I hate traveling – and if you’re a parent of a child under the age of anything that can appreciate a Disney classic or feel intense life threatening fear from a glaring mother- the traveling is akin to spending a day in hell.
I have no idea where my son genetically inherited tenacity, let alone in the inability to sleep in any moving vehicle. Yesterday started with a very sleep deprived Little A.
And if you’re the parent of a child too young to have even developed a semblance of an attention span – you know all too well that sleep deprived equals child acting like an imp.
Not only known for their horns and devilish features, imps are also infamous for their attack – a sharp and concise “NO” that sprays out of their little mouths like fiery acid.
Do you love mommy?
Can I get a kiss?
Stop throwing pens at people.
Already my morning was looking about as bright as the prospect of Lucifer getting out of Hell.
We arrived at the airport terminal, and naturally my little one wanted to walk around.
So I let him.
But before I gifted him his freedom, I explain that he must hold my hand. He stares at me with innocent eyes and agrees to my simple condition. What a wonderfully obedient child I have.
Does he hold my hand?
Instead he runs straight to the Duty Free store (see – that he genetically got from me) and staggers towards the neatly stacked bottles of Grey Goose.
I toy with the idea of giving my two year old a night cap.
Like you haven’t.
But before I have a chance to fondly caress the bottle – he’s off. This game of cat and mouse rinses and repeats for an hour.
He’s on the high of his life. Sensory overload. He wants to do anything and everything so long as it guarantees his self destruction. Days like this, I understand why people wrap their children in leashes – note to self, buy one. Maybe two, you can never be too careful.
Five hundred torched calories later, it’s time to board.
Needless to say, I’m already an anxious flyer. Turbulence, turns, take-offs and landings propel me into a freak show of a hyperventilating state. I’m the person that checks the turbulence forecast for Heaven’s sake.
Speaking of Heaven’s arch nemesis, we’re on the plane and Little A refuses to be strapped down in his seat. As I held him down against his will, he gaped at me with tears streaming down his face as he screamed “No Mommy, No!” Like I was killing all of the puppies in the world in front of him.
And then it began.
I could feel the glares of every passenger on board the flight – chucking spears of disappointment at me. I glanced back and try to reflect an expression of helplessness, but they don’t falter. I wait for them to simultaneously reach for their phones to report me to Child’s Services.
I take one last look around the cabin to see several other children, silently sitting in their seats with glazed eyes – they were drugged.
Truth be told, I hate traveling with children – especially ones that are not my own, and I know you feel the same way.
Ok fine, you probably don’t, I’m heartless and going to hell… oh wait.
The plane starts to taxi onto the runway, and like clockwork I start to stop breathing. Meanwhile, Little A thinks it would be a brilliant idea to jump on his seat and scream in delight as the plane starts to take off.
Moments later, and half of my body weight in sweat drenching my body, the orchestra of children’s screams begins. Each one belts out a somber tune at the top of their little lungs, telling a story of agonizing pain.
My cure to this excruciating torture is to leverage my tablet. Once reflecting the apps that I enjoy, it is now smothered in games and ebooks and truly belongs more to him than me. He’s sufficiently happy. Finally, I can relax.
Until I have to pee.
I never pee on planes. The whole experience freaks me out, and whenever I absolutely have to and it comes time to flush, I press the button, then squeeze my eyes shut and cover my ears – as if the toilet is going to suck me into the sky and I’m going to plummet from 40,000 feet to my inevitable death.
But there’s still three hours left and I really have to .
I stand patiently, waiting outside the tiny room of doom. It’s been a while and that can only mean one of two things:
1.) Someone passed out/died.
2.) Someone just dropped the mother load in that poor toilet.
Five minutes later, I was still waiting, but now, I’m not alone. A woman in her early to mid 40’s strides next to me and passes me in line, as if to assert her new found ill earned position.
I hate confrontation – I will never be that person that boldly says, “UMMMMM Excuse ME – there’s a LINE.”
I’ll think it.
I just wont say it.
She looks back at me – guilt free as she starts to do the pee dance.
You know what I’m talking about – the one where you squeeze your knees together and start to shake your left hand desperately while scrunching up your nose.
Screw it, I think to myself. She can enjoy the pungent aroma of what has been twenty minutes in the making in that little bathroom – and with that, I return to my seat.
I look over at Little A, and there he is, behaving like an angel. It’s not often he conducts himself this well on a plane, so I know I must give credit where it is due – and Little A, I am so proud of you.
Three hours of a smooth flight later, I finally arrive back home.
And there’s no place like it.
Sweet Dreams World.
And safe travels.