Six years ago I endured the worst airplane ride of my life. Our luggage was not lost, the plane was on time, and I got an extra bag of pretzels. So why do I remember it to this day with fear and loathing? Two reasons: one boy aged 3 years and a little girl almost 2 years old. My beautiful children.
To save money we had booked a flight with one connection and my youngest child sat on my lap. (By the way, I no longer endorse these actions as wise or frugal.) Fifteen minutes after take-off my little girl turned to look at me, then threw up all over my shirt.
It gets even better. Before we made our connecting flight, I took my oldest child to use the bathroom. Halfway through his “business” the automatic toilet flush went off, scaring the living daylights out of him. He jumped off the seat (still doing his “business,” and might I add, all over my legs), burst into tears, and when he landed he was a scarred little boy with an automatic toilet phobia. And I was an extremely smelly mother.
Fast forward six years later. I have three children and once again we are going to fly the friendly skies. Before boarding the plane I decided it would be wise to utilize the airport bathroom. (If my life was a movie, at this point there would be sirens and flashing lights while a computerized voice shouts “Danger Will Robinson! Danger Will Robinson!”) I placed my last born on the automatic toilet seat. History then repeats itself because I apparently am a fool who refuses to learn from the past. The four year old cries, clothes are soiled, and a new automatic toilet phobia is born.
I hate airports. The end.