The reality of our first flight to Guam with thirteen month old Ajin

It was May 2023, and the air in Seoul was just starting to feel heavy with the coming summer. Ajin had just turned thirteen months old, a milestone that felt like it deserved something bigger than a simple party at home. My husband and I used to be the kind of couple who could pack everything into a single backpack and fly to a new country on a whim. But looking at the mountain of luggage in our living room, I realized those days were officially over. We were preparing for Ajin's first overseas trip to Guam, and the preparation felt more like a military operation than a vacation. I spent weeks researching the best diapers for swimming and which brands of jarred baby food would survive the pressure changes in a cargo hold. To me, every item was a necessity, but my husband just looked at the three suitcases and said we could probably buy half of it there. That practical streak of his usually helps, but in the moment, it just made me feel like I was overthinking everything alone.

Packing a whole house into one suitcase for May in Guam

I remember staring at Haneul while I folded Ajin's tiny sun hats. He knew something was up. He kept pacing between the suitcases, his tail tucked low, occasionally letting out a small whine. Haneul has always been the anxious type, jumping at the sound of a falling leaf, and he seems to sense the 'travel energy' before we even zip the bags. Pudding, on the other hand, just watched us from the top of the refrigerator with that aloof gaze of hers, probably relieved that the house would finally be quiet for a few days. The contrast between my two pets often mirrors my own internal state—half of me is as worried as Haneul, and the other half wishes I could be as detached as Pudding.

We ended up with one entire suitcase dedicated solely to Ajin's needs: diapers, portable fans, a sterilized electric kettle, and enough snacks to feed a small army. I was terrified that she would cry the entire four hours to Guam, much like Haneul cries when we take him to a new vet. My husband kept telling me it would be fine, but I could see him secretly checking the flight path on his phone over and over. We left the house at dawn, leaving Haneul at the pet hotel where he looked at me with such betrayal in his eyes that I almost cancelled the whole trip right there in the parking lot. Pudding stayed home with a neighbor checking in, which was the only thing I didn't worry about.

The moment my grand itinerary crumbled at the airport

My plan for Guam was ambitious. I had a list of the best brunch spots in Tumon, a sunset dinner cruise booked, and a map of the best shopping outlets marked with stars. I wanted to reclaim a bit of my pre-mom identity while celebrating Ajin. But the moment we stepped out of the airport in Guam, the humidity hit us like a physical wall. Ajin, who had barely slept on the plane and was already cranky from the cabin pressure, took one look at the bright sun and the strange palm trees and started screaming. It wasn't just a small whimper; it was the kind of cry that makes everyone in a ten-meter radius turn their heads.

We tried to put her in the stroller we had painstakingly carried through three terminals, but she arched her back and refused to sit. I felt the sweat starting to soak through my shirt as I tried to soothe her, my carefully planned schedule already dissolving in my mind. My husband watched us for a minute, took the heavy diaper bag from my shoulder, and made a decision. He said we should just go straight to the hotel and stay there until she calmed down. I wanted to argue, to say we were missing the first sunset at the beach, but he was right. The 'vacation' I had imagined was for a woman without a toddler. The reality was that we were just parenting in a more expensive, more humid location.

Four days of swimming and eating musubis in the hotel room

By the second day, we settled into a rhythm that was nothing like a travel guide and everything like a survival strategy. Our routine became incredibly simple: wake up, eat a quick breakfast, and hit the hotel pool by 10 AM. It turned out that the pool was the only place Ajin was truly happy. The water seemed to wash away her anxiety, and for a few hours every morning, she would splash around in her little tube, her laughter echoing against the hotel walls. I realized then that eighty percent of the photos I took during those four days were of the same corner of the swimming pool.

We did manage to drive the rental car to Two Lovers Point one afternoon. The five-dollar parking fee felt like a small price to pay for the stunning view of the Philippine Sea, and for a brief moment, seeing Ajin point at the blue horizon made all the stress feel worth it. However, the 'fine dining' I had dreamed of never happened. Most of our lunches consisted of spam musubis from the ABC Store, eaten hastily in the hotel room while Ajin napped. It wasn't glamorous, and my husband and I barely spoke more than a few sentences to each other during those meals, both of us exhausted by the heat and the constant vigilance. Yet, there was a strange sort of peace in it. We weren't 'tourists' anymore; we were just a family trying to find joy in the small gaps between nap times.

Looking back at the blur of blue water and baby cries

It has been a while since we returned, but I still find myself scrolling through the videos of Ajin in the water. The memory of the four-hour flight back, where I had to pace the aisle while she screamed into my shoulder, has started to fade. What remains is the way her face lit up when she felt the sand between her toes for the first time, even if she hated it five seconds later. I look at the clothes I bought for her at the outlets—dresses she'll outgrow in three months—and I feel a pang of nostalgia for a trip that was objectively exhausting.

I think about how we used to travel, and I realize that this trip wasn't about the destination at all. It was about testing our boundaries as parents. We learned that we could handle the meltdowns and the missed reservations. We learned that my husband's practicality is the only thing that keeps us from spiraling when things go wrong. And I learned that while I might miss my old life of solo backpacking, seeing the world through Ajin's confused, curious eyes is a different kind of adventure entirely, even if it mostly involves the local convenience store.

Coming home to a sulking dog and a quiet cat

Opening the front door after a week away is always a bittersweet moment. Pudding greeted us with her usual indifference, rubbing against the suitcase once before heading back to her favorite sunspot as if we had never left. But Haneul was different. When we picked him up from the pet hotel, he did that thing where he wiggles his whole body, but once we got inside the house, he went straight to his bed and turned his back on us. He was clearly sulking, his way of telling us that the unfamiliar smells and sounds of the kennel were not appreciated.

I sat on the floor next to him, trying to apologize with treats, but he wouldn't look at me. It made me wonder if I'm being selfish trying to balance this life. I want Ajin to see the world, but I hate the toll it takes on Haneul, and I hate the exhaustion it leaves in my husband's eyes. As I watched Ajin crawl toward Haneul to give him a clumsy pat on the head, I felt that familiar uncertainty. We're already talking about where to go next when Ajin is a bit older—maybe somewhere closer, like Jeju, where Haneul could actually come with us. But then I think about the logistics of a dog, a toddler, and a cat on a ferry, and I wonder if we're just asking for trouble again. Is it even possible to have a vacation where everyone is actually happy at the same time, or is someone always going to be the one who has to compromise?