How to Achieve Enlightenment at an Airport with Children

The kids and I recently went to New York to visit my sister and my nephew. We had a marvelous time and tortured all of facebook with our million pictures. We saw all the things. We did all the stuff. We spent all the money. We touristed and ate and played and it was glorious.

The story I’m going to tell now is not about the glories of a fun NY vacation, however. It’s about the glories of airport travel. It was an experience. It was an adventure. I am enlightened and transcendent. 

Leaving Denver on a sunny Tuesday afternoon in February, I naively anticipated a smooth flight. We dutifully got to the airport two hours early, like 8am-ish, and got through security and to our gate at 9am with over an hour to spare before boarding. My lovely children, almost 7 and 5-1/2 years old, were pleasant and cheerful and well-behaved as they drew pictures in their notebooks while we waited. 

Fast-forward five hours. Yes, five. I guess weather on the east coast was effing everything up. At 2pm we finally boarded. 6pm we finally landed (8pm EST, mind you). SO. Not only did I have to entertain two kids for *five* hours in the airport, but another 4 hours on the plane—because, of course, we had to chill on the runway for extra time, for funsies. SOOOO. 10 hour day for what should have been a 3 hour flight.

And no m-f-ing iPad.

We colored and drew pictures and read books. On actual paper, people. Like barbarians. 

And yeah, DUH we sat at a bar for a couple hours and got lunch. And drinks. At 10am. I tried the "Manmosa". And a beer. But the best part was that my kids were freaking delightful ANGELS and we made it to LaGuardia intact (and they gave me a Bailey's and coffee for free on the plane!).

The pickup area was another story. I struggled to hold on to both kids while dragging a 50-pound rolly bag with two car seats unsteadily stacked on top, though lane after lane of jumbled cars, taxis, and shuttles amid nonstop frenzied honking. We were all wide-eyed as I pressed my phone between my face and shoulder, attempting to talk to my sister about where the eff she was as I looked wildly about for her car, clutching the kids’ puffy coats as best I could and barking ferociously for them to pay attention and stay RIGHT BY ME. It was the very definition of chaos. 

Then of course every parent knows the joys of installing a car seat. Try installing two, in the dark, in a car that is too small, in the middle of that pandemonium…trying to keep kids out of traffic before getting in the car, bearing in mind that we were totally blocking one of the lanes. I hardly even hugged my sister and nephew when we found them, and when I finally sat in the passenger seat with all kids safely in the back (okay, somewhat safely—I may not have installed them to the highest safety standards), I was ready for a stiff drink. Or five.

A week and half later after our wonderful visit and tearful goodbyes, I was foolishly optimistic about the rainy weather and our ability to fly through it on time. 

We left her house around 2pm on a wet, windy Wednesday. At that point our flight had a fifteen minute delay. No big deal. Doing anything with my sister means we’re always running late anyway. Later on that fifteen minutes turned in to 2-1/2 hours. Hmm. Deep breath. Still no big deal. We are pros. We spent five hours at DIA we can spend a few at LGA. Soon it became 4 hours. Deep breath. It’s out of my control. Inner peace. We got some airport snacks. We sat on the floor around an outlet to charge my phone. We drew, we colored, we read books. My daughter sang “One Fish Two Fish” to the whole airport and leapt and twirled with abandon around countless strangers. We did yoga. I made my son do some homework. We read. We painted our nails. 

THEN it became a 5-hour delay. We took it in stride. Breathe in, breathe out. At that point we wouldn’t be getting to Denver until midnight. I kept it together. The kids kept it together. We went to get dinner at the one little restaurant in that terminal that had tables. It was standing room only, but a nice man at one little table took pity on us and gave up his spot. I ordered a $12 German beer and did not regret it. When we finished up and were getting ready to give someone else our table, I found out it was delayed even more, but it was too late to sit back down, heartbreakingly. 

So we walked up and down the terminal some more and sat in all the places. The kids charmed everyone they met with their adorable antics and excellent behavior. They glommed onto a nice gal from Wisconsin who let them play on her computer with her for a while. My girl asked about seeing her way after that. They had bonded. Her name was Maggie.

