We get up in the morning and Lucas sleeps through everything (which isn't entirely normal... he's a light sleeper after 4:00am). His door is open, because during the night I want to be the first to know if he's tossing his cookies all over the crib again. I'm jealous, because I didn't sleep a wink that night. It just figures, right?
So, I get in the shower, do my thing. Get pretty (yes Jen... I get pretty... or at least attempt... even though, I'm pretty sure I look like the walking dead), pack last-minute things, make coffee (essential), and finally wake up the kiddo.
He's sleepy, but cheery enough. So, I figure we're all good. We get in the car and go for it! Wahoo.
I get through check-in (which is totally annoying, because it's about 50 automated computers... really?, I am paying for customer service in a computer!?) and head for security. Security is good (I went through the family lane... which seemed like cheating, since it was only Lucas and I) and I fly through. Only, I didn't take my stroller (did I mention it was dumb to not take a stroller?), so I'm trying to keep the kiddo from wandering off while attempting to get my boots on without looking too awkward. He's talking to random people, checking out the gal stuck in the bull-pen (the scary area where they frisk you), and generally making himself a nuisance in this high-pressure security area. Love it.
I wave to Matt and we're on our way!
The part I really detest about flying is all the waiting. We wait for our plane to board and I'm watching all the people who may be on our flight. I can see that they're checking me out too... probably freaking out, because I have a kid who doesn't speak their language yet and is obviously generous with his opinions. And, he farts. Yep. Right on my lap. And... it stinks. Something horrible. This is a clear indicator that he's not feeling one-hundred percent yet...which freaks me out, because then I'm thinking, "Oh gosh. He's going to barf on this plane! Or worse yet, he's going to toot on the plane again, and it's going to be furiously bad... like, oh-my-gosh, who died? bad!"
We board. I get settled. I get up to let in the older couple sitting next to us. We get settled again.
We taxi. We sit on the runway for, um... 20 minutes? Yea. Then our friendly pilot-man comes onto the speaker and says, "Folks, we seem to be having an issue with one of our computers. And, we need maintenance to re-boot for us, so we'll have to head back to the airport for that type of work." Hmm... I'm thinking this is not good.
So an hour later we're in the air. Finally. And Lucas is losing his cool. He's trapped on my lap. It's hot. He's uncomfy and now we're about a half an hour from his would-be naptime. Lucas is a schedule guy, and when it comes to naptime, he's ready. So he whines. And then starts kicking the seat in front (which we all know is hate-worthy when you're that poor soul sitting in the seat in front). I keep it real and remind Lucas that's not okay... trying to prevent pre-nap melt-down. Which I'm unsuccessful with. He screams and cries and wimpers. I can see the people around me cringe. Some of them flintch when he screams. I can't say I blame them.
I quell the meltdown, thankfully and bribe (no, I'm not above bribing my child in this situation) him with some yummy treats. But, the next hour entails, back-arching, screaming (again), crying, whining, talking loudly, more kicking,and yes... farting. Oh this is bad. It was loud and everyone within sniff-distance is looking at me with resentful, watering eyes. Ugh. I want to die. Impossible.
Eventually he nods off and naps... for ten minutes. Because... the air attendant (is that the PC word for stewardess?) drops a pot of coffee in their station... and it shatters, loudly. This is due to massive turbulence and crazy air-pockets. Lovely. I want to punch her. In the arm... dead arm. Because she has walked by our seat nearly thirty times and has clearly seen me trying to keep my kid from going ape-crazy. Lucas awakes with a start and cries again. Seriously!? Argh.
So, Lucas whines and cries the rest of the way (about a half an hour). We land, which is seriously the best feeling in the world, and we taxi to the terminal. We sit on the plane for ten minutes (while I'm sweating like a beast and my child is acting crazy), because someone can't get the friggin' (sorry... totally a bad word) terminal tunnel thingy to fit the side of the plane properly. At this point, I'm ready to knock everyone down, and use their bodies as leverage to get out of this plane!
Finally, we get out. It feels like the air in the airport is fresher and I can think properly (a little slice of Heaven). A kind woman tells me how cute my child is, and I want to ask her if she was on the same plane as I was (which she was), because he felt like a sad little demon child from my perspective. She tells me that she too has a baby girl, who is two months older than Lucas and her last plane ride was 14 hours... with her baby girl. "Oh no" I tell her... "That would be my personal Hell." She tells me it was hers too.
I suppose it's all about perspective. Because there is always someone out there who had a tougher time or a more-dramatic travel tale. There is always someone out there with a crazier kid. And, little did I know at the time, it was just the beginning of our little guy's unhappiness to follow the next four days.