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| This is how I USED to travel. |
This morning, the mini Schoeny clan o’ Chicago shall be heading back East.
Sadly, this involves plane travel.
Over the past few years, I’ve come to realize that I am a car trip kinda gal. So is my daughter. So is my husband (sans the “gal” part.) In fact, that last part is a bit of an understatement. Peej is the KING of the road trip. (And I am his consort. I can never be the Queen, you see- for I am, at heart, a commoner.)
Plane trips seem to bring out the planniest part of my nature. That’s not a good thing.
I begin making lists- weeks in advance- when I know we’ll be taking a flight. Lists to pack, lists to check, lists for carry-ons, and lists for stuff to do at home (because- and I really hope I’m not alone in this- taking a flight brings out the fatalist in me. This requires that everything be cleaned, washed, and put away. You know, just in case someone shows up to judge my homestead after I’m gone).
I make lists of how to pack things; ease of getting things from the car to the gate, ease of getting things in and out of security, and ease of transpo for the toddler. (The Nora part used to be cinched up by having me, at 6am, put her in a cloth sling. I’d take her out at roughly midnight and that would be that.) Now, sometimes we use a stroller. And sometimes she runs and I lure her with stickers and the promise of an iPhone show. Tomorrow will feature the device I enjoy best- Daddy’s Shoulders. (Freeing Mama up to carry the diaper bag, carry-on bag- which, let’s face it, holds nothing for my personal in-flight entertainment sans a broken blue crayon. Fun!- and various incidental things like Proof That The Baby Is Ours. I’ll say it again- if anyone wants to take a child on a flight- theirs or otherwise- do not make them show documentation. Why the heck would they willingly travel with a child if not bound by blood and/or familial responsibility?)
I pack three pairs of [Nora’s] pants. In “my” carry-on. Because nothing signals the beginning of contained travel like peeing through pants, hers or anyone upon whom she is sitting.
You’d think the snacks I carry could sustain the entire passenger list. (Ooh, there’s an idea. I could clean UP! “Cheese stick? Yeah, that’ll be nine dollars. Half eaten apple? Hmm. Fourteen. Hey, buy it or don’t- it’s the last one.)
Then we do the prayer dance that a) our bags are among the first fifty bags off the flight…and/or b) that our bags made it at all.
And among my absolute favorite parts is trying to flag down one’s ride…which is currently impossible to do, as it is illegal- punishable by death- to stop anywhere near the curb/airport/major metropolitan area to pick up one’s passengers. Unless they are already in your car when you pull up to Arrivals, then you are doing it wrong.
And it cannot be stressed enough that this is for a One. And. A. Half. Hour. Flight.
If this were a car trip, we’d all be wearing hoodies, we’d shove ourselves in the car twenty minutes after we rolled out of bed, and halfway through the trip I’d toss a banana back to Nora. (And we’d be HAPPY.)
Here’s wishing you all a Thursday free of peed pants and lost anything, and with all of the complimentary snacks your heart desires.
Even peanuts.
Unless you don’t like them.
Then I wish you a day with no peanuts.
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