Parenthood during a Pandemic
Expatriate families such as ours have been left stranded on their own parental islands during this pandemic, without much contact from grandparents who either live on the other side of the globe, or across borders which the virus had caused to shut down.
Still, CoVid restrictions have had a strange way of becoming a blessing for new parents like us. This I discovered on several occasions, just before a second wave of red numbers was to hit Europe.
The first lesson revealed itself during my favorite time of year, when the trees had deepened into a fiery crimson — we had decided to greet the cooler weather with a week-long trip to Baden-Baden and Freiburg in Germany.
We spent more nights in the former, where, even in inclement weather, we found a way to make our nuclear family of three work. We were newbies at this parenting thing, our first time outside Switzerland since baby had been born — CoVid restrictions had fallen shortly after baby arrived. Our earlier trips over the summer had at least allowed baby’s grandparents to visit from Prague. We made it to Swiss destinations such as Ticino and Bodensee then.
But in Baden-Baden, we were alone. Family-friendly lodgings in the Black Forest area of Germany were fully-booked, but hubby had the brilliant idea of searching for a “normal” hotel. We were in luck! He managed to book a designer’s dream of a room — except it had neither pram access nor much space — he’d only realized that our accommodations were not baby-friendly after making the reservation. We’d take turns in the shower while we protected the rickety but fashionable interiors from our crawling, fast-approaching-ten-kilogram baby.
My breasts were aching with clogged milk ducts then — my body learning to adjust to a growing baby who was discovering the world of real food, and, as a result, needed much less breastmilk. Baby also happened to be thrilled with his new surroundings. Why spend the time with his head buried in mommy’s bosom, he seemed to ask. The rest of the world beckoned. I had to retreat into the small shower of our hotel room once a day, letting a wave of hot water run over my chest, just to get some relief from the ache of a full tank of unwanted milk in my body. I was also recovering from a sore nipple that was taking weeks to heal, after baby had grazed me with his teeth at the end of a dream feed. It meant I had to clean my silver, healing-promoting shields regularly.
During all these times that I tended to my aches and pains, hubby kept baby entertained. He taught the little one new things, gave him reasons to laugh, reinvented the non-baby-friendly space into a child’s haven. He kept our darling safe so that I could care for myself.
The three of us whiled the rest of our time on relaxing walks at Lichtentaler Allee, Baden-Baden’s central promenade. We also discovered that baby had a love of fountains and fluffy dogs while visiting this spa town. Soon, it was time to pack up our bags and drive to our next destination.
Bustling Freiburg in Germany was shop after shop of autumn goods that tempted every pedestrian. As we admired quaint canals and gazed into shop windows, a downpour, characteristic of fall, greeted us. We had to whip out our duct-taped rain cover to protect baby and his ride. And somewhere between the lack of visibility and the humidity gathering up under his plastic sheet, baby’s lip began to quiver, and soon, he was into a full-blown wailing episode.
It was close to six o’clock and crowds were attacking the streets as they rushed out of offices to head home. And in the thick of this after-office traffic, we were two parents, whose coats were slowly getting damp and heavy with rain, who did not quite know what to do with their bawling baby.
We scrambled into a dank beer pub, where loud toddlers and their tired parents were spotted alongside tables of chubby beer chuggers. The restaurant manager met us at the foyer, but as we glanced around, it was evident that it would take another half an hour before any of the tables would become available.
We stumbled back onto the street and retraced our steps to a beautiful window that showcased sleek furniture and delicate wine glasses atop each table — Kuro Mori, the door said.
It looked too fancy for our little baby, but we were in sheer panic to get baby out of the rain. I pushed the door open and asked the staff if we could dine there (parent code for ‘Could we release our screaming darling there and pay for that privilege?’).
