Wherein we travel to Chicago, Squeaker becomes Chilean, and I contract the flu

I think if I could talk to my pre-Chicago trip self and shake her and say, “You’re excited to travel to a snowy, cold city with a BABY? What is wrong with you?” I would do it.

Before the trip. One of the only good shots I got of us.

It’s not like she was particularly bad. Actually, she was a normal baby. It was everything else that conspired against us to make it an adventure we will not soon forget.

First, Squeaker barely slept the night before the trip. Okay, half night. We had to leave the house at 4:00AM, so, to her credit, that was only like her second feeding.

Second, I started getting sick, like really sick – more than cold sick – like plague-fever-chills-hacking-cough-bring-out-your-dead-sick. 

Finally, our plane was delayed for an hour. Then, after that lovely delay, they allowed us on the plane only to tell us there was an unknown mechanical error – something that reassured us all. They had to start surgery right there on the tarmac. They turned the plane on and off and on and off for over two hours until the passengers started to protest and I seriously thought the woman who got vomited on by Juicy Couture in front of us was lucky she didn’t get her ass air marshalled. It was very Liz Lemon from this *awful quality* clip from 30 Rock. 

 (Does anyone know how to upload a YouTube video with new WordPress?)

When we finally got to the windy city, our burly taxi driver, with the possibly Russian accent, said, “How old is baby? You brave people.” Yet, I still didn’t believe him.

Our hotel was gorgeous, modern and clean (but we trashed it Squeaker-style before we left). Once I got inside, I barely left. My husband only explored the city as he scrounged for sustenance.

I did manage to go to the Chilean Consulate to sign Squeaker’s inscription card. We got her temporary travel documents and she’s all ready to go! As they fingerprinted her she celebrated by pooping, explosively, and even the bureaucrats smiled. Babies. They transcend culture.

By the day we left, I couldn’t speak and Squeaker had decided she was done with the whole traveling thing and let everyone on board know as our plane was de-iced. At that point, I didn’t care. If she had wanted to get up and dance a jig down the aisle, I wouldn’t have had the energy to stop her.

Yesterday, I finally made it to urgent care and the doctor said I had bronchitis, the flu and bronchial spasms.  He told me to go home and rest. Ha. Rest. That’s what we’ve been trying to achieve for seven weeks: rest.

I’m actually feeling a smidgen better now. I would hate to end 2012 on a bad note. So Happy New Year, all. May it be a good one.

P.S. If anyone is planning on being on an Air Canada flight from Toronto to Santiago in about a week and a half, plan on packing extra patience. Thanks.