He'd been flying that day, and flying 3,000 miles in your mum's lap is tricky stuff. You have to remain seated, you can't scream, you can't kick the seat in front of you (though it makes the best thump, bump, thump sound when you do), you can't fidget too much...but you're only 13 months old. You are ONE BIG FIDGIT. They are asking for the impossible.
You land in Seattle. Your Nana and Boppa are already there visiting, and your Auntie and Uncle live there. They take you for pizza. Pizza? You hate the wooden high chair. You hate keeping your shoes on. You hate that there's no food yet. You've had to sit still and be quiet all day, and they take you to a really loud restaurant. They order cheesy bread so that you will have something to gnaw on, but you're just so tired and fidgety. You don't care about gnawing. You want to sleep, but you don't know that you want to sleep, so you're just fidget and fuss.
Your Auntie swoops you up and drags you to the photobooth in the back. You have no concept of photobooths, are not yet swayed by the old-timey nature of their processing chemicals, of their strips of tiny, poorly exposed photos. You aren't going to pose for the flashing light. You don't even see the flashing light...because you have moved beyond the fidget and into the squirm.
Your Auntie points to the light and over-exaggerates a smile. You see the silly smile in the reflection, but you just can't smile right now. Maybe tomorrow. After your Auntie finishes with the photos, after Boppa let's you run around the parking lot, and the adults get the pizza to GO and you go back to Auntie Heather's house and you get to play with the wooden coasters with the Japanese paintings on them and the bamboo steamer baskets that stack so beautifully and you have an ENTIRE night's sleep in Auntie's neighbor's borrowed Pack-n-Play.
Then you'll smile. You'll wake up with a smile and you'll strut your new walk around the wooden floors and you'll pet the dogs and squeal at everything, your mouth open and ready to eat the whole world.