Henry's First Trip to Hell: Part One

Almost three weeks later, Nate and I are still suffering from holiday travel induced PTSD. Our first attempt at transporting baby Henry outside of Urbana, Illinois was, to put it mildly, a shit storm of bad weather, flight cancellations, anxious grandparents, and many many more miles in a car than we imagined. Back in July, before Henry was even born, we had purchased our tickets to bring him back to Idaho with us for a grand unveiling to our extended families. We planned to leave immediately after Nate's last day of work for the semester, a full five days before Christmas, and what we thought was in sufficient time to make it home for the big day, regardless of holiday travel mayhem and weather problems. Silly us. We should have left for Idaho in July, the day we booked the tickets. Or the day before. Because we had unknowingly decided to fly from Chicago to Seattle to Spokane during the largest winter storm to hit Seattle--a city filled with warm-hearted but snow-scared folk in rain-proof Patagonia jackets-- in 50 some years. It was not a quick trip. 

I should have suspected something horrible was in store for us during the much too-smooth first leg of our journey: Nate was ready to leave for Chicago on time (this is a true miracle, not just a glorified circus trick like the Immaculate Conception). The bad weather that motivated us to drive our older car with all-wheel drive had not arrived in Urbana. Said older car did not break down on the side of the road. Chicago was not coated in a "wintery mix" as reported. There were no other cars on the Dan Ryan Expressway. Henry slept like an angel the entire way. Our park n' fly hotel didn't charge us any extra fees and seemed unlikely to use our older car for drug running in Elk Grove Village. Our shuttle driver was nice. There were no lines at Alaska Airlines in Chicago O'Hare. Our ticket agent forgot to print our boarding passes from Seattle to Spokane, but then hand-delivered them to our gate. We managed to make it through security without having to mix and drink our own formula, like the mother of three in front of us. I wasn't detained for laughing at the TSA guy who demanded I take off Henry's pointless but cute baby shoes before walking through security. Nate didn't complain about arriving at our gate an hour before our flight (also a true miracle), and he complimented both my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and my foresight in making lots and lots of them. The other humans we encountered in the O'Hare airport were so friendly and helpful it seemed that real Chicagoans had been conveniently body-snatched and replaced with Northwesterners. By our on-time departure, Henry had only peed through one outfit and I still had two extras in the diaper bag. He slept peacefully through takeoff, and Nate and I both said, "this isn't so bad!"

The descent into holiday travel mayhem was a gradual slide that started when I began to listen (against my will) to the family behind us on the airplane. Stuck in the second to last row, we were mostly surrounded by ipod-wearing or magazine-reading normal people. Behind us, however, was a divorced father and his two boys, who he had clearly never attempted to live with or discipline in his entire life. They immediately started shouting at the flight attendant--whose name I am certain was not "hey you!"--for dvd players and hamburgers. But "hey you" was a pro--she took one look at their Dad, decided he was worthless, and put the smackdown on those kids from the beginning: "No movies or burgers until you both behave yourselves. Seatbelts on. Seats upright. No whining. Don't be rude or I'll toss you out the emergency exit." If only she had delivered a similar speech to their father. Or just tossed him out the exit on sight. That would have been good. Once the little devil spawns were contentedly munching away on burgers and watching R-rated violent movies, they became delightfully, passively silent and I forgot all about them until the end of the flight. Unfortunately, we had other things to worry about during the three-hour cruising portion of the flight, because Henry had a massively full diaper, and we needed at least 2 hours and 59 minutes to deal with it. 

Henry had dozed and nursed through all of the earlier goings-on, but he roused himself once the flight was underway for his favorite game: smile at Mom and Dad and watch them turn into gooey idiots. While we enthusiastically smiled and cooed at him in insanely high pitched voices that probably drove everyone else mad, Henry furrowed his brow and filled his diaper with a level of sound detectable to all West Coast-bound pilots, flight crew, and passengers above 30,000 feet. I don't honestly remember what inspired Nate to change this diaper. Maybe we did rock-paper-scissors for it. Maybe he feels horribly guilty for a deep dark secret I don't know about. In any case, when I whispered in horror, "his diaper is leaking! Right through outfit # 2!" Nate carried Henry away to the airplane lavatory. They didn't come back until the plane was ready to land, so I read three books and had a nap, listening with half an ear to the thin screams of my child coming from the back of the plane. Since I had to change a less technically difficult diaper (no leakage) on the plane flight home, I now understand what Nate was doing in the airplane bathroom for two hours. Or rather, I have a harder time understanding how he was even able to get himself, Henry, and the diaper bag through that damnable folding door. Nate returned to our seats looking pale, and he mumbled a little incoherently about a very slick metal shelf, ill-timed turbulence, and outfit # 3, which evidently was comprised of a onesie that no longer fit over Henry's big head and pants without crotch snaps. When I asked after the darling footwear that had posed such a security risk earlier, Nate said "He peed in them. They are in the plastic bag. Don't open it" and gave me a look that made me immediately vow to forget all about that particular pair of shoes. 

