Flying by the seat of my pants

I was that Mother.

The one you stare at and hope will keep on walking up the aisle, past the seat you so carefully chose when you booked your ticket online, thinking you could insulate yourself from me.  I was the Mother who is whispering to herself about Calgon, wine, and corporal punishment.

The one with the VERY LOUD, VERY ANNOYING, extremely WHINY and BEASTLY children.

I should have seen it coming that morning, when my two-year-old savage got up not just on the wrong side of the bed, but clear in the OTHER room, on the wrong side of THAT bed.  The wild thing proceeded to stomp, protest, and scream his way through the morning, electing to cleave to my side at the playground rather than run and frolic on the slides and jungle gym.

Yes, that should have been the BIG RED FLAG.

Of course, what could I have done with that flag?  It's not like we were going to the movies and staying home instead was an option.  We had to get on a plane.  We had to get to Kansas City, where my little sister was going to graduate from high school the following day.

So off I went to the airport, cranky toddler and wayward first-grader in tow.  In the taxi, I actually started to wonder if maybe the worst was behind me, as the spawn were lulled by New York City traffic into a bit of a lumpy haze.  Seeing as how I hadn't just adopted these children from the local orphanage the day before, but rather had been a parent for SIX years, I'm still unclear from whence that cute little Pollyanna moment emerged.  It's not like I'm optimistic by nature.  Maybe my fight or flight instinct kicked in, and the universe intervened to head off another incident of child abandonment.  

Whatever the genesis, we rode in mostly peaceful silence to LaGuardia, got out at the Delta terminal, and got through security with nary a peep.

What happened next should have been documented through video, as it would be a really good form of birth control for teenagers thinking about having unprotected sex.  Alas, I had forgotten to pack the camera in the craziness of the morning.  Maybe this anecdote can be dramatically re-enacted instead.

Following a coffee & magazine stop for me (ahh, the wishful thinking continued), and a muffin and activity book break for the boys, we sat down near the gate, otherwise known as The People-Filled Space Where All Children Feel the Need to Spill Juice, Fight with their Siblings, and Generally Act Like They Are Being Raised By A Lush Mother and the Feral Cat Next Door. Are you with me?

The flight, horrifyingly, was delayed.

Twice.

By the time we got on the plane, I needed Xanax or wine.  Preferably both.  Again, wishful thinking for my woefully unprepared ass.

Since my younger is over two, I had to purchase a seat for him.  Which meant he had to sit in it. Because the minute that second birthday hits, it turns out, it's illegal for the child to ride in your lap for takeoff and landing.  Of course, how does one explain the vagaries of NTSB rules to a screaming toddler?  So taxi and takeoff were an exercise in lung capacity for Dash.

Note to self: on return flight, lie about little one's age.

Muttering obscenities and sounding like a crazy lady, I went to my happy place in my head until the plane leveled out in the air and I could move seats to cradle my half-insane-with-misery child without incurring the wrath of the flight attendants, whose moods with me were already in the toilet.

The rest of the flight went like this:

No, we're not there yet.

Stop kicking the seat.

We aren't allowed to use that bathroom; because it's for First Class.

Stop kicking the seat.

First Class is for people who pay more to sit in bigger seats.

No, I can't give them my debit card so we can sit up there.

Stop kicking the seat.

Sorry, sir.

We'll be there when we land.

No, you can't have more ginger ale.

Put the window shade up.

Stop hitting your brother.

Put the window shade up.

Stop hitting me.

Stop kicking the seat.

No, really, stop hitting me.

Sorry, miss.

We still have two hours to go.

No, Kansas City is not in Canada.  No, it's not in Brazil either.

It's in Missouri.  No, Missouri is not in Canada.  Brazil either.

No, I don't have any M&Ms.

Put the window shade up.

I don't know how fast we're going.

Stop kicking the seat.

No, we can't call your father.

I don't know why I didn't bring the portable DVD player.

No, I don't have my iPod.

There's an hour and 55 minutes left.

Leave your seatbelt on.

Stop kicking the seat.

We'll be there in an hour and 45 minutes.

I'm so sorry, sir.  Can I rock your baby back to sleep?

Leave your seatbelt on.

We land in an hour and a half.

Do you have to go number one or number two?

Can it wait?

We'll be there when we get there.

Stop kicking the seat.

I don't care if you're thirsty, it's not my fault you knocked your cup over.

I'm so completely and totally sorry ma'am - can I pay to have that drycleaned?

Put your seatbelt back on.

Sorry, miss.

We have an hour and 20 minutes to go.

Stop kicking the seat.

Put the window shade up.

Stop hitting your brother.

Do you hate me?  Because you're acting like you hate me.  Otherwise, you would listen.

I know he smells, I can't get up to change his diaper right now.

Stop kicking the seat.

Stop kicking your brother.

Multiply that times eleventeen; and imagine for a second that the spawn are, intermittently, playing the I'm-Not-Touching-You-Game.  And exchanging bad Knock-Knock jokes with me.

Upon arrival, I think I saw a couple of people weep with relief.  Or maybe it just seemed like it through my own tears.

And then be advised that I had a two-hour drive to the middle of the state of Missouri ahead of me.

Donations to my therapy (drinking) fund may be sent to my home address.  We take credit cards, money orders, checks, cash, and American Express gift cards.

Thank you.