It’s 12:45.  It’s 12:45!  It’s 12 Forty-Fucking-Five!  I had had grandiose plans for this vacation.  A relaxing morning wherein we arrive at the airport in plenty of time to casually go through TSA and eat a comforting yet healthy and glucose sustaining lunch.  Instead we are running around the house shoving clothes into FOUR suitcases.  Approximately 1/3 of the stuff is baby related.  The other two thirds are random clothes and items aimed at providing positive self-esteem for Mama so she can feel comfortable and NOT feel like a cow.

Did I forget to mention that my best friend had arrived previously, fully prepared to take us to the airport on time?  The problem is for that to occur, we would need to be fully prepared to leave (and as previously elaborately illustrated we were not).

So here we are frantically running around like jackasses shoving random clothing and toiletry items into suitcases when it becomes abundantly clear that we need to leave NOW to make our flight.  It is around this time that my anxiety-induced heart palpitations really begin to take flight.  We pre-check bags outside because two adults cannot push a stroller, four suitcases, and two carry-ons each.  It is not physically possible.  We tried.

Onwards and upwards to TSA we go.  I see before us two lines that meet at an apex where a uniformed gentleman is standing.  I begin walking down the “disability” side because the lines are only approximately six feet long and empty of any individuals.  Also, I didn’t give a shit or pay attention because both empty lines led to the same damn place.    As you can probably correctly gather, I got yelled at for using the “incorrect” line.  Upon reaching aforementioned gentleman we showed our tickets and I.D. to move on to the amazing bins where you place your shoes, belt, watch, computer, wallet, panties and lost ducklings.

At this point my heart palpitations had begun to reach epic proportions.  This situation did not improve as I saw that our diaper bag had been pulled aside to be searched.  I smiled bravely and calmly and asked one of the many agents standing around with their thumb up their respective asses if they could perhaps search it now because we were already running late for our fight.  Miraculously I managed to sweetly smile instead of throttling them all.  The man then indicated that another person will search it “when he gets to it”.  Oh, I’m so sorry, I assumed that your total lack of doing anything indicated that perhaps you could do your job.

It was in that moment that I descended into pure hell.  Several thoughts assaulted my stressed-out brain at once.  First, and foremost, that the flights my in-laws had purchased we were now almost certain to miss.  Luckily, Hubband looks at me and says go buy food for your blood sugar and I will meet you.  I dashed away to pay 42 dollars for a yogurt, a sandwich, a water, and fruit.  I shit you not, nearly 50 bucks.  We finish up this ridiculous transaction and head to the gate.  Despite my extreme panic they had not boarded “anyone accompanying a small child.”

The phrase we were awaiting is *finally* uttered and we gate-check the stroller and stumble our way on the plane with Garnett and four carry-ons in tow.  They had previously announced that the flight was extremely full and to fill in all the seats.  I am bumping my way down the aisle embarrassed as I smack the outside person in every row with various bags.  I guess I should side-note here that flying with a child is always embarrassing.  Everyone stares at you either horrified or angry which makes it extremely difficult to sit anywhere and apparently they discourage riding out on the wings.  I suppose I should also mention that I have never had particularly high self-esteem and I find beautiful people (women especially) intimidating.

At any rate, I digress.  We approach a perfectly coiffed and made-up specimen in an outer-seat.  I asked politely if we could enter the row as we stand with the entire world in our hands.  She stands while glowering at me and shooting my daggers with her pretty, pretty eyes.  I begin to step in and she utters in the snottiest most pointed tone I have quite possibly ever heard, “Ya know there are plenty of open seats back there.”  I like to think of my response as one of my finest modeling/mothering moments (how’s that for alliteration?) “Thanks a lot”.  See?  No eye-gouging or anything, just good old-fashioned sarcasm.  The best karmic example is to follow:  Hubband comes behind me and says “Thank you” cheerily and smiles at her because he thought I was honestly saying thank you.  If her eyes were weapons we would both be dead.

 

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