The week was a pleasant one for all involved, most especially my boy. He was in the lap of luxury for the entire visit, being passed from proud grandparent to very proud grandparent and loved from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. I don't think I saw my mother's face lose its smile the entire time we were there.

The trip to Maryland was a bit hair-raising, as Sam still detests his carseat as much as he ever has. I sat next to him for the whole seven hours, and we did more than our fair share of in-carseat-nursing. (I'm sure the passing truckers enjoyed the show.) He slept for brief periods, waking and fussing to be held; after all, seven hours is a very long time for a baby to be out of his mommy's arms. Dad, who drove all the way to Toledo to collect us, was exceedingly patient with Sam's needs; after two rest stops and two emergency pull-overs, we finally made it home to a brightly lit house.

It was after eleven at night. Sam was fast asleep. Did this deter Grandmother from whisking him away? Ahem. In a few moments, he was awake and staring blearily into the face of a chirping, laughing madwoman. She was so happy to see him, though, that I stood back and let her enjoy herself; before long, he was grinning back at her, regardless of the hour.

The week was full of relatives. Sam met all of his great-grandparents and many distant cousins, one of whom was actually born on Sam's original due date. The boys were a hoot, babbling in unison and taking random swats at each other. Everybody agreed that not only was Sam obviously the most adorable little boy ever to grace the face of the earth, but that he was also possessed of the most besotted Grandma. I barely got him out of her arms long enough to feed him.

Therein lay the only fly in the ointment for the week. Dad seems to have issues regarding my nursing Sam in public. I saw confrontation coming when we stopped at our first rest stop on our way to Maryland. "Did you bring in a blanket?" he asked as we headed for a chair in the corner.

"No, Sam thinks blankets are a game. He pulls the right off," I responded, getting comfortable. "It's all right; we don't need one."

"You need to use a blanket or something," he insisted.

"Dad, we're fine!" The corner was empty; my back was to the room. I didn't see a problem, but I was extra careful to be discrete for his comfort.

It didn't end there, though. All week long, whenever we were in public, Dad tried to shepherd us into back rooms to nurse, closing doors behind us. When I found myself nursing in a private meeting room at the golf course, I asked Mom (I told you she wouldn't let Sam out of her sight!), "Is it going to be like this for the entire time I breastfeed?"

"Probably."
"How's he going to handle it when Sam's a toddler and won't want to leave all the action to nurse?"
"Not well."

Mom was on my side, but she didn't want to argue with Dad over it. I wasn't so willing to let the matter drop. Finally things came to a head at a Borders bookstore; Sam got hungry, and Dad started trying to herd us out to the parking lot to nurse in the car. I could feel my temper bubbling, but I managed to keep a tight rein on it. Without raising my voice, I simply stated, "Dad, he's going to be nursing for years, and you have got to get used to this." Then I sat down in the nearest armchair and fed my baby. Dad didn't say another word about my nursing for the rest of the week.

I am so very proud of myself.

Not that we haven't argued a little bit since - even on my first night back. Small things set us off, and while I've been actively trying to school my reactions and my own roles in our disagreements, we've still, well, fought.

I think part of the problem lies in the fact that we both seem to have fairly short fuses. I wish I knew of an easy way to go about lengthening one's fuse, becoming more patient with others. As it is, I can only see Eric's imminent eruptions, not my own. He came as far as Pittsburgh to pick me up, and when we stopped at a rest stop for gas on our way home, a man had parked at the pump and gone inside to use the bathroom. Even miles down the road, Eric was still growling about the man's inconsiderate move. I tried to calm him, but in the back of my head I was replaying other situations in which I'd been just as stubbornly irate.

At Mom's, I spent the evening with Amy, with whom I had a long discussion about the nature of marriage. Both of us are intelligent, strong women who knew what we were doing when we married the men we loved, and now we're both coming to grips with just how difficult marital and familial adjustments can be. The talk was enlightening, both heartening and sad all at once. We're committed to making our marriages work, but it was easy to see, just from our own situations, why the divorce rate is as high as it is. In many ways, it would certainly be easier just to pick up and leave, starting over in a new place without having to resolve the problems in the old.

I told Eric before I left that I wanted us to talk to our priest when I got back. When tempers get as hot as ours do, it's difficult to see through the red haze long enough to come to equitable terms; after tempers have cooled, the argued point is often left to fester, unhealed, until the next argument. A calm voice of reason from a third party could be extremely helpful. Eric still doesn't want to talk to anyone about this, but when I told him just how very depressed our fights had been making me, he agreed that it might be for the best. I'll talk to the priest this Sunday.

In the aftermath of most of our bouts, I find myself dwelling on what the priest said at our wedding: "Eric, God made Carrie for you; Carrie, God made Eric for you." At the time, those words filled me with warmth and love. Now they fill me with guilt.