Almost before Nate had stopped sweating from his diaper change ordeal, we realized Tomb Raider was over and the DVD players previously keeping the hyenas behind us in check had been taken away. We knew this because we heard Deranged Dad say, "Kevin, if the plane crashes, there is nothing anyone can do to survive. We will all die in a ball of fire." And then we listened, in disbelief, as the family of freaks behind us had a extremely loud conversation about airplane crashes. Specifically, our airplane crashing. Here are some of the best parts: "Kevin, keep your eye on that wing. If that wing comes off, we're all goners." "If this plane crashes, will we be the only ones to go to heaven?" "Boys, stop acting like you are nine years old. When we land in Seattle, we are going to a quiet place in the airport and I am going to act like I am nine years old and you can see how you like it!"(Seriously. The kids WERE nine years old). "Our plane is late. Your Mom is going to be really worried about us. She'll probably think the plane has crashed! Remind me to call her when we land." At one point, Deranged Dad had a momentary flicker of sanity, because he said to both boys, who were now terrified and staring, panicked, at the wing of the plane, "maybe we should stop talking about this because the other passengers might not want to hear us." But then he said, "Don't bother with your seat belts. They can't help you anyway if the plane crashes. We will all just die and go to heaven." Just when I thought I was about to turn around and throttle all three of them, our plane dropped its landing gear and aimed for the runway. Unfortunately, at the last minute, the pilot had to sweep us back into the air to avoid another plane that hadn't cleared the runway. Minor oops. We were launched back up into the sky with a twisting contortion that made me clutch Nate's leg with a raptor-claw grip while simultaneously tossing Henry onto his lap because I though the middle seat would be safe--apparently, in the moment, I'm more of an optimist than Deranged Dad. I would have been really scared if I wasn't so mad at Kevin, who was now screaming at the top of his lungs (yes, I swear, screaming) "We are all gonna die! We are gonna die! We are gonna die and go to heaven--so its okay!!! And everyone else on the plane will go to hell! AAAAHHH." 

If by hell, he meant the Seattle airport, then yes, Kevin was right. 

Our extra-jaunty landing had cost us an extra 20 minutes, and it was clear before we even deboarded the plane that we were going to miss our connection to Spokane. Nate was still white as a sheet from his time in the airplane bathroom with Henry, and my nerves were frayed by Kevin and our near-miss with the slowpoke plane ahead of us. When I turned on my phone, they began to totally unravel. I had a series of phone messages from my father, who is (and I say this with all love and respect, Dad) a little high-strung. At 29, I still have a weirdly high level of deference to his authority, so when I saw he had left three messages, and the first one reported breathlessly, "Your flight has been cancelled. I have a plan. You must call me immediately. I have a plan," I didn't know what to do. There were two more messages, all from him. Should I listen to the remaining messages, or call immediately? I decided to listen to a second one--maybe it superseded the first. The second message just told me not to listen to any remaining messages, but to call him immediately. So then I decided to listen to the third message, which clearly had to supersede the others, since why would he call to tell me not to listen to his messages? The third message said: "Don't listen to this message. Do what the other two messages told you to do. Call me immediately! I have a plan! Why are you listening to this message?!" Faced with three conflicting phone messages, instructions that I couldn't actually obey no matter how I tried, and the prospect of one of my father's "plans," I realized that it was technically impossible to dial a cell phone while trying to carry a baby and a baby's accoutrements down an airplane aisle. Actually, it is technically impossible to dial or answer a cell phone anywhere in an airplane or airport while carrying a baby and a baby's accoutrements, no matter how badly that baby's grandfather wants you to do so. I know, because I tried to answer or return every one of Dad's roughly 72 phone calls over the ensuing five hours. The 73rd call, I ignored, because Nate, wearing Henry's flowered diaper bag and his own carry-on across his chest like bandoleers and carrying Henry, Henry's blue blanket, Henry's fuzzy car seat insert, Henry's car seat, and small dislodged bits of Henry's outfit # 3, was glowering at me and whispering "divorce!" And I had just noticed that Nate had poop on his jeans. This wasn't likely to improve his mood, but crushing my cell phone would have, so I didn't answer it. 

