I described my son’s tantrum in my last post, so it’s only fair that in this post I describe one of his sister’s—her first tantrum, in fact. It occurred on Memorial Day, when she was just two weeks old.
My husband and I took our family to see his parents over the holiday weekend. With us were our two children—three-year-old son and newborn daughter—and my mother, who had been visiting since the baby’s birth.
My in-laws lived in a town about 90 miles from our home. Usually, the trip was an easy journey. But all the paraphernalia needed for a baby and preschooler made the logistics a little more difficult.
Still, we had a fine weekend . . . until we started back home on the evening of Memorial Day. We left our son with his grandparents for an extended visit, so it was just my husband, my mother, my daughter, and me on the return trip.
The designs of our sedan (a Mercury Zephyr of about 1981 vintage) and of our infant car seat were not compatible. The only place we could buckle in the car seat was in the front passenger place in the vehicle.
Today that would be an anathema, and if the Department of Family Services found out, would probably land our children in foster care. But in the mid-1980s, any place a car seat fit was fine—just having a car seat was an indicator of strong parenting skills.
My husband drove, the baby was strapped in her car seat beside him, so my mother and I were relegated to the back seat.
Just as we left my in-laws’ house, a Midwest thunderstorm began cascading from the sky. Lightning flashed brighter than the headlights of oncoming traffic, and thunder crashed almost simultaneously with each bolt. The car’s wipers whipped back and forth as fast as they could, but rain still coated the windshield and pounded the car roof.
We adults were all tense. My mother, not used to Midwest storms, startled at every crash of thunder. “Oh!” she squeaked, and again, “Oh!”
About ten minutes into the trip, the baby started screaming. This wasn’t just newborn mewling. This was an enraged fiend. She probably didn’t yet weigh ten pounds, but in the enclosed space of the car, she yelled at the volume of a fire siren and about the same pitch.
“Can’t you get her to be quiet?” my husband asked between clenched teeth.
“She’s dry,” I said. “I checked just before we left. And I fed her.”
“I can’t concentrate on the road.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know what to do.” Of course, since I was the mother, the screaming was all my fault. And my problem to solve.
Over the back seat I tried everything short of taking her out of the car seat. I put a pacifier in her mouth. She spit it out and wailed.
I jiggled the car seat, trying for a soothing rhythm. No change in tone or volume.
My mother handed me a bottle of water from the diaper bag, and I stuck it in my daughter’s mouth. No dice.
“Click-clack, click-clack,” went the windshield wipers.
“WAANNGGHH!” howled the baby. “WAANNGGHH!”
“Oh!” said my mother. “Oh!”
“Should I take her out?” I finally asked in despair.
“No, it’s not safe,” my husband said, as we hurtled down I-70 toward Kansas City.
Now, this was our second child. You’d think he would have relaxed into fatherhood by now. But he refused to let me take her out of the car seat, so my options were limited.
I’ll say this, the girl had stamina. She caterwauled for the whole journey. The entire hour and a half. We were all exhausted when we reached our home, baby included.
Then she slept. Until her next feeding.
I didn’t blame my newborn daughter for her tantrum. I still have no idea what caused it, but you can’t really blame a two-week-old for anything.
There were many other tantrums that I did think she could have skipped. Until she reached the age of four, taking her to church or a restaurant was a risky business.
Over the years, she and I both developed more coping mechanisms. We no longer need to scream when trying to communicate with each other—a dirty look is sufficient on both sides.
What terrible travels do you remember with your family?