A stocky blonde waiter greeted us and said that they were set to officially open in five minutes, but we were welcome to grab a seat at the back right then and there. Hubby and I heaved sighs of relief and stepped into the restaurant. We paused as we gazed at the gorgeous interiors, the throw pillows strewn over seats, the color combination of russet and pastel green carefully selected. We had needed respite, and the waiter who let us in at the moment we needed it was our saving grace. His accommodating attitude was rewarded — we enjoyed ourselves and ordered dish after dish from their tapas-style menu. A Schwarzwald Vermut arrived, as well as a glass of wine, and — much later — dessert in the form of a re-imagined Toepfednstrudel for hubby and a Shizo dish with cherry cream for me.
We had melt-in-your-mouth dishes that crumbled and crackled to provide us with a variety of texture. Kuro Mori’s fine tableware and its ambiance for grown-ups reminded us of a bygone pre-baby era of ours in a way that rejuvenated our spirits. But to enjoy our meal, we had to take turns. I got to enjoy my dish first while hubby held baby, then vice versa.
As time passed in the restaurant, our little one had satiated his curiosity about the tall mirrors and sleek seats. He soon fell asleep in my arms, his mouth attached to one breast. Hubby unfurled our merino wool blanket over the two of us.
That was when we could truly savor the following dishes that arrived at our table. Cold dishes like the Laab Gai, with its chicken salad and lime or the warm plate of Misu Katsudon with a helping of Iberico schnitzel were a sensation. I needed hubby to help me to the food at times — I had only one arm to deal with tableware while the other cradled baby.
That’s when it hit me. This parenthood thing is a partnership. It meant taking turns, allowing the other time for a few bites of dinner, have a sip of wine, or shower in a hotel room.
Several weeks after these two mini trips, hubby suggested we head to the mountains before the winter hit us full-force. He chose Zernez National Park — some 1,290 meters above sea level. He spent hours poring over photographs of beautiful hiking areas that we could reach from the valley of Scuol and reading tips on how to use our hiking baby gear into the winding trails of the Swiss Alps.
We made the novice mistake of skipping the train that ferried cars up to the mountains from a lower point and back and thus had deal with twists and turns on the road that left me ready to pour out the contents of my lunch onto the asphalt. Baby was in a similar state, shouting in protest.
We had learned to book an entire apartment this time — no more boutique hotels for these new parents. This choice was a great success for baby, who could roam around a vast living room while his hungry parents devoured a homemade Zopf (a traditional Swiss loaf of bread that looks like a giant braid) that the owner had left us as a welcome gift.
A new parenting lesson unveiled itself the next day as we prepared for the hike my hubby had dreamed about for weeks. We had arranged everything with care for baby in these wintry conditions. Tights and pants underneath a pair of snow pants, boots and gloves, a hat. Three layers of thick clothing, including a jacket. We felt ready. Baby even smiled with excitement as we gazed at the mountains that were waiting for us. We loaded baby into the Deuter backpack.
We set off onto the trail, one that began in shade and wind. The car thermometer had said it was 4 degrees Celsius out, but ice rivulets amid roots and rocks greeted us. As soon as we set foot on the trail and the shadows of the valley embraced us, baby started crying. A plaintive wail, a voice that could break hearts. And despite adjusting his hat over his ears and placing back his baby gloves that kept falling off onto roots that threatened to trip us, tears erupted from his eyes and slid down his cheeks. I met baby’s gaze, and in those coffee-colored pools, I saw an ache in him to get us to understand him. We stopped several times, fixed baby’s arms in the backpack. Should they be in, as if he were imprisoned? Or out, so that they were spread like an eagle?
Hubby erupted out of sheer frustration. “Dammit, I have been trapped in the city the entire year due to this fudge virus and won’t he stop crying for one minute so we could at least get to the viewpoint and away from the parking lot?!” His voice echoed through the pine trees, which shushed baby for a few seconds. My fingers were beginning to shake from hubby’s anger. It was not so much the cold, but baby’s whimpers and hubby’s meltdown that were crumbling my sense of peace and patience. We went on like this for ten more minutes. “We can push till we get there, he’ll quiet down,” I reassured my partner.