You know my blog wouldn’t be complete without a poop story so here it is: the boy had a tummy ache. I took him to the bathroom like three times but he couldn’t do it without privacy. At home, he takes all his clothes off and spends like thirty minutes alone in there to do his business; that’s not really an option at a crowded airport. I pleaded with him to go potty before we got on the plane, but to no avail.

Sometime between 11pm and 12am EST, after three gate changes and a plane change or two, we were finally boarded. The parked plane was rocking in the wind. There was lightning. Sideways rain. Apparently wind shear was an issue. Once seated, my little guy was moaning about his tummy. The flight attendant told us once we took off he absolutely couldn’t go to the bathroom because it would be a very bumpy flight. After going back and forth a few minutes, he caved and trotted back to the teeny tiny airplane lavatory and immediately DESTROYED IT. 

Luckily for everyone aboard, after thirty minutes of taxiing around, LaGuardia grounded all flights and we went back to the gate. #brightside 

It was probably almost 1am when I called and woke up my sister to see how she felt about coming to get us. She said she would but was less than enthusiastic about waking up her son and driving an hour in the storm and trying to figure out how to get us back there the next day with work and school to deal with, and the more I thought about it, I was less than enthusiastic about waiting an hour only to go through the all that pickup/car seat chaos again. I just wanted to be done. As soon as f-ing possible.

The airline didn’t offer any hotel accommodations or discounts, so when I approached an airport employee asking about our options, he told me in very broken English to hurry to the third floor if we wanted to get a “couch” before they were all taken. 

At that point I was floating around on autopilot, dragging my bewildered, sleepy children all over the world, and just did what the man said. Let’s just check it out, I told myself. So up we went. 

It was an enormous room, as big as one end of the terminal. It was empty except for the hundreds of camping cots lining the walls. We arrived looking lost and were hastily directed to one of the few spots left with three cots together. I nodded blankly and followed. 

“Isn’t this awesome, kids? It’s a CAMP OUT!” I said. 

It looked like a refugee camp. Bedraggled masses with their luggage. Many people were already snoring, blankets over their heads. Lots of them were reading or looking at their phones. It was brightly lit with intense fluorescent light, which was not dimmed in the slightest at any time. 

Nonetheless, my zombie self spread out the giant paper towel sheets on the cots, put on the paper towel pillowcases, and covered the kids with blue fleece airport blankets. After a few minutes of very excited whispering, my daughter was out almost instantly. My son read Dr. Suess quietly to himself like one of the grownups and then fell asleep around 2am. They slept soundly through the night (if you can even call it night, seeing as they kicked us out by 7:30am). I still don’t know HOW they did it. 

SO. There was the bright fluorescent lighting to contend with. There were whispers and murmurs and giggles. There was the myriad of strangers snoring at a wide variety of pitches and tempos. There was the incessant, frantic honking from traffic outside—also with diverse pitches and tempos—yes, even at 3am. There was the crinkly paper bedding. There was the creaky folding cot that tipped forward if you put too much weight on one end and then came crashing loudly to the cold, hard floor with a metallic clang. There was the airport loudspeaker announcement every 20 minutes: “ATTENTION! Do not leave your luggage unattended…!” I’m surprised I don’t have it all memorized, actually. There was the very nice security guard strolling back and forth with his very squeaky shoes and his loud, startling walkie talkie. Then of course there was the gang of construction workers working on this heavy duty security garage-style door with their FREAKING POWER TOOLS.

But I wasn’t really there. I had transcended the situation. OR maybe I had just gone crazy. But I was laughing as I pulled my beanie over my eyes to “sleep”. It was surreal. One of those “if you didn’t laugh you’d cry” scenarios. 

The earliest flight to Denver on Thursday wasn’t until noon. Like a monk after meditating in a cave for thirty years, I took it all in stride. Or like a brainless zombie. Whatevs. Not only that but it was a flight to HOUSTON…ultimately getting us back to Denver at 7pm. As I see it, we were up at 7am EST, which is 5am MST, so by the time we landed we’d been at it for 14 hours. But on the first flight I got another free drink (a Leinenkugel's cranberry ginger shandy), then we got tasty cheeseburgers and quesadillas at the Houston airport, and I tried a tasty alcoholic beverage with mint and lemon and strawberry, so there’s that.

