Airplane
Oh man, you guys, we were that family on our flight home. You know the family. YOU KNOW THE FAMILY. The ones with the inconsolable screaming kid? Yes! That was us!
My apologies to the entire Boston University girls’ figure skating team, who was on our flight, most of whom were glaring disapprovingly in our general direction, and while I wanted to feel sorry for them, I also wanted to yell, YOU HAVE AN IPOD. CRANK IT UP AND READ YOUR KATE MIDDLETON FLUFF. I WILL BE HERE SEETHING WITH JEALOUSY. Also, here are some condoms. And birth control pills. And also, for good measure, take a few packages of the Today Sponge, although after that experience, it’s highly unlikely that any of them will forget to take their birth control for many years, perhaps decades.
Look, we did our best. We tried everything. Snacks! Drinks! Videos! Games! Crayons! Not even Muno could coax her out of her misery, for she screamed for at least forty minutes straight. Ears? Exhaustion? Fed up with the world? We’ll never know. And then, miraculously, she suddenly passed out cold, just in time for the plane to begin descending into Logan, when the steep descent powered her head forward at such a sharp angle that Adam had to keep his fingers pressed to her forehead to keep her from bobbing into the seat in front of her.
I never thought I’d say this, but flying without children sounds akin to a hot stone massage at this point. An entire hour — or more! — to sit and stare into space, maybe read a magazine? YES, SIGN ME UP. I don’t care if it means my knees are contorted into my kidneys, I will go ANYWHERE YOU WANT, so long as I don’t have to bring a car seat on board, strap a small person into it and try in vain to entertain said small person while she wails in indescribable agony (hers AND mine).
It was only marginally preferable to driving twelve hours, I think. I’m not sure. What I am certain of is that I am planning to be pregnant, pretending to be pregnant and/or nursing a newborn or Bitty Baby for the next four hundred Hanukkahs, so that Adam’s family is forced to come to us and we never have to do that again. I don’t care if it means I have to have a hundred children or pretend that I have a serious delusional disorder that makes me think that my dolls are real. I will do it, so long as I don’t have to take a toddler on an airplane. Or a car.
Basically, I am never leaving the house again, even it means I’m homeschooling my kids, despite being wholly incapable of doing so.
You know what kids ARE good for, though, speaking of airplanes? Forgetting you’re afraid to fly. Honestly, that plane could have been plummeting to the ground with flames dripping off the wings, and I’d have been all, “LOOK, IT’S FOOFA!” without even realizing my death was imminent.
The trip itself was drama-free and rather uneventful, and we saw family, we lit candles, we ate brisket and latkes and kugel and it was lovely. Sam ate the entire state of Virginia, as she’s on some kind of insane effing growth spurt, and when I PRACTICALLY RAN OUT OF FOOD TO GIVE HER at a freakin’ CHINESE BUFFET, I thought, well, she’s either growing or I’m raising a child with the appetite of a horse, and she’ll be obese by age three. Scurvy, I assure you she does not have, for she ate four (4) cups of mandarin oranges over the course of 24 hours, and I do believe we’ve determined that she did not have citrus-induced diarrhea that time way back when, but in fact, had a horrible stomach virus. This makes me marginally happy, because I feel like most of us have a limited number of stomach viruses we are forced to endure as parents, and with one down, well, my quota is rapidly reaching capacity.
Do not, whatever you do, disavow me of this notion.
And it’s bedtime, suckers. Happy Tuesday!
*Widespread Panic
24 comments December 6th, 2010