Back Seat Pilot

I'm not a great flyer. I use ‘great’ because I’m not totally crazy like “I see a colonial woman on the wing churning butter” kind of girl. I tend to keep my hallucinations to myself. You wouldn’t even notice how crazy I am if you were sitting around me. Now if you were sitting next to me and you happen to be my husband then you’d probably notice.

On flights that aren’t turbulent I can forget my fears and act completely normal, carry on conversations even. If it’s bumpy, hold on to your seats. I immediately go into survival mode. I start reading the safety pamphlet, eyeing the nearest exits and making plans on which passengers I need to elbow out of my way should I have to make a hasty exit.

Mark tries to tell me the scientific details of flight that, he feels, should calm me down. What he doesn’t realize however, is that it’s very hard to digest physics when my mind is fully engaged with keeping the plane in the air (obviously and your welcome fellow passengers). It can’t do two things at the same time. You try listening to why the engines propel the plane forward even when it’s windy WHILE you’re keeping an Embraer Jet at 36,000 feet. It can’t be done, y’all.

Unfortunately, we had to travel this weekend and thankfully my husband came along this time. Here are a few snippets of our conversation:

I’m pretty sure the wings shouldn’t be wobbling like that. Actually, I’m 100% sure. Maybe we should call the flight attendant.

I’m 100% sure you’re wrong. Do not call the flight attendant.

Isn’t Columbus on our left? I don’t think we should be banking to the right. Oh, wait…that is our left.

<<blank stare>>

Do you hear that? It’s a buzzing sound…OMG…the wheel door didn’t shut all the way. WE CAN’T LAND WITH ONE WHEEL. Maybe we should alert the flight attendant.

I’m sure the wheel door shut. Stop digging your nails into my hand, please.

I’m just going to call the flight…

DO NOT CALL THE FLIGHT ATTENDANT.

He is going way too fast to land. Shouldn’t he be slowing down now? I don’t want my parents to have to identify my body. My hair looks like crap today and my mom will totally hate that I didn’t brush it.

You need to go fast in order to make sure there is sufficient wind going over the wings in order to blah blah science blah.

WHAT? So you think my hair looks gross, uh? I bet you think I’m fat too. That is just awesome. Thanks a lot, Mark.

Sigh

It’s tough being my husband… and my pilot.

Karmic Retribution

I’d heard the stories of traveling with babies.  I’ve been on planes where there were screaming children and I’m sure I’ve given a stink eye (or two or three) to those parents of unruly children.  So I’m here to tell you… karma is real. 

Ella and I traveled to Ohio to visit with Grandma and Grandpa over the weekend.  One of us almost didn’t come back.  She’s lucky she’s cute.

Getting to Ohio was easy-peze. She slept the whole way.  I admit it, I got cocky.  And that is when karma put the kibosh on my attitude.

It started when we arrived at the airport.  I thought I heard the check-in-lady say “Gate 18 B”.  So I go through the security at the B Gates.   What she said and what I heard were two different things.  My seat was 18B, my gate was A6.  So I went through security TWICE. WITH A BABY.  I’m going to let that sink in. 

Are you finished imaging that nightmare? Good. 

So with that debacle, I had just enough time to feed her at the gate but not enough time to feed myself.  But I figured I’d just pay the exorbitant amount of money for a meal on the plane.

They call us to board; I pick her up only to find her seat is completely soaked in brown poo.  Did I tell you she developed an ear infection while in Ohio for 3 days and had to be put on antibiotic that affects her system? I run to the nearest bathroom with a diaper and wipes and a change of clothes.  We were the last ones to board the plane.  If you’ve ever encountered 50 people staring you down while walking on board a plane with an infant you’ll know the kind of stares I encountered.  Withering, glaring, villainous stares.  At this point, I could feel the cold fear creeping up my back for what lay ahead. 

After she ate her bottle she fell asleep for all of 20 minutes.  That was the only nap she had all day.  Every toy I brought she threw it down. I spit on your toys, Mother.  Every position I tried was the wrong one.  Ha, you think swinging me upside down will work?! Pish-Posh, my friend.  If I didn’t care whether I had hair or not by the end of the trip I would have just let her pull it all out.   That was the only thing she found amusing. 

It was at this point that the stewardess finally made her way back to my seat with drinks.  I asked her which meal option she had left.  She said she’d sold out 3 rows back.  Of course, she did.  Me + rumbling tummy = Grumpy x 70 bazillion.

After an hour or so of Ella crying/squealing/wailing, I took her to the bathroom to change her again.    20 minutes after that, she proceeds to poop her pants so thoroughly that it goes up her back and out her pants.   With her sitting on my lap facing out her poop squashed out on to me.  I’m fairly certain the old man beside me smelled it first because I noticed he scooted as close to the window as possible. 

I had no extra clothes for myself and after the first fiasco none for her either.  So much for traveling light.   I washed her down as best I could and did the same for me.  All the while she was screaming.  Maybe she didn’t want to wear poopy clothes for the remainder of the flight or thought my looks of terror were too frightening.   Either way, she didn’t stop crying until we landed.

By some small miracle, we arrived early.  Early enough that the gate wasn’t ready yet and my husband was not there to pick us up.  So we had to sit on the plane with the air conditioning off (in Houston, do I need to remind you?) for an additional 20 minutes.   Needless to say, Ella was not amused by this turn of events.

When I found out my hubs was still 30 minutes away, I broke down and went to McDonald's.  I may have lost my mind when the girl told me they “don’t got supersizes” anymore.  WHAT THE WHAT?  After trying to wrap my brain around this fact I finally told her to give me the largest fry she had and throw another scoop of fries in the bag and we’d call it even. 

I got a total of 6 bag fries.  Karma’s a real B - - - -.