through security with no difficulty. You will be asked to open the liquids and allow a TSA agent to dangle a test strip over the substance to screen for, well, I’m not sure what, but it’s perfectly reasonable to bring an entire day’s worth of liquid sustenance for your little one though the metal detectors. Which reminds me…
Wear your baby and/or carry your toddlers. If you have more toddlers than arms, form a human chain and (politely) defer the nekid screeners in favor of the more reasonable metal detector/wand waving/crotch grabbing pat down option. Sure, it’s a little sketchy to have someone outside your marriage groping you in public, but not as sketchy as putting little baby brains through the big ‘ol imaging scanners. At least in my opinion. (Note: if you’re baby-wearing you’ll be asked to approach the chemical testing agent at the end of the conveyor belt with open palms so they can swab you for bomb-building chemicals. Because baby wearing.)
Does your child have a lovey? Do you fear losing it more than you fear losing an appendage? Good. Bring the lovey, because it will ensure the best possible conditions for sleep during flight, and for all that is good and holy, keep your eye on the bunny. Maybe even tie the bunny to your child’s backpack so that he can wear his baby, too. Maybe tie a double knot.
Have each child pick out a treasure trove of $5 worth of crap from the Dollar Tree or Target’s dollar spot to fill his special airplane bag with. We use a single toddler-sized backpack which both kids share, but those ubiquitous drawstring bags that seem to multiply like rabbits in the front closet are good options, too. Forbid the child to touch the contents of the bag until takeoff, and talk up the bag like the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus reproduced and the bag is filled with the result of that joyful union. Also, more goldfish crackers.
We have a “one toy in, one toy out” rule on the bag, so there is always lots of trading out and opening and re-opening and guess what, you’re already halfway across the Atlantic Ocean!
Which is in a different time zone…
So, melatonin! We adults use this to regulate our sleep cycles almost as soon as we land, popping a pill before bedtime and not taking much of a nap to ensure that the first night of sleep in a new time zone actually occurs at night.
Don’t forget to pray for your travel and during your travel, either. Sometimes simply taking my rosary out of my purse and pulling it into my lap is enough to distract a fussy 2-year-old who is over his treat bag, over the laptop, and over this never-ending period of restrained travel.
A few more parenting life hacks:
Bring all your children for an ear exam the week before you fly, symptomatic or not. Better safe and on antibiotics than sorry and screaming at altitude.
Put your ‘potty trained’ preschooler in a pull up. Just do it.
Bring a spare onesie, tshirt/shorts combo for each small passenger in your carryon
Take your stroller all the way to the gate and make sure the airline ‘gate checks’ it if you’ll need it during a connection, during which time you will pile it with children and carryon baggage and race across an unfamiliar airpot in record time.
Bring enough snacks. Or a fistful of twenties.
Carryon your laptop charger if you have a connection. Trust me.
Download some actual movies to your physical hard drive. Netflix don’t stream in the stratosphere.
Run races up and down the terminal and in the gate area. Choose to board first if you have carryon that needs to be stowed and you’re worried about space. Board last if you have nothing but a baby on your hands and you have assigned seating.
Let the flight attendant/random old lady/friendly business traveler hold your baby while you pee if you’re flying alone. There’s nowhere for them to run if kidnapping is your fear, and they are secretly dying to hold that little cutie.
Finally, relax. Yes, it’s stressful to travel with kids, but it’s stressful to travel period! And nobody on your flight booked a spa treatment when they shelled out for their ticket, either. Everyone on board is entitled to a safe, somewhat sanitary and (probably not) timely transport to their final destination. Nothing more. If your kids freaks the freak out as soon as the captain turns on the fasten seatbelt light, well, better luck next time…but don’t let the anxiety of the opinions of your seat mates distract you from your real task at hand: disarming that inconsolable baby. Remember, if it’s not your kid screaming and clawing the setback table this time, then it’ll be someone else’s. Purgatory.
And enjoy that glass of wine with with your tasteless, sodium rich dinner. You’ll need it, comrade.
Unrelated image of a baby with a miniature pint glass. Can’t decide which is cuter.
We don’t have internet at the house (House! A house! With a yard! And a dryer!) yet, but I do have a very conveniently-located (and disappointingly caffeinated. Edge: Italy) Starbucks round the corner, and this is the first chance I’ve had to slip away and shout out to blog land.