Shout out to my freaking amazing kids though. I really don’t know how they did so well. They were troopers. I think they actually had lots of fun living the airport for three days. Minimal whining and/or fighting—only adorable awesomeness. They discovered adventure and endurance, and learned how to entertain themselves for days with just two stuffed animals, a drawing pad, and some books; I discovered serenity and fortitude through surrendering to my own powerlessness and rolling with the punches.

What I’ve learned (beyond inner peace and unearthly patience, of course): Never. Travel. 

Ever.

Never ever ever again.

And maybe, if I do, to pack more snacks. And an iPad.

And that people can be super nice at an airport. Especially if you look desperate and have two kids.

And the boy needs to learn how to poop in public.

So the moral of the story (beyond never travel ever ever ever) is this: to achieve enlightenment in an airport with children, you need the following: lots of booze, sleepless bewildered delirium, and perfect children.

CAKE.

Beatrice and Shirley: High Times

Beatrice and Shirley were old friends. Their friendship had really blossomed in the awkward glory of junior high and the bond was maintained well into their golden years. Their beloved husbands, Zeke and Dudley, had both passed a number of years ago in a freak hunting accident, leaving the ladies alone to their crocheting and low-impact chair exercises.

Every Monday the old bitties would get together for crafting and fitness (luckily they didn’t have to go far since Shirley moved into Beatrice's basement, which her son Larry finished beautifully for her). Beatrice was really more of a knitting gal, while Shirley enjoyed a good cross stitch. Sometimes their grandchildren would drive them into town for a water aerobics class at the local YMCA, but they typically stayed home and did workout videos together, like “Moving with Mike” and “Stronger Seniors”. Long gone were the days of “Hip-Hop Abs” and “Insanity”. Though they still liked reminiscing about Shaun T’s rippling abs and adorable baby face from way back when, they loved doing his current routine, “Senior Insanity”. He was still pretty hot for an old man.

On one such visit, after a particularly grueling workout, Beatrice and Shirley decided they needed some inspiration for arts and crafts. Beatrice’s son Cory had married Shirley’s daughter Robin in 2036, and they had taken over Beatrice and Zeke’s business as marijuana growers for area dispensaries. They always gifted prime samples to their mothers, knowing they enjoyed a little nip now and then. This visit was one such rare instance. 

Beatrice dusted off her vintage glass-blown pipe harkening to their rebellious teen years way back in the 1990s. But today there was no need to smoke in secret, hiding from their parents and teachers like in high school; nor was there any need to hide from their own impressionable young children as they had in the early 2000s. 

They could only locate a long red utility lighter with a scorching 3” flame, which proved quite challenging in lighting the small bowl mere inches from their wrinkled faces. Shirley tried to be helpful and light Beatrice’s for her, but succeeded only in singing her friend’s long grey nose hairs, resulting in a great deal of whooping and cackling. Finally they managed to each take a single “hit”, as they used to call it (who knew what the kids called it these days), and Shirley hacked and coughed for several minutes, as she always had. 

Almost instantaneously they were struck by overwhelming dry mouth, followed by an immediate and ravenous need to stuff their old faces with all the food of the world. “Not much has changed with all these new-fangled fancy strains the kids are making now,” hooted Shirley, feeling at once so young and so, so old. Then she saw the cereal. “Give me those Marshmallow Mateys!” 

“No! That’s for the grandkids. Not for old skanks like you,” squawked Beatrice. “Plus we just worked out. All that sweating with Shaun T will be for naught! Senior speed dating is next month. We have to be good.”

Still, they found themselves side by side in front of the open refrigerator, staring. Shirley started to think that the Metamucil on top of the fridge was looking pretty tempting.

Suddenly Beatrice turned to Shirley (who was in very close proximity) and barked, “Get your good chewing teeth on!” Shirley winced and adjusted the volume on her hearing aid. Then, arm in arm, they trundled eagerly into the living room, cradling carrots, celery, hummus, and prunes like precious cargo.

