Pre-Bambino, packing for trips was a breeze.  Lots of flowy dresses, a couple cardigans, jeans, absurdly high heels, a pair of practical flats (for when the 4-inch heel regret started to kick in), and a corkscrew.  Done.  Yet again, having my bubbly, adventurous little boy changes EVERYTHING.

So, he needs clothing.  For an array of possible temperatures and levels of precipitation.  Shoes.  Hats.  Toys.  Books.  A place to sleep.  Cups.  Bowls.  Forks and spoons.  Diapers.  Wipes.  A stroller.  Snacks for the plane…  I could go on and on. I am fully aware that my new(ish) mother neuroses are kicking in.  There’s a norovirus outbreak where we live. I have visions of Il Bambino spewing split pea soup and his head rotating while over the Atlantic Ocean.  I debate buying diapers and the accoutrements in Italy.  But, he has had allergic reactions to certain brands, and do I really want to brave the Farmacia after a long flight?  Do I need to get a travel health insurance plan for him?  What if he is stolen by gypsies?  Or eaten by a dingo?  Or run over by a Vespa?  I. am. losing. my. mind.

So, I am stepping back.  And gazing at this for a minute.

Aside from rabid dingo attacks, life cannot be that traumatic when you are there.  I am missing the forest for the trees.  He’ll be fine.  I won’t even miss those absurdly high heels.  We’re going to live la vita Ebrom, dammit.  And, worst case scenario, we will sit in our hotel with a screaming, diaper-rash covered baby who is spewing split pea soup, and pull out the corkscrew.  Sometimes, a glass of Barbaresco, and your best friend is all you need.