Post written by James Matthews
Travelling with my baby didn’t suck. I did. In a way, that nails how I’ve been reflecting on a recent excursion to Europe—my first Intercontinental vacation as a dad. But, eight words is hardly a column and anybody who knows me knows I am long-winded. Plus, the story doesn’t start in this last month of reflection. It starts closer to a year ago.
My phone pinged on a particularly nondescript morning last February, and the image of a particularly sweet baby girl appeared. Eleven days later, I would hold my own daughter in my arms for the first time.
Despite their nearly overlapping birth dates, my cousin’s baby—the one whose sweet face I saw on that text—and my daughter, Louie, were born worlds apart—one in Barcelona, Spain, and the other in Canada. Yet the bond of family (and the calendar’s nudge) made a reunion inevitable.
Fast forward from February to September and I was holding my Louie once again—this time at the airport, saying goodbye as she and her mom were getting a headstart on their European vacation. Katie, my wife, had been making the most of her year-long maternity leave, turning quick trips into long weekends and even spending a week with her mom, sister, and nephew in Palm Springs. Same with this occasion as the squad were set for a sans dads week on a Spanish beach. Though I’d been apart from her before, this stretch would be the longest.
All these times, I remember worrying that Louie would forget who I was, that the bond I cultivated with skin-to-skin snuggles or those 3:30 a.m. bottle feeds would somehow erode and disappear over a few days. Luckily, they never did—I was greeted by an ear-to-ear grin each time we reunited.
As I emerged jet-lagged from a cab near a metro hub in the middle of Barcelona, I was excited to see that unique version of Louie’s trademark smile. This time, though, she burst into tears. She regained her composure just long enough to fall asleep in my arms on a packed train in rush hour.
This was the first of many differences that would mark this trip. In that week leading up to it, I tried to have a word with myself—mental reminders of how this trip would be a vacation in name only. It would not be like the first time we went to Barcelona pre-Covid or our perfectly timed trip to Japan.
I joke that Katie is the Chief Planning Officer in our relationship, meaning she takes the lead in planning our trips. That, coupled with the 24/7 role of being a mom, meant such a heavy mental load that it wouldn’t have made it through baggage check. The best part? She was stuck with another kid… me. Don’t get me wrong, I did (and do) a lot of dad-ding, I promise: packing and unpacking suitcases, carrying passports, letting Katie sleep in when I could, and making the occasional breakfast. But, there were, admittedly, some times of moping and acting out. Let’s just say if I were a newborn, I would have been labelled as “fussy.”
Despite my best efforts with pre-trip mental reminders, I wasn’t fully prepared for the stark contrast between travelling with just Katie and me versus travelling as new parents and as a new father. My fussiness was essentially an expression of my struggle to adapt to that change. An artist I love, Pale Jay, released a song not long before our trip called The Simple Days:
Just tell me ‘bout the simple days.
Tell me how it used to be.
It hit a little too close to home.
The wrinkled carry-ons Katie and I used to stuff into overhead bins had been replaced by mega-sized checked bags. In-flight entertainment was keeping a baby respectably comfortable instead of watching a movie you’ve seen several times. The priority when getting into an Airbnb is setting up a travel crib, not jumping into bed yourself.
We had picked up a few tricks along the way, practicing with some shorter trips earlier that year—some even featuring the grandparents who would be joining us this time around too. We learned from those weekend getaways that it is super important to have a common space away from the baby rather than the classic studio hotel room. For the flight back, we snagged the bulkhead seat to ensure we got lots of standing snuggle time (Louie’s favourite). We were mindful not to book too much the week we got back home so we could reset after the trip and I was lucky enough to have extra vacation days at my disposal.
None of this is to say there weren’t incredible moments—memories I’ll cherish for the rest of my life. Like seeing the light on my father’s face after playing golf with my cousin for the first time; Louie and her new bestie communicating as if they were lifelong friends; my in-laws knocking on our door every morning to take Louie swimming; sneaking baby monitors poolside with my sister-in-law and brother-in-law; reconnecting with my cousin and her husband, two of my favorite people on the planet who just happen to live halfway across it; or showing my parents around Lisbon.
Looking back, I wish I had been more present during that time. If I could do it again, I know I’d approach it differently. What I’ve come to realize is this: don’t dwell too much on the simplicity of the past or how things used to be. It’s easy to get caught up and miss some of life’s most beautiful moments happening right in front of you—whether you’re in Lisbon or Langley.