The trip was largely uneventful, save for a leeeetle situation on the tail end where the airline lost our luggage. Like, all our luggage. Which, as it happens, was roughly all of our worldly possessions, if you will recall. So. I was a tad emotional at 1 am last Friday morning while trying to explain to the poor service rep at baggage claim that if I lost my Frye boots I would, in fact, be very destitute indeed, and could he vow to me that they would not be stolen and gleefully pranced about in by a nefarious TSA employee at Boston Logan? No? You can’t promise me that? Well then I will cry. Pathetic, heaving sobs bred of hormones and the sheer exhaustion of a 26 hour journey with toddlers.
Also, if anyone is in the business of flying economy class with Aer Lingus, might I recommend you do your homework a bit regarding their ‘bassinet’ accommodations for the wee passengers? Our reserved ‘baby crib’ was a cardboard box which was ceremoniously crammed into the space between pulldown trays in our bulkhead row. And it was a dead ringer for the container you might bring Fido home from the vet in. Anyway, JP loved it. And didn’t even soil the newspapers they’d lined it with.
Anyway, we’re home. It’s more glorious than I could ever, EVER have imagined, Dave loves his new job, and I have only been asked by a handful of strangers if I am aware of how busy I’m going to be and whether or not I’ll be laboring in their presence shortly. Americans sure do have a way with the pregnant ladies…
In a fortuitous stroke of coincidence, Dean Martin is serenading me with ‘That’s Amore’ from the Starbucks sound system at this very moment…so I’ll take that as my cue to beat a hasty retreat back to my bambini.
Coming at you live from one very comfortable hotel room in Dublin City center, where we opted for a 2 day layover to break up the transatlantic madness and soak in a little heritage, to boot. Linking up with Hallie because hey, there’s free wifi.
1. Irish butter. Mmmm, mmmm good. Like so, so good and not gonna try to pretty this up…Joey ate 4 pats straight up at dinner last night. And we were like, hey, we’re not judging you kid…in between bites of french onion soup drenched in Guinness something-or-other and one million ounces of sweet yellow gold. Olive oil was well and good, but holy mother of dairy products, Irish butter takes (and slathers and moistens) the cake.
2. The Guinness Factory tour. Did it. Poured a pint. Drank a pint. Watched surprisingly entertaining interactive videos of coopers making barrels, played in the mother of all sandboxes (a 20×20 box filled with barley) and convinced both boys the amazing glass elevators and waterfalls meant we were at a theme park. Only the theme was ‘Mommy and Daddy are actually having a better time than you are.’
We came,
We poured,
We conquered.
World’s most awesome sandbox. Minus the sand, plus barley.
Homeschooling. Nailed it.
3. Fish and Chips. Beef and Guinness Pie with Chips. Caesar salad…with Chips. What? I’ve been in a pasta desert. A wasteland of breads and grain-based carbohydrates. ALL THE POTATOES GET IN MY MOUTH.
4. Irish people: we’re awesome! Seriously though, every 10 minutes we’ll be walking down the street and Dave leans in to whisper “that girl looked just like your sister Tia” or “Now I see where you get your taste in architecture” and even “everyone here looks like they’re related to you.” I’m somewhere between 50-60% Irish, but my mom tends to overestimate the amount of shamrock in our shake. After being here less than 24 hours, I can honestly say there are few places I’ve ever felt more ‘at home’ in my life. The people do all look like my family members, and everyone does have fabulous pale skin and freckles and is a normal shape and size, etc. And the weather! Glorious cool and comfortable non-Mediteranean climate. Truly, this Isle and I were made for one another.
“Irish ponies are superior to Italian stallions.”
5. An Anglo (and I mean this in the ‘conquered and populated by Anglo Saxons’ kind of way, not a weird racist way) approach to life is seriously refreshing after a season or three spent in a country designed and run by hyper sanguine, espresso-chugging drama kings and queens. As our Italian landlord put it oh-so-perfectly during our farewell meeting: “Never forget, Italy is a country with Scandinavian ambitions operating within a central-African infrastructure.” Indeed.
And aside from that, a few man on the street observations about Northern vs. Southern Europeans, from my very professional and detailed study of two cultures, involving 9 months and 9 hours, respectively: Guess how many strangers have touched me today? Zero! Not even my big, tempting belly has had a single unsolicited grope. And the number of heated exchanges and/or physical altercations involving personal space issues/differing opinions on the safe distance to stop a moving vehicle in front of a loaded stroller? Also zero.
What the what? Seriously, my blood pressure is so low, I probably should have had a second Guinness to level things out.
Ireland, thanks for being my gateway drug back into the land of the free and the home of the brave. We’ll be back, but next time, we’re bringing a babysitter.
