Well, that may have worked had I made sure everyone else on the plane had pills, but I am a slow, slow learner. When we boarded the overcrowded plane, it was all women and children. Well, actually women and babies. Everyone had ONE. Except for me. TWO!! And then this one woman who had NONE. Took her no time to come up to me and volunteer to help me with you both. What a sweet gesture! The only catch was that meant she took your seat. I had known I would have to manage with Adam on my lap for 42 billion hours, but I'd planned on you sitting next to me. And paid for that. But this Good Samaritan had a better plan. Scrunched!
Before the engines started, unfortunately, she began vomiting. And vomiting. And vomiting. What an ugly word. So I got to spend the entire flight (no, I am NOT exaggerating!) attending to basically 3 babies, rather than 2. The stewardesses (no flight attendants back then) were out of their minds with all the crying babies, they had run out of milk early on, and paid a dear price acoustically; so no help for the hapless hurling helper wannabe. I alone was managing barf bag after barf bag. Not a happy camper, to say the least, but I guess it did keep me from focusing on who to save if the plane went down. And from sleeping.
When we eventually miraculously arrived at Kennedy International Airport in New York, I was more than grateful the nightmare was over. Ha, what did I know? Right after getting through customs, one of our suitcases broke, and everything inside spilled all over the floor (no wheeled luggage in those days, so I was carrying Adam and two suitcases, while you walked at my side, less than a year and a half old.) Not much sympathy in New York, so just me on the floor with two babes, trying to stuff our possessions back into the disintegrating luggage and find a way to tie it shut while not being trampled in the meantime. Funless.
Got on a shuttle to the Stateside terminal, irritating all the ungentlemanly businessmen who just sat and frowned while I loaded everyone and everything in. But we made it, in spite of myself, and soon were at the Stateside Terminal. We somehow managed to get to the Gate, and waited to board our flight to Chicago. Well, I waited. You wandered off. I have no idea how many minutes it took me to notice you were gone. But you were. And I did. Being a calm and composed adult, I TOTALLY FREAKED OUT! Started running around, calling your name. People started to pay attention, and search. Ran this way and that in the long hall and finally, finally after who knows how many agonizing minutes, I found precious little you, just sashaying along, oblivious to all the commotion.
I don't know when I have ever been more exhausted, more drained emotionally and physically when we boarded the plane to O'Hare Airport in Chicago. The last leg of our trip. I could do this. A few hours later you would be in Grandma and Grandpa's arms. Sweet. Almost home!
A few hours later we landed, and I was so relieved as we were taxiing in to our gate to disembark. "Welcome to Minneapolis," the voice of the stewardess announced.
Are you kidding? You HAVE to be kidding!!
So they obligingly put us on a flight to Chicago. After all 682 hours of travel, I remember Grandma Mudgie saying how she'll never forget seeing baby Adam's eyes, how they were dilated and staring, like someone who had suffered an irreversible trauma. I think I was catatonic. Still am. And you, my love? It was a miracle you got there at all.
Afton, I know that when you became a Mom, you began traveling a lot with Madison from the very beginning as well. I know you have your own war stories with the airlines as well. I just wanted you to know I've been down in the trenches too and understand how it is. Not just with flying. All the trenches. I do understand a little. And proudly, proudly cheer you on.
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