But our small one would not let up. Something was wrong and we couldn’t guess what it was. We had layered him so well, with careful thought to his appendages — each foot, each finger. His chest was properly covered. He was secure on his papa’s back. But there was no denying that a frosty wind was cutting into us and ice snaked beneath our feet. Gloom blanketed the valley we were in, high up in the mountains, at the onset of winter. Baby was trying to communicate, even though he did not have the words.
Finally, my husband stopped. “We turn back. We have to.” He was resigned, despite his frustration at not getting to our goal. He had researched this hike, admired pictures parents had taken, read promises posted online that babies could be taken up here.
We got back to the car, stripped off baby from the backpack that had oppressed him, and put him to my breast to soothe him. Baby suckled, sniffling. I was amazed at the power of breastfeeding, how much it could console my baby. Hubby put the heater on high, and for twenty minutes, we three regained our composure. And as our family van warmed up, I noticed baby’s cheeks reddening. An alarming shade of crimson. And in the middle of one cheek, where tears had slid and fallen, a stiff white blob began to take shape. My brow furrowed and my mama heart skipped a beat. I showed my observation to my hubby. “I think I see now why baby was crying,” I told him, alarm shaking my voice.
My little giant seemed so grown-up at home most days, but this event reminded us how delicate he still was. He had had no words to describe what pain the conditions were causing him to suffer, but he had used his voice the only way he knew how, and with great urgency. What would have happened if hubby had ignored baby’s protests, if we had pushed for an hour more on the hike? A quick internet search showed us that we had given our baby frostnip — thank goodness it had not reached the point of frostbite. Despite all our preparations, baby was not right. It was fortunate that he had sobbed with such determination, that hubby had heeded baby’s complaints. “Ours isn’t much of a cry baby,” hubby said. “He wouldn’t cry like this for no reason.”
Once knowing what the problem was, I splashed a few drops of breast milk on baby’s cheeks. Later, we put on a thick layer of protective nappy cream on the area, a tip from a mother of two to whom I had written. She also suggested a full baby face mask, for the next time we ventured out into the mountains. Another mom shared that she always used wind and weather protective cream. I made sure to purchase just that as soon as I got the chance, and never left home without it ever since.
After spending the night recovering from this parental fiasco, we rewarded ourselves the next day with a three-hour visit to Bogn Engiadina — the Engadin Baths. I had discovered over the years that thermal spas were a welcome respite for me in the winters, a retreat into some of the warmth I missed from my tropical home. We hadn’t been to one throughout my pregnancy. We were relieved and surprised to see how much baby enjoyed himself in the water. That it was a quiet Monday morning at the spa helped things along.
My first dip was in a salt bath. I could taste the saline on my lips when I submerged. I let myself float in the water, looking up at my reflection in the glossy black ceiling. A globe of shimmering sienna mosaic stood majestic at the center of this circular pool. I let the briny water lift me up as I took in my surroundings, enjoying the warm glow emanating from the illuminated wall. If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine I was in the crystal waters of Boracay Island. I could soak into a small ocean here while hubby watched baby.
And then it was time to switch roles, and I took baby under the fountains to splash around where two other toddlers were giggling, while my husband swam in the “wild river” and enjoyed the view from the outdoor thermal pool. The snowcapped mountains that had seemed so forbidding yesterday when baby had been mewling now looked like friendly giants, smiling down at us on a sunny but frosty day.
Parenthood was a partnership, and perhaps more so during a pandemic, when my husband’s parents belonged to Switzerland’s risk list and my parents were too far away and flying for thirteen hours to them with a mask on and the thought of subjecting our young baby to a swab test and quarantine upon landing seemed unnecessary and unkind.
All we have right now during the pandemic is each other. To take turns letting the other have a bite to eat, relax, read a book or slip into an imaginary sea.