Desperation Smells Like Hairspray
We've just returned from the kiddo's first multi-day out-of-town trip. It was more challenging than I thought it would be, but I think we all learned a little something about ourselves. I, for example, learned that I do not want to take any more multi-day out-of-town trips with a toddler. Here are a few other nuggets of knowledge I collected along the way:
1. The Golden Age of air travel is over. Welcome to the Brown Age.
The flight did not start out great. At our airport gate, the gate associate flatly told me that they no longer let families with young children pre-board unless you're carrying a car seat for them to ride in. That is to say: unless you have purchased a seat for your child, your child's safety and your convenience on the jetway are worth less than a bag of stale peanuts. I was left trying to collapse my stroller with one hand and wrangle my child with the other so he did could not (A) wander into the plane unaccompanied, enter the cockpit, and push as many buttons as possible which would probably have simultaneously deployed the escape slides and emptied the fuel tanks, or (B) dive nose-first from the jetway onto the tarmac via the opening that, to a toddler, strongly resembles a super fun tunnel with puppies and ice cream waiting at the other end -- all while being bumped and jostled by suited business people holding scalding hot coffee and texting on their next gen iPhones in a rush to hurry up and sit down. Delta, you are on my shit list. Expect a strongly worded letter in your near future.
From there, the flight improved for us. Not so for the black and white shih-tzu, Callie, a veteran flyer stationed under the seat of the older couple seated across the aisle from us. At first I thought this furry diversion would be a godsend for my son. Thank you, I said. But while we were delayed on the tarmac for about 20 minutes, Callie shared with the plane several noxious farts. The kind that left me sniffing my son's diaper and saying a silent prayer of thank you it's not us. Callie's mom tried to fan the air with her safety information card, but that only spread it around for other passengers to enjoy. Being the owner of two short-nosed dogs whose emissions can clear a room, I sympathized. But during the rush of take-off, a stench so foul and sick-sweet and hot emanated from her crate that it could only be one thing. Poor Callie had let loose diarrhea on herself, her carrier, and I suspect a portion of the plane. Now nobody was paying attention to whether my son was crying in fear, screaming from ear pressure, or wiggling in anxiety. To his credit, he did none of those things. But even if he had, Callie would have stolen his thunder. People were holding their noses, the flight attendants were running for paper towels and napkins, and Callie's mom was trying to drown out the scent with the flowery fragrance of a travel-size bottle of Tresemme hair spray. I give her credit for using the tools at her disposal. She would have done a fine job on the Apollo 13 space crew if their problem had been diarrhea and not an oxygen tank explosion.
2. Just because your child eats like a horse and sleeps like a rock at home does in no way mean he will do any of those things while vacationing. It's sort of like the Zip Code Cheating Rule: if you're in a different zip code, it doesn't count. I was not prepared for this.
For the past several days my kid has been subsisting on strawberries and french fries. I've tried feeding him hamburgers from the kids menu, meatloaf from the adult menu, chicken from the buffet, and even one deliciously soft and moist chocolate chip cookie. (Hey, somebody had to eat it). He wouldn't even touch the pretzel sticks that, at home, he can't get enough of. By Day Two, I was getting desperate and let him eat virtually whatever he wanted just so he wouldn't starve. This screwed up the delicate balance of his digestive system (though not nearly as badly as poor Callie). He turned into a Midnight Pooper, which I was all too aware of since his rickety hotel crib was 10 feet from my bed. Which left me with the difficult decision of changing him and risking his not going back to sleep, or letting him sleep soundly in his own filth. Sometimes parenting decisions are tough.
Sleeping was stressful for all involved. I brought with us his favorite bath toy, his stuffed elephant, and even the music box from the crib mobile that he's been falling asleep to literally his entire life. Because none of these items were in his home zip code, they didn't count. He was terrified to bathe in the Bathtub of Eternal Doom, and equally afraid to sleep in the Crib of Despair. He probably thought I was going to abandon him forever in a cheap crib in a strange town full of people who kept saying "ya you betcha" and asking if I needed help with anything. After I would put him in the crib, he would fight sleep for about an hour -- rolling over with loud grunts, waving his security blankies in the air as if in pitiful surrender, sucking his thumb with a sound like slurping noodles, and covering and uncovering his face with his elephant. Maybe he kept thinking, if I hide under this elephant for a bit, when I come out this will all be over and the world will be right again. Haven't we all had that thought at least once? I tried comforting him but he must have taken that to mean I would willingly lean over top of a crib all night because he cast aside his precious elephant, cuddled up to my forearm, and held on for dear life. My arm was numb and I had an imprint of the crib railing on my face by the time I was able to extract myself. By the end of the trip we were down to forlorn gazes up from the crib instead of tears, followed by a mere 25 minutes of rolling and thumb-sucking and blankie-waving. This, my friends, was progress.
3. A 19-month-old will fit inside a standard hotel room refrigerator.
4. You will be prepared for virtually everything except the things that actually go wrong. The second-to-last night we were there, I went through our bedtime routine, put the kiddo and the elephant in the Crib of Despair (which had by then been downgraded to the Crib of Depression), wound the music box that would take him off to dream land, and said goodnight. As I tip-toed away from the crib, without warning the music box let out a loud clunk! and stopped dead. You have got to be f-ing kidding me, I said. I racked my brain for a quick alternative solution, like maybe Tresemme hair spray. Instead I settled for a youtube video of Brahm's Lullaby -- which repeatedly stopped for long, empty pauses, displayed that damn spinning wheel, and "buffered" while the kid hid under his elephant.
