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.