But here I get way ahead of myself, because those five hours were very, very long, and filled with wonderful marital and maternal moments that I don't want to forget. Like how, waiting for a standby flight that never left (no flights we attempted to catch ever actually left Seattle), for the first time in our marriage, Nate and I stood in a very public place, shoulder to shoulder with other adults, and yelled at each other. Really. Loudly. Arguing as if we were at home, where we can occasionally throw things at each other. Using swear words and everything. In front of our 2 month old child AND strangers who couldn't politely move away from us because they too wanted a standby ticket to anywhere that was not Seattle. Technically, we were debating the merits of my father's "plan," which involved running back and forth across the Sea-Tac airport from one gate to another to frantically add our names to the list of standby passengers waiting to fly to Spokane, or Pullman, or Wenatchee, or Pasco, or any other tiny town east of the Cascades mountains and then groaning along with the 7,000 people ahead of us on the standby list when those flights were also cancelled due to weather. While the plan did call for "running," we only ever managed a fast waddle, and this after Nate managed to track down a loose SmartCart (I was afraid to inquire too deeply into his methods) that would work as a stroller for Henry's 3 ton car seat and all our other stuff.  

At one point, Nate and I parted ways over our different approaches to the "plan." Nate wanted to give up and collect our bags, find a hotel or call our Seattle relatives, and start over in the morning. I wanted to try once more for a standby flight to Pullman. Nate won the argument by wheeling the SmartCart, and Henry, through security toward baggage claim, while I followed, protesting. He sat down in a great pile of baby accessories and said with a sarcastic smile, "You go back through and stand in that #$%^#@ line. Call me if you make it on the list." Never one to turn down a dare from my husband when I'm really annoyed by him, I left my jacket and shoes behind, and went back through security with my boarding pass and my cell phone. Halfway through, I started crying like a little girl because I was so far away from Henry. What if he got hungry? What if they forced me to board the plane before Nate could transport all our worldly belongings through security? Clearly, these were moot points, because the flight to Pullman's "on-time" status was actually just a sick joke instigated by an insane ticket agent with a death wish. Facing yet another standby defeat, I rushed back to to the ticketing area, which had begun to take on the mood and stench of the Superdome after Katrina.

Two hours after our arrival at the airport, all of Sea-Tac was grounded. And all of the people in Sea-Tac were down in baggage claim, trying to rescue their Christmas presents and underwear, or, like us, retrieve diapers and the now necessary outfit # 4. Nate stood in a line roughly long enough to reach back to Urbana, while I sought out a place to nurse my now-crying baby. Finding one open seat tucked away in a corner under the escalators, I sat down next to an elderly couple from Ontario and in tearful, pathetic voice, said, "I'm sorry, I have to sit here and feed my baby." The woman smiled at me and said "Don't you dare apologize for feeding your baby! It's completely natural!" Her husband seconded her sentiments, saying "Breastmilk is the best thing for babies. And it comes in such CUTE packages." Feeling partly relieved, partly grossed out, and thinking of my own Grandpa, I sat down and exposed my breasts to the 3,000 people who would shortly be sleeping in the airport that evening. 

Nate had managed to find one bag, but not the one with the diapers (Travel survivor tip # 1--divide the diapers amongst all your luggage. Or just put them in your shirt or down your pants. All 50. They'll offer padding in case of an emergency landing predicted by Kevin). Half-resigned to the prospect of diapering Henry in a weird combination of my bra and Nate's T-shirts, we made our way to the blessed exit, where my aunt and uncle were waiting after spending nearly an hour making their way through the snow to rescue us. As we threaded our way through piles and piles of large black roller bags, I spotted the green tag and red ribbon that gave mine its unique identity among black roller bags. In a surge of relief, I squeaked "My bag! It's my bag! The diapers!" and elbowed my way toward it, nearly taking out a ten-year old in my excitement. After a short hour of following terrified Seattle drivers going very slowly in less than a foot of snow, we arrived at my uncle's house, where I made Henry a makeshift bassinet out of an oversized Macy's gift box, Henry's BundleMe car seat insert, and Nate's pooped-on jeans.  

Through all of this, Henry was the perfect baby. He was so perfect that when he is sixteen and does something so incredibly stupid I can't even imagine it as I write this, he will only have to mention his behavior at the Seattle airport and I will rescind the appropriate punishment. He will crash my new mini-van or get arrested or light our backyard on fire like his Dad did as a teenager and I will smile and say, "you were a perfect baby in the Seattle airport the first time we flew with you. I forgive you and I won't punish you." He cried when he was hungry, cold, hot, or dirty. The rest of the time he sat contentedly on my lap or in his car seat, perched precariously on an overloaded SmartCart barreling through the crowded airport. He was changed in a variety of disgusting bathrooms and nursed happily in strange, contorted positions dreamed up to give his mother the maximum privacy allowed in a throng of unhappy travelers. He gave us well-timed smiles to lighten our mood and appropriately furrowed his brow at every intercom-announced flight cancellation. He never screamed. Not even once. And this was in a situation where grown adults without shit in their pants were screaming. Even if Henry had only been perfect on this first day in the Seattle airport, he would still have earned his teenage get-out-of-jail-free card. But he was also perfect for the ensuing three days, so basically he gets a free pass even if he decides to sell heroin out of the back of my new mini-van before he crashes it. 

Oh, yes. It did take us another three days to make it to Idaho for Christmas. 

To be continued . . .