Saturday, April 21, 2007

Don't Jostle the Doo.

Of course you know that once we arrived in NC, we had to come back home. It seems that unfortunate luck primarily plagues us as we are in travel mode, specifically flight mode. Everything about our trip went swimmingly between the two flights: the outdoor wedding got off before the hurricane force winds blew in the next day, I only fell down once during the entire trip (my parents' driveway has shifted, courtesy a tree root, since my high school days), Piglet happily went to bed for all four grandparents, we saw friends and family, you name it.....all good. And then I had to come home.

My flight home was my first airbound experience alone with Piglet without the assistance of my trusty better half who had flown home for work on Monday. I was a trifle nervous about the vast amount of baby paraphernalia that I was lugging through the airport. I could've done with a pack mule. Arriving at security huffing and puffing with a plethora of infant accoutrements attached to my stroller, I caught the attention of two alarmed looking business men. I waved them through ahead of me, but being that I was in the south, these gentlemen insisted on assisting with my load. Who was I to complain? I carefully juggled Piglet while removing half my clothes and shoes and shoving diaper bag, pump, backpack, and car seat one after another through the x-ray. I shot Grand Master Peeky Poo one of my patented Looks and dared him to say anything about the amount of liquids in my bag. I was fully prepared to say the words "breast milk" very loudly and start discussing the process with him if necessary.

Lucky for me, he didn't blink an eye at the liquids, but did flag my pump bag as one to be specially evaluated. I rolled my eyes, imagining my bodily fluids on display for the airport. Meanwhile, I turned my attention back to my two Business Man Friends who were now surely regretting their offers to help me. They were trying to break down my stroller and failing miserably. I reached for the release button and told one of them to just pull up on the tray and it would glide into place. Snicker. As though anything glides in my world. POP! In his earnest attempt to help me, he pulled as instructed. A cup holder, apparently detachable, sprung loose from its normal resting place and launched across the security area of the airport, sailing over the head of Grand Master Peeky Poo and landing just on the other side of the security rope. As in, on the side Regular People aren't allowed to go. Stifling my giggles, I had to ask a policeman to retrieve my sippy cup holder before we could proceed. After a great deal of formality, the officer received permission to enter the Special Area and procure my stroller part. As you can imagine, the line is lengthening behind me.

Did I mention that Piglet is practicing his spitting skills during this event? He is. Loudly and proudly. At last we made our way through to the other side, safe and secure, only to find Grand Master Peeky Poo extracting a notably suspicious looking bag of white powder from the side pocket of my pump bag.

"That's not mine!" I squeaked. Brilliant. What would a guilty person say? I saw handcuffs and prison time flash before my eyes. It seemed that someone had, in fact, put something in my luggage without my knowledge, which the airport specifically advises you not to allow. How you are supposed to avoid having someone do something without your knowledge, I'll never know, but it appeared to have happened to me. All I could think was that I didn't have enough diapers to last me a trip to the pokey. The man jiggled the bag and poked at it with a trained finger. There was some sort of scoop with a handle in there. Drug paraphernalia! Was that a syringe? A bong? I was going down.

"I think it's baby formula," the man grunted to his partner as he unceremoniously stuffed it back into my bag. Heh. Duh. Formula, left from my friend, the owner of said bag, and her baby. It was a set up. I relaxed as I put myself, my stroller, and my belongings back in order. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my two helpers dashing away to catch their flight. I didn't blame them.

Once on the aircraft, I settled in to get Piglet comfortable for the lengthy nap he was going to take, according to my Plan. It was the exact naptime and everything. We just needed to get up in the air, get that loud airplane noise going, and he'd be off to dreamland. This, of course, was assuming that my plane would actually leave on time. I was flying American, the airline that is famous for loading you on a plane and parking you on a runway. There we sat, me with a screaming Piglet, and my seatmate, a grandfatherly type, grimacing while trying to tell me it's no big deal. It is, in fact, a big deal. I plugged him up with the bottle I had prepared for take off to help his ears pop as he swallowed and he gulped that bad boy down in five minutes. Forty minutes later, we still sat on the runway and Piglet was still upset. Making him yet another bottle proved key to helping him drift off once the plane took off. All of that food has a consequence.

The wheels of the plane had not even left the ground when I smelled it. Faintly, at first, wafts of baby poo floated past my nose. Then stronger.....stronger.....until I had confirmation. The blissfully sleeping bundle of joy in my lap had dropped a load in his diaper before the plane even left the ground. There were now two hours and 54 minutes remaining in our flight for me to pretend that this event had not transpired. I tried to be as still as possible so as not to jostle the doo. I attempted to keep the passed out baby comfortable so that he would not wiggle and smear the doo about, releasing its odoriferous fumes. There's really only so much you can do. The people around me either had to acknowledge what had happened or assume I had a really unfortunate flatulance situation. Frankly, I hoped for the former.

As I sat, motionless, in my cramped quarters, I attempted to read a book. Laid flat on my tray, I was able to carefully turn the pages without disturbing Piglet or his pile of mud. At one point, my tasty icy cold cranapple beverage arrived (did I mention that I am deathly ill during this flight from Germy von Hackerson?) and I was eager to feel the icy goodness on my sore throat. I left my book - a harmless story about the ills of applying to private kindergartens in New York- open on my tray for a while. I noticed my seatmate squinting at the text and I looked closer. The book was open to the only sex scene in the book and the word "nipple" leapt off the page at me. My mortified eye scanned the page only to see several phrases jump out at me. What to do? He probably thought I was some sort of pervert. A perv with a stink-o baby on her lap. How did he get so lucky? I casually shut the book and sipped my beverage in silence as I waited for the next 95 minutes to pass before we would arrive home.

We did at last arrive in Texas - searched, tired, stinky, and sticky - but here, nonetheless.

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