Why Yes

I was always an advocate for adult-only planes until I was no longer an adult only. If you've ever doubted the existence of hell, I promise I could convert you by means of an international flight with my daughter.

Our first stop through the scorching flames: security. Why yes, TSA worker, that prescription diaper rash cream does happen to be for the baby on my hip. Why no, security lady, I wouldn't mind drinking from each of Amelia's seven pre-made bottles in front of an already annoyed line to disprove any possibility of explosive chemicals.  Why am I dramatically gagging after each taste of hypoallergenic soy formula?  Well, I've always been more of a chocolate milk kind of girl.

Next stop: bacteria infested gate wait.  Why yes, Amelia, please try and eat that newspaper off the airport floor while I search for my lost boarding pass. I'm sure a little extra fiber will do the body good.

And now damnation itself: nine hours of turbulent screaming, snotting, flailing, and bargaining with God for an hour of peace in exchange for a charitable donation.

As it would turn out, God's not much of a negotiator.

Why yes, male flight attendant, I would love to wait in my cramped seat with my daughter and her poop explosion diaper until the seat belt sign un-illuminates. It's truly my pleasure (insert smiley face here).

Inhale. Exhale.  Deep breath. Repeat.

Amelia's draining the last of  her bottle as her eyes finally begin to flutter. Sleep is on the horizon---I can feel it, taste it, almost grasp it. And then I hear it: the damn drink cart clanking down our aisle. "Ma'am, is there anything I can do for you? Perhaps a coffee or an alcoholic beverage?" Why yes, stewardess, do you also offer complimentary horse tranquilizers? (for me, of course...)

So we're five hours into the flight and I have to pee like a racehorse. Since airplane bathrooms are on my OCD top ten list of places most likely to contract flesh-easting bacteria, I've been holding it in for the last three hours.  Another thing I'm holding? Amelia. I carry her into the coffin sized lavatory and try to hold her in the air Simba style while I hover over the filthy toilet seat.

Amelia's amused; I'm horrified. She's also grabbing for anything she can touch which happens to be everything so I'm cringing in disgust when the tears just start flowing. Taking a one year old across the world all by myself?

Why yes, Stefanie, you are certifiably batshit crazy.

Protect this House He Will

It would seem that Amelia has given up sleep for Lent (although this wouldn't be much of a sacrifice on her part).  I find myself once again sleeping on a mattress in her nursery, singing her favorite lullabies and begging her to give up this boycott.  Usually by the third refrain of "Oops I Did It Again," her screaming turns to cooing and she finally gives up the fight.  I, too, being soothed by the abstract lyrics, give up the fight as well.

It was during one of these evening rituals that I was awakened to find myself in the middle of a low budget horror movie.  A sound of crashing and yelling echoed through the room and I immediately went into protective mama bear mode.  After peaking my head out from under the crib, I gathered the strength to enter the hallway and face whatever was at the source of this carnage. I wasn't prepared for what I was about to find.  After all, part of  the reason other than chocolate that I agreed to move to this country was its nearly non-existent crime rate.  People just don't get murdered here (although they may die of boredom).  I wasn't ready to discover that my peaceful world had been shattered!  But nevertheless, I opened the nursery door....and then I found him---my husband and his bloodied fist.

After questioning him extensively, I learned that he too was awakened in a state of fear to find a height-challenged intruder standing in the bedroom doorway.  Being the rational man that I love, he questioned the night prowler in a very assertive tone.  "Tell me who you are," he demanded three times.  When the intruder still would not answer (quite rude for being asked more than once), Matt jumped from the bed and landed a firm fist right to that burglar's face.  Not being able to withstand the strength of my ninja husband's blow, our trespasser crashed to the ground in obvious defeat.

Pretty freakin' awesome story, don't ya think---until I tell you that my husband sucker punched a fan. 

I am sure you can understand the confusion

There really is no moral to this story, unless you're a fan, and then I would warn you to watch your back.