I grimaced as the all-too-familiar sound of my daughter’s signature baby cuss-fests reverberated throughout the cabin of our 757. Her inflection was remarkably similar to a Ricky Ricardo Spanish flipout as she rattled off unintelligible rapid-fire syllables.
Typically, these soliloquies have me in stitches. The invariable final “BAH” and its emphatic arm thrust just kills me every time.
But here and now, all I could muster was a nervous smile at my wife across the aisle, who flashed a quick one back while wrestling our tiny squirming diva in her lap.
Since two lap kids aren’t allowed in the same three-seat half-row, my wife had elected to fly solo while my son and I sat on the other side with my parents. The plan was to take turns and rotate seats as necessary throughout the flight, but for now, with the “fasten seat belts” sign lit and the crew preparing for take-off, we were locked into this configuration. We had booked the flight to coincide with their naptime in hopes they would crash for a significant portion of it, but the TSA security shuffle and unfamiliar surroundings now had them simultaneously wired and tired. And grumpy as hell.
On the verge of our second family vacation since Twinification, a significant discussion point in the Pseudonymous Household as of late has been the Twins’ maiden airplane voyage. How will we keep them occupied/quiet/sedated? What do we do if all six hours of the flight are fortified with stereophonic banshee shrieks and full-body flails? And most importantly, is there an alcohol consumption limit for passengers–and if so, how can we beat the system?
Having scoured these Internet waters for answers, I made a startling realization–the answer was right there under my invisible stick-figured nose all along, in the form of my esteemed colleague Barmy Rootstock, self-insisted parenting guru and author of one of my very favorite blogs, the hilarious I’ve Become My Parents.