How bad can it be? (Or, Traveling: Day One)

When I set off on this adventure, I braced myself for the most awful, stressful, anxiety-ridden journey possible, and you know what?  I'm glad I did.  Sure, it might've been a rough few weeks leading up to the trip, adrenaline-fueled crazy prepping that kept me up a few nights (days, my nights, not yours).  But in the end I was packed and mentally ready for what was to come.  What had to come.  What of course was going to happen.

There's only one thing I forgot.  Pants.

Let's start at the beginning.

We leave Minnesota on time, because I knew to pack the car the night before and set out clothes and basically have everything ready to go so there were no questions and no gray areas when the time to leave came.  We leave Wisconsin on time the next day, because I knew days before when to leave Wisconsin (how to leave changed a bit but I'm nothing if not flexible.  I have three children.  This is a skill I've taken years to hone).

Gramma time is precious time.

We get to the airport EARLY!  Joy!

Enter: First mishap.  Luckily this one was minor and actually somewhat funny.  See, while the husband and eldest child were rounding up some lunch, the younger two and I decided to sit at our gate.  Half an hour later...

Oh yeah, that's my N, happy and peaceful.  All three of us sitting at the wrong gate while our lunch got cold.

Like I said.  Minor.

Then came boarding.  Southwest, pick your own seat.  A smidge of background info: we checked in literally two minutes after the 24-hour-prior-to-take-off-limit and were at the end of the "A" group.  I have small children, all I wanted was a window seat for at least one of them.  Back to the lineup.  We're in our group, waiting patiently.  Board the plane and we're lucky enough that the plane is kind of empty.  I'm cuddling my lap baby while the eldest is spouting endless soliloquies about flying and the beautiful skies, when all of a sudden my leg feels awfully warm.......

Ah yes.  Of course.  Those few farts weren't innocent.  Rather they were a war cry, the drumbeats signaling the impending outpouring of poo we were about to experience.  Aaaaand there it is.  All.  Over.  Me.

Yep.  Stripped her down and photographed the occasion.

I'm staring at my lap and the poo-covered bottom half of my baby, rather smug that I remembered to bring her an extra outfit.  The poor guy across the aisle is staring, holding out a plastic Target bag wordlessly.  The flight attendant hands me two napkins and one moistened napkin.  I'm not allowed to stand up because we're taxiing and about to take off.  In my horror, I'm not paying attention to the top half of said baby, and her little hands are traveling...right...over...to the cup of water the eldest also is ignoring in favor of the poo lake settling into my jeans.

Ah yes.  Of course.  She tips it, and now the eldest is soaked and her coloring book and activity pack are too soggy for coloring.  Right about now I'm also realizing those blogs that suggested bringing a change of pants for mom and dad were onto something.  I'm also faintly aware of the fact that I'm not freaking out nearly as much as I thought I would be in this kind of situation.  Lucky for me, those weeks of planning and over-fretting and experiencing the stress and anxiety prior to delving into the traveling-with-babies excitement probably saved me from exploding into either frustrated tears or panicky whining to the husband to rescue me.  I still had a smile on my face.

So did the flight attendant when she brought me a coffee and a little bottle of baileys, free of charge.

By the end of the flight we were clean (mostly) and happy; the two-year-old slept the entire flight, the 7-year-old drew pictures of what she saw out her awesome window, the baby danced in my lap and cooed at everyone around her.

What more could go wrong?  The worst has happened...right?

We land in Baltimore.  We eat some more fast food.  We laugh, we talk, we coordinate bathroom breaks, we throw in a few extra just in case, we check out the shops for some pants (which I pass up.  Pirate pajama bottoms just don't scream class.....though neither do poopy jeans I suppose.)

Then, we have a seat by the gate.  What's that?  A two-hour delay?  Oh fantastic.  I have three babies who are exhausted from traveling, and now the plane won't be coming into Baltimore until the time we should be LANDING in Maine.  I busted out the heavy artillery.

And a bit extra.

But you can only expect so much out of tired children, and we had maxed them out.  Luckily, the plane touched down right around the time their tired silly chasing games began.  Boarding time.  Unluckily for us, we were now in the B group.  And, luckily, we were a "family with small children" so could board right after all the A group finished.  This was a packed flight; prized window seats were going to need to be fought for.  It was right about now I noticed a large family with very large children inching towards the gate.  They approach the Southwest Employee with their large family with large children and ask about family boarding.  They were told to wait, just like all the other families with small children.  I don't know about you...but to me, it's easier and much more enjoyable to travel with kids old enough to poop in a toilet and wipe their own butts afterwards.  I did not just go through 12 hours of traveling, plus five hours the day before, to be pushed behind a family who had children capable of higher thinking and reasoning (and to those saying I have no idea if the kids were sound of mind, or whatever, no.  Just, no.)  So, I did what any other passive aggressive mom who is being threatened with someone who wants to cut in front of her and her family of baby bears.  I jumped up to the counter after the very last "A" ticketed passenger and returned the other family's glare with a glance back to my VERY small children for emphasis.

We got window seats.

Hello from Maine!