Parenthood during a Pandemic
By: Lily C. Fen
Tags: Travel, Parenthood, Parenting Tips, Motherhood, Pandemic

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.