There was no time to get comfortable. They sat on the coffee table and commenced greedily inhaling all the healthy munchies they could manage, hardly stopping to breathe, spraying bits of food all around as they giggled and guffawed. Everything they said was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. Shirley teased Beatrice about her red clown hair; Beatrice teased Shirley about her blue cloud fro. They laughed about their failing bodies. They laughed about the bad behavior they get away with in public. Even recounting their husbands’ untimely death was inappropriately hilarious: the two visually impaired elderly fellows decided to drink a case of beer before hiding on opposite sides of a clearing where they simultaneously shot at and missed the same deer (which was actually a large stump), but managed to hit each other. Beatrice and Shirley imagined them now drinking Coors Lite on their riding mowers in heaven.

“We should record this!” snorted Shirley at some point in their most hysterical discussion. 

Beatrice responded by throwing back her head and emitting a booming cackle. She had always laughed that way, although now she coughed whenever she did it. “So cliché! What are you, twelve?!” 

Shirley couldn't answer because she was mesmerized watching Beatrice’s soft, plentiful neck skin ripple and pulse as she laughed. It was especially fascinating at that moment, for some reason. She poked it. Beatrice, who was much taller than she, shoved Shirley off the coffee table. 

“My hip!” cried Shirley, but then she collapsed further into the floor and was overtaken by a fit of soundless laughter. Beatrice felt a little bad and tried to help her up, but then she fell over too, predictably, and they both lay helplessly on the floor, choking on silent mirth. 

“We need to get Life Alert!” said Beatrice once she caught her breath, gently wiping a chunk of carrot from Shirley’s weathered jowl. “Truth.” said Shirley. 

When they were finally able to stand, they devoured the last piece of celery by alternately taking bites, and then they remembered that it was time to get crafting.

Never have carrots and hummus been wolfed down so voraciously. 

And never has there been such incredible focus and productivity in cross stitching. 

Beatrice ate the Marshmallow Mateys the next day, without Shirley. Beeeotch.

Party Pooping: Let it Go

What trickery is this? I put the kids to bed and they…stayed there? Not a single solitary “I need to go pee” (for the third time), no “mom I have a question for you” (hold on while I think of something), not even “I forgot to hug and kiss you” (the most adorable, nearly irresistible and therefore the most frequently used by those manipulative little twerps). 

It’s the bouncy castle. That did it. I love a good bouncy castle. They suck the energy right out of all children.

We went to a birthday party today. It was for one of Dirt’s preschool classmates—a big first for me, going to a stranger’s house for their kid’s birthday. Well, not total stranger, but very casual acquaintance—like one you’ve spoken to in passing when dropping off or picking up your kid. And once at the neighborhood playground. 

Hold that thought. Let’s go back in time a couple years. The potty training diary…

Phase 1: Poop in diaper. Gross but contained. Except for those epic blow-outs where strange yellow ochre poo mysteriously gets on your baby’s neck. (That’s one of my favorite paint colors, incidentally.)

Phase 2: Poop in pullup, occasionally on training potty, occasionally elsewhere…like on the floor, or outside. Extra fun because you get to clean poo in SO. MANY. DIFFERENT. PLACES. (Sometimes the dog helps though.)

Phase 3: Poop almost exclusively on training potty. This is super gross because a parent (aka MOM) has to dump it into the real potty for disposal, but they (the poops) typically don’t roll out all neatly and…let’s just say they (the poops) can have serious sticking power. It’s also quite problematic when there’s no training potty to be found, and in a moment of desperation you offer to let your kid poop in a trash can since they refuse to go on the big potty. Yeah. That happened. Go read "Poop Soup" if you're in the mood.

Phase 4: Poop on big potty. Hallelujah! Except you still have to assist with the butt-wiping, unless you’re a big fan of super skid marks in all those little underpants. This phase usually includes a very demanding small person yelling at the top of his or her lungs: “I’m DOOOOONE! Come wipe my BUUUUTTTTTTT!” Or, if they’re more self-sufficient, it may involve them emerging to show you how well they wiped by themselves, typically by bending over and spreading cheeks. In the living room. 

