Baby on a Plane

Standard

Over-weight luggage? Check. I went down to Lexington with forty pounds of luggage and left with fifty-one. And a purse filled to the brim. And a boy’s backpack that barely closed. I have no idea how I accumulated so much stuff. Well, yes. I do. I bought new work clothes. And a pair of shoes. And baby clothes. And shorts for Justin. And it weighed about fourteen pounds. But now it’s all home, sitting in the hall outside my bedroom. Totally worth the drama.

Guy who shouldn’t be sitting next to a baby sitting next to a baby? Check. On our first flight, a lovely gentleman in a very nice suit was seated next to us. He wound up holding Robbie for a minute when the flight attendant had concerns about my carry-ons not fitting under the seat. I purposely didn’t have Robbie eat the snack I had brought for him because I could just see cheesy residue on this man’s suit and business papers. I was even more happy when I found out that he was on his way to a job interview.

Puking child? Check. Yes, I kept the cheesy fingers off the man’s suit. I also managed to keep an apple juice/pretzel puke combination off his suit. Unfortunately, that meant that it was all over me. Shirt. Pants. Hands. This gentleman was willing to hold a plastic bag for me while I mopped to vomit off with paper towels.

Nowhere to buy a new pair of pants in the Atlanta airport? Check. I looked all over Terminal B for a pair of souvenir pants. They didn’t have any. So, I continued to travel in puke-stained pants. But, I did get a pretty fancy $9.99 Atlanta, Georgia shirt.

Bathroom drama? Check. Some woman burst past me in line for the bathroom, shouting that her son had to go to the bathroom. She went into the open handicap stall. So, Robbie and I wound up in a small stall that, for future reference, does not fit a stroller. While I changed shirts, Robbie tried to play in the toilet. And then he threw my old shirt in the toilet. And then I couldn’t get the door open, so I had to put the stroller on top of the toilet to get out. I have to be honest; I loudly complained about the other woman and how she could have used a regular stall. I told Robbie that I hoped he would be polite to people with strollers and use the appropriate sized bathroom stall. But I don’t think the other lady spoke enough English to understand.

Delayed flight? Check. Our flight from Atlanta to Boston was delayed 67 minutes. And then we got on the plane, and it was delayed another twenty minutes. The good news about the initial delay was that it gave me time to find a new shirt, fish my old shirt out of the toilet, have a bad chicken salad sandwich, and determine that there are no pants for sale (other than Lacoste and Sean Jean) at the Atlanta airport.

Screaming child? Check. Check. Check. That’s right. We were “those” people on Delta flight 1400. The people other passengers are probably still bitching about. “Can you believe that child screamed for at least half the flight?” Yes, I can believe it. “That” child didn’t have a nap. He hadn’t been able to play and crawl around all day. And when he gets to that screeching and howling stage, there is no consoling him. But I did the best I could. Robbie finally fell asleep after screaming at the top of his lungs for twenty-five minutes. It was almost worth it because he fell asleep in my arms – something he never does. But then he woke up screaming again. For another twenty-five minutes or so. At the top of his lungs.

Survival? Check. Robbie and I made it. Micah and Allie were there to get us at the airport. And we made it. Alive. We weren’t kicked off the plane mid-flight. I’ve decided that Robbie and I were kind of partners in crime. Granted, I don’t ever want to relive this day. But, if I had to, there’s no one I’d rather do it with than Robbie.

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