Thursday, December 21, 2006
We have returned from our lightning-fast trip to Phoenix, and we have learned not to travel with toddlers at nighttime anymore. So simple it was in the past to nurse Little Big Man into a peaceful snooze during a flight, but now, nothing will get this boy to sleep if we're on a big, exciting plane, with a movie playing and people all around and sudden and thrilling bouts of turbulence.
Our first leg from Phoenix to Dallas was uneventful enough, but the second -- well, let's just say that trying to confine an overtired, 35-pound 1-year-old to three airplane seats is a chore that would test the patience of Jesus. Oddly, he didn't crank the whole time -- just for one memorable 45-minute stretch. As he wailed and thrashed, people around us stuck their headphones in their ears. A guy behind us asked a flight attendant for earplugs (but due to downsizing, the attendant could only offer him some sugar packets). The man across the aisle from us ordered some whine ... I mean wine. I seriously considered whipping out a boob and giving it to Little Man, but he wouldn't have known what to do with it.
Then, magically, he tapered off. We let him sit on the floor between my feet and eat pretzels amd goldfish to his heart's content. He watched "Thomas the Tank Engine" on the laptop. The businessman who'd originally been sitting next to us had wisely fled for another seat before the plane even took off, so Little Big Man got to sit in his own seat for the landing, buckled in like Chuck Yeager ready to break a speed record. And as we waited for luggage, he capered gleefully around with my father, who'd come to pick us up, like the adorable child he usually is. We walked back to the car in the parking garage with him toddling contendedly beside Dad, who I noticed had somehow managed to light a cigarette with his one free hand. "Great kid," Dad said.
Our first leg from Phoenix to Dallas was uneventful enough, but the second -- well, let's just say that trying to confine an overtired, 35-pound 1-year-old to three airplane seats is a chore that would test the patience of Jesus. Oddly, he didn't crank the whole time -- just for one memorable 45-minute stretch. As he wailed and thrashed, people around us stuck their headphones in their ears. A guy behind us asked a flight attendant for earplugs (but due to downsizing, the attendant could only offer him some sugar packets). The man across the aisle from us ordered some whine ... I mean wine. I seriously considered whipping out a boob and giving it to Little Man, but he wouldn't have known what to do with it.
Then, magically, he tapered off. We let him sit on the floor between my feet and eat pretzels amd goldfish to his heart's content. He watched "Thomas the Tank Engine" on the laptop. The businessman who'd originally been sitting next to us had wisely fled for another seat before the plane even took off, so Little Big Man got to sit in his own seat for the landing, buckled in like Chuck Yeager ready to break a speed record. And as we waited for luggage, he capered gleefully around with my father, who'd come to pick us up, like the adorable child he usually is. We walked back to the car in the parking garage with him toddling contendedly beside Dad, who I noticed had somehow managed to light a cigarette with his one free hand. "Great kid," Dad said.
