The Plane Flights

A two year old. An eight month old. A husband. And two 5 hour plus plane rides. Should be good times. At the start of our journey, I wasn't too frenzied as I really thought that the boys would sleep during the entire direct flight to Philly. After all, the plane took off at 10:30pm, they'd be tired and we had three seats so Owen could lay down.

Wrong. So very, very wrong.

The first stupid thing I did was buy a stupid fucking harness thing online so Owen wouldn't have to sit in his car seat. Only after we got home did I realize that there is actually no need for a harness, a car seat or even a freaking seat belt. If the plane goes down, we're all DEAD! Dead, dead, dead. I'm retarded.

So after an hour and a half in the airport, where Owen ran around in his feeted pajamas, which was very cute, they announced that people who needed extra time, like those of us with small children could board first. Great idea in theory. Bad in reality. Why? Because the stupid bitches with the microphones give us two minutes to gather our shit, get four gate tickets for the car seats and strollers (which they REFUSED to give me ahead of time for whatever stupid reason) and put the tickets on the stuff. By the time we were walking down the gangplank, half the plane was already passing us or onboard. Thanks assholes! The only good thing is that I didn't feel guilty banging people in the head with my diaper bag as I went down the aisle.

So, we set up shop in row 22. Owen has a slight meltdown about the harness but Michael and I deal with it and he's happy as a clam. (Quick side note: I changed our seats two weeks before the flight because we were in the last row [no reclination]. But I couldn't get all our seats together. So I got another aisle seat five rows up and figured switching an aisle for an aisle wouldn't be a big deal). The woman who I believe is in our row comes up, I explain the situation, and she agrees to switch although the look on her face is really bizarre. I get pissed.

Now, two geezers come up to our row and tell us that we're in their seats. They have the aisle seat in our row and the aisle seat across the aisles. Weird, I think. Something is not right! Michael looks at me and through gritted teeth says: "Give me the boarding passes." I pull them out and lo and behold, we're in the wrong row!!! HAHAHAHAHAH!

Let's review:

1. Owen hated getting the harness on, but is now OK with it.
2. I've switched seats with a woman who I thought was in our row but was actually not in our row.
   
3. Two geezers are hovering above us and want their damn aisle seats.

I obviously am now sweating and on the verge of tears. We have to get Owen out of the harness, move all my bags and accouterments, including a 20 pound baby up a row while the aisles is fully plugged with Portlanders going to Philadelphia. Not a good scene. I start getting uppity and begin telling people to be patient. I then have to call the stewardess to explain the seat switching debacle.

Owen just wants to be back in the airport running in feeted pajamas and lets me and everyone else on the plane know that by screaming for a good half an hour, forty five minutes. There was absolutely nothing I could do to make him stop.

Yes. We had become "those people with the baby on the plane." Everyone was looking at us. I just put my head down and let him cry. Finally when we got the all clear for electronic devices, we put Elmo in the DVD player and all was well. For an hour. Then I got the two year old bouncing round the aisle seat, screaming NO!, kicking me, the whole nine, people. It was ugly.

FINALLY, I grabbed him, pinned his arms and sang the alphabet song. This quieted him down and I told myself I would sing the alphabet a million, two million times, if necessary. And I did. And he fell asleep. And then he looked like a little angel. And he slept until Philly.

Right before we landed, the guy in the row in front of us looked back and then handed me a square piece of cardboard with a pretty picture on the front and a message on the back. It said that he was a teacher and a film maker and had worked with bright kids and difficult kids. And he knew it was hard. And the last line said: "You're a great parent. Kids are tough. Have a great new year!"

And that made the entire fiasco worth it. But it doesn't mean that I still don't hate people.

Epilogue: after we took Owen off the plane and put him in the stroller to go to baggage claim he screamed bloody murder as we walked through the airport. And I really didn't care.