An hour later, when he was finally done waving surrender and asleep for the night (until his 4 a.m. poop anyway), I shut myself in the bathroom and sobbed.
5. When Mommy has a breakdown, it's time to go home.
1. The Golden Age of air travel is over. Welcome to the Brown Age.
The flight did not start out great. At our airport gate, the gate associate flatly told me that they no longer let families with young children pre-board unless you're carrying a car seat for them to ride in. That is to say: unless you have purchased a seat for your child, your child's safety and your convenience on the jetway are worth less than a bag of stale peanuts. I was left trying to collapse my stroller with one hand and wrangle my child with the other so he did could not (A) wander into the plane unaccompanied, enter the cockpit, and push as many buttons as possible which would probably have simultaneously deployed the escape slides and emptied the fuel tanks, or (B) dive nose-first from the jetway onto the tarmac via the opening that, to a toddler, strongly resembles a super fun tunnel with puppies and ice cream waiting at the other end -- all while being bumped and jostled by suited business people holding scalding hot coffee and texting on their next gen iPhones in a rush to hurry up and sit down. Delta, you are on my shit list. Expect a strongly worded letter in your near future.
From there, the flight improved for us. Not so for the black and white shih-tzu, Callie, a veteran flyer stationed under the seat of the older couple seated across the aisle from us. At first I thought this furry diversion would be a godsend for my son. Thank you, I said. But while we were delayed on the tarmac for about 20 minutes, Callie shared with the plane several noxious farts. The kind that left me sniffing my son's diaper and saying a silent prayer of thank you it's not us. Callie's mom tried to fan the air with her safety information card, but that only spread it around for other passengers to enjoy. Being the owner of two short-nosed dogs whose emissions can clear a room, I sympathized. But during the rush of take-off, a stench so foul and sick-sweet and hot emanated from her crate that it could only be one thing. Poor Callie had let loose diarrhea on herself, her carrier, and I suspect a portion of the plane. Now nobody was paying attention to whether my son was crying in fear, screaming from ear pressure, or wiggling in anxiety. To his credit, he did none of those things. But even if he had, Callie would have stolen his thunder. People were holding their noses, the flight attendants were running for paper towels and napkins, and Callie's mom was trying to drown out the scent with the flowery fragrance of a travel-size bottle of Tresemme hair spray. I give her credit for using the tools at her disposal. She would have done a fine job on the Apollo 13 space crew if their problem had been diarrhea and not an oxygen tank explosion.
2. Just because your child eats like a horse and sleeps like a rock at home does in no way mean he will do any of those things while vacationing. It's sort of like the Zip Code Cheating Rule: if you're in a different zip code, it doesn't count. I was not prepared for this.
For the past several days my kid has been subsisting on strawberries and french fries. I've tried feeding him hamburgers from the kids menu, meatloaf from the adult menu, chicken from the buffet, and even one deliciously soft and moist chocolate chip cookie. (Hey, somebody had to eat it). He wouldn't even touch the pretzel sticks that, at home, he can't get enough of. By Day Two, I was getting desperate and let him eat virtually whatever he wanted just so he wouldn't starve. This screwed up the delicate balance of his digestive system (though not nearly as badly as poor Callie). He turned into a Midnight Pooper, which I was all too aware of since his rickety hotel crib was 10 feet from my bed. Which left me with the difficult decision of changing him and risking his not going back to sleep, or letting him sleep soundly in his own filth. Sometimes parenting decisions are tough.
Sleeping was stressful for all involved. I brought with us his favorite bath toy, his stuffed elephant, and even the music box from the crib mobile that he's been falling asleep to literally his entire life. Because none of these items were in his home zip code, they didn't count. He was terrified to bathe in the Bathtub of Eternal Doom, and equally afraid to sleep in the Crib of Despair. He probably thought I was going to abandon him forever in a cheap crib in a strange town full of people who kept saying "ya you betcha" and asking if I needed help with anything. After I would put him in the crib, he would fight sleep for about an hour -- rolling over with loud grunts, waving his security blankies in the air as if in pitiful surrender, sucking his thumb with a sound like slurping noodles, and covering and uncovering his face with his elephant. Maybe he kept thinking, if I hide under this elephant for a bit, when I come out this will all be over and the world will be right again. Haven't we all had that thought at least once? I tried comforting him but he must have taken that to mean I would willingly lean over top of a crib all night because he cast aside his precious elephant, cuddled up to my forearm, and held on for dear life. My arm was numb and I had an imprint of the crib railing on my face by the time I was able to extract myself. By the end of the trip we were down to forlorn gazes up from the crib instead of tears, followed by a mere 25 minutes of rolling and thumb-sucking and blankie-waving. This, my friends, was progress.
3. A 19-month-old will fit inside a standard hotel room refrigerator.
4. You will be prepared for virtually everything except the things that actually go wrong. The second-to-last night we were there, I went through our bedtime routine, put the kiddo and the elephant in the Crib of Despair (which had by then been downgraded to the Crib of Depression), wound the music box that would take him off to dream land, and said goodnight. As I tip-toed away from the crib, without warning the music box let out a loud clunk! and stopped dead. You have got to be f-ing kidding me, I said. I racked my brain for a quick alternative solution, like maybe Tresemme hair spray. Instead I settled for a youtube video of Brahm's Lullaby -- which repeatedly stopped for long, empty pauses, displayed that damn spinning wheel, and "buffered" while the kid hid under his elephant.
An hour later, when he was finally done waving surrender and asleep for the night (until his 4 a.m. poop anyway), I shut myself in the bathroom and sobbed.
5. When Mommy has a breakdown, it's time to go home.
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| "Buh-buh" |
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