We’re on phase 4 with both kids currently (Boy is 5 and girl is 3-1/2). We’ve had a few more *adventures* with boy than girl. A fun quirk Dirt recently developed is that he insists on being completely nude when he poops. Well, sometimes he’ll keep the socks. 

When he was in phase 2 he liked pooping outside a LOT. Maybe because little boys are thrilled about peeing outside and that seemed like the same thing. Maybe because dogs do it. Or maybe we encouraged it in order to avoid cleaning poo elsewhere. For some reason he really liked pooping on the deck for a while. We live in a rural development so there weren’t too many neighbors to witness such an appalling display, but we still told him no…at least just go in the dirt or grass. Then he started pooping in front of more witnesses, like in my parents’ yard. Then at large family gatherings. Just drop trou and go on the spot, happy as can be. Then one time he did it at a baby shower…at a stranger’s house. On their lawn. With people everywhere. Mostly people I didn’t know.

Which brings me back to today’s party, the party where the only adult I know is the mom of the 4-year-old birthday girl. My husband/social lubricant is out of town. I’m being brave and chit-chatting with her friends and family while all the kids play (everyone is super nice), when Tuesday runs up and abruptly shouts in a very forceful tiny voice, “I need to go POO!” Okay, fine. I politely excuse myself. We go. She doesn’t poo. She laughs and says “I was just kidding I needed to go poo.” Hilaaaaarious joke.

Shortly thereafter she accosts me a second time. “I need to go POOOOO!” I wince at her volume and vigor. I tell her to wait for the piñata, because I don’t want to miss it. She pulls on my hand anxiously. I tell her CANDY will soon be falling from the sky. Suddenly her urge subsides. Weird.

It is a Frozen themed party, because duh. All little girls are obsessed. The piñata is appropriately Frozen-themed too: it’s the main character Anna. A human. This makes it especially creepy and especially awesome because the children take turns beating a Disney princess until her limbs fall off, all to the tune of the traditional Spanish Piñata Song, performed by the host and all her female family members. Dirt, the only boy at the party, is the first to knock off a leg, which we take home with us as custom dictates. Our prize kill. Then, because the family is Mexican, Anna ultimately explodes with spicy mango lollipops and Strawberry con Chili candies. 

 

Oh and they left the disembodied head hanging. All Game-of-Thrones-ish. A warning to all princesses.

After Tuesday has one piece of candy she remembers. Poooooooo. We barely make it and she’s whimpering by the time I put her on the potty. This time she means business. I realize we are stinking up the main bathroom at a stranger’s house. I search for air freshener to no avail. Rummaging through all the drawers and cabinets I find some all-purpose 409 and spray that around. It helps a little. 

Much to my horror and dismay there is someone waiting when we finally come out. An adult. I awkwardly apologize for my daughter’s stink and then get more embarrassed as I walk away, thinking how I probably totally looked like the person who blames their OWN stink on their children.  Eh.

So then there’s more bouncy castle time and lots of food and other party-ish stuff. Then comes Dirt with the same look. He’s a little older now, much more discrete. He informs me quietly that he needs to go poo. (I’m thinking: Seriously?! BOTH of you? Like you had to both go in the same 2-hour window that we weren’t actually at home???)

We go. He tells me firmly to stand RIGHT outside the door. His stink is so powerful it immediately creeps out from under the door and into the hallway. At least this time I’m clearly not the source. After several minutes go by I peek in, to be greeted by an overwhelming blast of stink and an angrily yelling, completely naked boy. “MOM! I’m not done yet!” 

The host passes by and I sheepishly ask if she has any air freshener. She gets me a lighter for the candle, which I go in the bathroom to light despite Dirt’s wrathful demands for privacy. I also spray some 409. Giddy-up. Dirt soon accepts my presence and starts thoughtfully discussing the consistency of his deposit, lamenting repeatedly that it’s diarrhea and saying “Poor tummy. Poor, poor tummy”. 

I wonder what the frick I fed those kids to give them both the runs at the exact same time. Maybe they just thought a Frozen party was the best place to "Let it Go". Heh.
I also wonder if that family will ever want to hang out with us again. 

At least we'll always have the bouncy castle.