It’s 10:00pm the night before our departure date, and I have just given my son his antibiotic for his 4th ear infection of the year. We are getting all the clothes washed and dishes done. Bug stands in the living room, and begins vomiting. Husband grabs him and rushes him to the bathroom as Bug is heaving, leaving a trail of
Cut to 10:30 the following morning. Packed and car loaded up, we head to the airport. Husband’s flight (to another state, on business) leaves just after mine and Bug’s, so Bug rides with Husband to the airport. I’m following Husband’s truck. This is embarrassing, because I have lived and driven in my city for 15 years. I know my way around. What I don’t know is whether I need to turn left or right at a particular interchange to head south to the airport. It’s right; I am in the left lane. Naturally. So I miss my turn. The only place to turn around at this point is a mile down the road.
I call Husband, “I saw you in the left lane, so I got in the left lane, and I didn’t see you get in the right lane so I missed the turn.” I don’t add, “If I’m failing this spectacularly without the hyperactive preschooler with me, how on Earth am I going to pull this off?” And I breathe deeply the rest of the way to the airport.
Weeks ago I had the brilliant idea of attaching the car seat to the top of my rolling suitcase instead of purchasing a luggage roller for it. I even practiced at home, and was pleased with the results. Now that I am parked 20 miles from the terminal (okay, not even one mile, but still really, really, really, extremely very far away – almost as far away as one can park and still be charged $8.00 a day for parking) realize that I was not fully packed when I attempted this, nor did I have my enormous backpack on. I am having a difficult time. I am stopping often, and unable to keep up with Husband and Bug. Husband offers to help, but I won’t have his help coming back, I remind him, and need to do this myself, thank you anyway, I love you, too. I am sweaty and the car seat is banging against my arm, sure to leave a bruise. I switch suitcase-dragging arms often. I take a corner too quickly and the suitcase and car seat fall over. Not even five minutes into this trip, I have sworn to purchase a luggage cart for the ride home.
I check in with a live human, who is wonderfully cheerful to me despite my wonderfully un-cheerful demeanor. Our seats? Side-by-side. Score! Onward to security.
For a small airport, the line is long. When our turn arrives, I ask if there’s a slow line, because we’re going to be a while. “That’s okay,” the TSA agent assures me.
I have forgotten what to do between my last flight one year ago and today. I have lost Husband since checking in, and now Bug and I are about to take our shoes off and get X-rayed. The shoes go into a bin and through the machine. "Uh, I'm not sure how to do this," I gesture to the car seat/rolling suitcase combo. I am told I have to detach them from each other. Sigh. "Ma'am, you'll have to put your wallet in a bin here," I'm instructed, not having realized I was even still clutching it in my sweaty little hand. "Ma'am, his toy will have to be put in a bin as well," I'm further instructed, not having imagined I would have to pry Bug's best friend Scratchy Puppy from his sweaty little hands. Luckily he doesn't protest too much about parting with Puppy. He does protest about walking through the metal detector. I have to carry him through. On the other side, after passing the extra screening our medicine requires, and being reunited with our disjointed stuff I sit Bug down in a small chair and attempt to re-pack. Bug disappears. "Bug!" I shriek. "I'm right here," says a small voice in a chair of his own choosing. "Don't move!" I sternly command, "I have to get our stuff, then we'll get on the airplane." My attempt to be cheerful there may be mitigated by my clenched teeth; I cannot be certain.
At this point, it has been an hour or two since the application of my antiperspirant, to which I must give a failing grade. Come on, Degree, don't you have a "Too-heavy-suitcase-and-hyperactive-preschooler-going-through-post-9/11-airport-security-Mom" formula? What are you paying your researchers for?
Security screening over with, I begin to relax. Plenty of time before the flight. After a few minutes, Husband joins us. We eat brunch. The stress is lifting for the moment.
Next we head to our gate. I seat Bug and I at the end of a row of chairs, across from a single gentleman working on his laptop. The gentleman promptly moves. I imagine he didn't want to sit next to a bouncing preschooler and his sweaty, crazy-eyed, shrill-voiced mother, and I can't be offended. Within a few seconds of our arrival, Bug pushes the car seat/rolling suitcase monstrosity over. It lands directly onto the seat Single Gentleman had just abandoned. If I had the presence of mind, I would have asked Apparently Psychic Single Gentleman to tell me if my Partylite investments will ever pay off, but I do not. Our flight is delayed, and Husband's is not; he has to leave us to catch his plane. The stress has settled back in. Bug is stressed as well, and not afraid to let me know. He will not sit still. He wants this, he wants that, he DOES NOT WANT the other. Where is Daddy? He wants Daddy. Is Daddy coming back? He will not be comforted. He loses a toy.
When it is time to board, I do not make it to the line fast enough to board early to get the car seat installed. It takes forever to install the thing. I am still quite sweaty from physical exertion, stress, and the embarrassment of holding up the passengers behind me. Bug is not excited about the flight, as I had anticipated. I try in earnest, but am unable to prevent him from repeatedly kicking the seat in front of him. Deja vu: He does not want to sit in his car seat. He wants this, he wants that, he DOES NOT WANT the other. Where is Daddy? He needs to potty only at the end of the 2-hour flight, just as the "Fasten Seatbelt" signs are lighting.
I wait for everyone else to deplane before I even attempt to. As I watch the bruises form on my arms in all their purple glory, I promise myself I will travel lighter - and buy a damn carrier for the car seat! - next time. I promise myself that unless I absolutely have to, there won't be a next time. As my sweat glands will attest, flying is most definitely not something I am cut out for.
