Taking Flight

Today, SB made her second trans-continental journey in under a year. Unfortunately for both of us, someone needs to make a respectable living in our family, so Bree stayed behind to mind the store. Unfortunatelier, traveling alone with a nearly 1-year-old is about 10 months of development and mobility worse than traveling with a 2-month-old. One is like going on holiday with a turnip in baby clothes. The other, is like traversing the country with the Tasmanian devil.

So here is the synopsis of the trip:

1. Carrying enough luggage to permanently set up camp in an uninhabited jungle, I arrive with the airport. Specifically, I'm carrying a stroller, car seat, collapsible bed, suitcase, diaper bag, bag of toys, and my own bag where I've foolishly packed some magazines for when I have "time to read."

2. Bree comes with, and manages to steer my plethora of bags through the insane crowd (where ARE all these people going on a Tuesday morning????), while I get stuck trying to cross a stream of oncoming travelers, none of whom seem to think that a frazzled looking chick with a stroller and baby are worth stopping for.

3. The self-check machine won't let me register a suitcase AND a car seat. I go through the options twice before just checking the luggage and hoping one of the helpful attendants will talk me through getting rid of the rest of my crap.

4. Helpful attendant takes it all, and directs me to yet another long-ass line to actually hand off my luggage. After negotiating through another stream of people, I manage to chase down Bree and leave him to dispose of my bags while I do a 180 and go find an elevator to the second floor security checkpoint.

5. Security line is short. Awesome. Stand in line, prep my bags (being a seasoned traveler and all), remove my shoes, and am trying to unstrap Otter with one hand and collapse her stroller with the other when a woman (ok, I'll say it - a rude bitch) pops ahead of me by declaring "I'm just going to cut in front of you," as if that makes it ok. I'm too dumbstruck to even say anything. Upon going through security, it is discovered that RB is also a moron who doesn't know to remove her dvd player from her bag. Now her shit is being sent out a second time (interrupting my flow AGAIN). I shoot her death ray looks.

6. Make it to the gate to learn that the empty seats and room in the bulkhead that I was assured of by the reservations clerk were a figment of his imagination. Accept my fate of having SB in my lap the entire flight. See that RBwhoisalsoaM is on my plane and resist the temptation to ride over her toes with the stroller.

7. Take what I hope will be my only bathroom break with Otter parked in the stall in her stroller. Think of dignity falling away.

8. Get on the plane and find that I am in a row with another woman with a lap child and a kind, sweet, patient man who was stuck between us. Apologize profusely for what he is about to experience.

9. Learn that we are breaking FAA laws by having 2 lap children in one row. (Something about a lack of oxygen masks.) Have lengthy, confusing discussion about which of us should move. Have the flight attendant discover a free seat up front and move the sweet and no doubt relieved gentleman. Thank the universe profusely.

10. Sit in my seat with an overtired, squirmy girl. Buy a $3 chocolate chip cookie for brunch. Pray that she goes to sleep soon so I can inhale it.

11. Realize that Otter needs changing after her nap. Wait interminably for a bathroom to become available. Gather my boatload of baby paraphernalia and totter my way down the aisle. Get in the bathroom and use it with the baby sitting in my lap. Realize how naive and stupid any thought of having lost dignity back around point 7 really was. Realize soon after that there is no changing table in this lavatory. Manage to change Otter in my lap with about 2 inches of room to work with. Promise myself to never assume I've hit bottom.

12. Manage to entertain child for the duration of the flight by allowing her to play anywhere she wants, including in the leg space of the middle, unused seat. Hope that the person in front of me doesn't use this moment to lean back.

13. Arrive at the airport and wait for an extra 1/2 hour at the gate to retrieve my stroller. Which is of course at the very bottom of the pile when it does finally arrive.

14. Retrieve my luggage and realize the bed isn't there. Panic. See a luggage carrier bringing it over. Run to her and choke down the impulse to kiss her.

15. Realize that no matter what happens from here on out, I can do this.

There are some people I want to thank - Bree, for carrying my bags; the gentleman at LAX who actually stopped to let me pass by; the woman behind me in line who called RBwhoisalsoaM out on her shit; the kind flight attendant who valiantly attempted to reassemble my stroller after the security gate; the man in the middle seat on our plane who was rewarded for his kindness by getting the hell away from us; the other long-suffering mom who shared toys and goldfish with me, and her husband who mesmerized Otter for a full 15 minutes with an Elmo video; all the people who chatted and smiled.