If pride comes before a fall then I should have known, as we shut the trunk, that my feeling of pleasant preparation was a warning of things to come.
鈥淭he Ergo!鈥� I shrieked halfway down Taylor Way as we drove towards YVR for my first solo overnight trans-Atlantic trip with a three-year-old old and nine-month-old. It sat at home, forgotten in a closet.
I was crushed by my lack of perfect packing. Worse still, my case contained nothing close to a baby carrier replacement and the vision of travelling without one seemed desperately unappealing.
I stabbed frantically at the GPS and, following a successful but frustratingly expensive quest for a new carrier, we were almost at the airport鈥� when traffic slowed. Then stopped. For an hour. Time ticked, the youngest melted down and anxiety levels multiplied as we realized that we鈥檇 be speedier on two feet.
We crawled the rest of the way and arrived with less than two hours until take-off, dashed off goodbyes to Daddy and sprinted towards security where I鈥檇 pre-arranged for some assistance.
It didn鈥檛 arrive. We were on our own.
Nothing, so far, was as I鈥檇 planned. My vision of travel serenity had been put through a shredder and I was left with the mess on the other side.
I blinked back tears of feeling utterly overwhelmed. But there was no going back.
We entered the security line-up, fed our belongings through the scanner and waited to be called. Or, in our case, yelled at.
鈥淲hy is she crying?鈥� barked a security guard, directing his distrust at my eldest who clung to my leg, sobbing.
鈥淏ecause you鈥檙e scanning her security blanket and favourite toys,鈥� I replied frostily 鈥� holding back the urge to snap, 鈥淪he鈥檚 never done this before. She鈥檚 three. She has no idea why you鈥檝e taken her blanket. This is scary for her. I鈥檓 kind of freaking out too!鈥�
Meanwhile, our multiple trays of far-too-many belongings stacked up on the other side of the scanner, holding up fellow passengers in the fast-track line, who were perhaps also sharing our mounting tension.
With trays emptied and possessions hanging off me like a pack-mule, I took deep breaths, responded to my eldest that going home wasn鈥檛 an option (no matter how many times she asked), and pointed us in the direction of our gate.
Surely nothing else could happen. Right?
鈥淏reastfeed during takeoff and landing,鈥� came the advice from experienced fliers to counter the issue of painful ears in little ones. So that鈥檚 exactly what I did.
Five minutes later, with the seatbelt light still on and the plane at a 45-degree incline, I was now wearing the regurgitated milk that my little one had ingested only moments before.
I鈥檇 planned for many possibilities occurring onboard, but being thrown up on wasn鈥檛 one of them. The cruel irony was that not only was I covered, but so too was the brand new Ergo rendering it completely useless during the flight.
I cursed and swore soundlessly like a sailor on a silent retreat, while holding the puke-covered little one at arm鈥檚 length, interrupted only by my eldest insisting, 鈥淚 need a pee.鈥�
The seatbelt light remained on, our airplane was still climbing and our options were limited. We rebelliously unclipped our belts and staggered up the aisle to the bathrooms. Passengers looked away and attempted to ignore us, lest we should ask for help, and stewardesses seemed shocked then sympathetic to our puke-covered plight.
With immediate needs taken care of and the Ergo now drying on the seatback of an unsuspecting passenger, I held the little one against me in a makeshift sling (crafted from a scarf during a mile-high Martha Stewart moment), while the eldest lay across both our seats attempting to sleep.
I counted down the remaining nine hours while pacing up and down the plane with the infant nodding in and out of sleep, realizing how much my shoes didn鈥檛 actually fit.聽
It鈥檚 fair to say we didn鈥檛 experience the best of starts but the remainder of the (very long) journey was mercifully smooth.
Now鈥� about that return journey.
