Humor
Testing the Mommy Mettle
By Jodi Neelin
Humor
On my right hip, I have two-year-old, 38 lb., 34 ½-inch tall Jenna. Over my right shoulder, my purse is squished between our two bodies. Over my left shoulder hangs the duffle bag carrying Jenna's gear. It ricochets back and forth between the 36 lb. suitcase I am half rolling, half lugging behind me and the back of my left knee.
The icing on this huffing, sweaty, puffing cake is Jenna's behemoth car seat which is hoisted on top of the suitcase. Its multitudinous straps are wound around my wrist so that I can hold both the seat and the bag with my left hand.
I can feel my biceps bulging like those of a professional wrestler but I have no time to bask in their glory as I snort and charge my way to the Alaska Airlines ticket counter. Reaching the front of the line, I release everything but Jenna and wait my turn.
There is twitter about a flight from Burbank being cancelled and I am hoping against all hope that it's not the flight to Portland. I am traveling alone with my daughter for the first time and without my husband to help, am not relishing this journey as it is.
A couple to my left is negotiating. "There are no more seats on that flight," I hear the Alaska Lady say.
"Is the flight to Portland cancelled?" I ask them.
"Mmm, hmm," she says.
A repertoire of expletives rushes through my head in a single moment. I immediately call my sister-in-law who is on the way back to Northridge with my niece.
"The flight's been cancelled," I say. My sister-in-law almost gives herself and my niece whiplash turning around to come back and get us.
As we wait for her, the stagnant, body-heated airport air is getting warm and my fuse is fantastically short. I am trying hard to keep it together for Jenna, who is whimpering softly and desperately wants a snack.
"It's Ok, baby," I tell her. I start to ease her down onto the floor which makes her cry a bit harder and wrap her legs around my waist like a little spider monkey. "Mommy can't hold you right now, Sweetheart, I need both my hands. Stand here right next to me. We'll have a snack in just a few minutes." I gently peel her off and place her on the floor.
"Snack, snack, snack, snaaaaaaaaaaack," she boos, and her little nose starts running. I fish out a wipe from my purse and we wrestle like two alligators while I try and dab her nose. I finally get her clean and look around for somewhere to put the soiled, soggy cloth. Of course there are no trash cans closeby and I cannot leave the baggage to find one. I open my bag, drop it in, and turn my attention back to the woman behind the counter who blatantly has entry-level clearance, because while boarding passes are flowing like wine to all the other people around us, apparently every plane she is trying to book is full, has already left, is leaving tomorrow, doesn't fly on Sundays, can only take off when piloted by blonde-haired, ex-military personnel over the age of 50 who are named Bill. She calls a supervisor to help.
I reach into my bag and discover the sodden wipe has found its way into the side pocket and snuggled up to my loose book of business checks which are now moist and mushy like papier mache and have boogers smeared all over the one side.
Five hours, a trip back to my in-laws, lunch with the family and another whirlwind on the Los Angeles freeways later, it's 3:45 pm. We are now at LAX, and my brother-in-law and niece have walked us as far as they could go. Very grateful for their help, and the bag of Goldfish© crackers my brother-in-law had thoughtfully packed for us, we hug our goodbyes and set off for security.
"Keep your boarding pass and ID with you," says another security guard, who is obviously oblivious to the petrified child hanging around my neck and 400 other items I'm trying to dump into the plastic trays on the belt. That's great, Lady, perhaps I can just hold them with my TOES, given they are the only digits not OTHERWISE OCCUPIED RIGHT NOW!
We get through the security gate and a little voice rises through the chaos.
"Shoes on, Mommy! Mommy, shoes, shoes! Mommy, shoes on!"
I close my eyes and inhale sharply. Quick breath back out and I slam our shoes into the duffel bag (no time to put them on) and load the traveling circus back onto my shoulders.
All is as it was before, bags clanging to and fro, and me hoofing it up the airport like a pack mule. Jenna is absently tugging on the front of my V-neck t-shirt so there is now four inches of cleavage visible. I am starting to lose it and I take it out on the poor girl.
"Jenna! Stop pulling on Mommy's shirt!" She obeys for a brief second before her little hand finds it's way back into my shirt again. "JENNA!" I yank her hand out of my shirt and continue lumbering towards gate 33. Finally I can't take it any longer. My arms are to the shaking point, but we have quite a way to go and I have to have a break. I throw everything but Jenna onto the floor and pull the shoes out of the bag.
As I work our feet back into our shoes, I have a heart-to-heart with Jenna, who is notorious for airing out her little piggies at every available opportunity.
In my best Mommy voice: "I need you to keep your shoes on, ok, Sweetheart? There's too much for Mommy to carry so can you hold my hand like a big girl and walk next to me?"
My tiny trooper smiles in spite of my flustered state and assures me that she can. My heart surges and I promise myself that I will act like the adult here. We lace up and proceed to the gate. On the way I pass another mom who is calm and cool, her baby strapped in her car seat with a wheeled contraption attached that turns it into a rolling piece of luggage. Genius. I ask the woman where she obtained such a miraculous item and she tells me Head Start. I vow to purchase one of these as soon as I get back home, no matter the cost.
I see a coffee shop and my parched mouth waters. We buy a cup of fruit, a blueberry muffin, iced whatever for me and water for Jenna.
"More mamanaman, Mommy! More mamanaman!!" Jenna is shoveling watermelon into my mouth. As soon as I take a bite she gets the next one ready and is pressing it into my lips which I am trying to keep closed but she finds a way in each time. I am laughing so hard I almost choke and watermelon juice is dripping off my chin. "Ok, love, Mommy's mouth is full!" I finally manage, but it is pathetically garbled and Jenna keeps going until all the pieces are gone.
It is time to head for the gate.
Now past the point of caring about whether or not the car seat arrives in Portland in one piece, I bundle up my cargo- most precious and otherwise - and drag the woebegone car seat behind us. It scrapes against the tiled floor loudly, and while the other travelers stare at me in disdain, I choose to ignore the sound. I try and puff the spiderweb wisps of hair off my face but am not successful; they cling to my lips. Beaten, I ignore them, too.
One carefully administered dose of Infant Motrin later, we are settled in our seats, waiting for takeoff.
"Good afternoon Ladies and Gentleman," comes the smooth voice over the PA. "Welcome aboard Alaska flight XXX with service to Portland. We should be taxiing from the gate in just a few minutes...We'll be cruising at about 34,000 feet and have been advised there is a little chop in the air today..." I have stopped hearing at this point as I know "a little chop" means we'll be bumping like a gyroscope. Wonderful.
Indeed, the flight attendants don't even get out of their seats until we're over San Francisco. I am trying to stay nonchalant for my daughter as I don't want to give her a "thing" about flying. But every time we drop a few hundred feet, my fists and jaw clench involuntarily and I fight back a word my daughter has no business hearing. Unfazed, Jenna has not stopped babbling for a moment.
We eventually reach calmer air and I relax a bit, not believing that we are in the clear until I hear the beverage cart coming up the aisle.
"Please take your feet off the seat, my love," I instruct my youngster, loudly enough for the woman in the seat in front of her who is being kung-fu'ed, to hear. This is a ridiculous game: bolstering up your toddler in a car seat which brings her bored, little feet inches away from the seatback of the person in front of her and expecting her not to kick it.
As a non-mom I used to scowl at the obnoxious brats perpetrating this punishment behind me, and shoot their parents scathing daggers. I ashamedly remember going so far as to slam back in my seat as hard as I could, hoping to jam those little legs back in retaliation. Well, the joke is on me now. Trying to get a small child to stop kicking the seat is like spitting in the wind.
Amid all the turbulence, Jenna has grabbed my water bottle and unscrewed the cap. She is negotiating it into her mouth when we hit an air bump. Water cascades down the front of her shirt (kept miraculously dry by the stuffed Hello Kitty doll, teddy bear, and three books she is clutching), and rolls swiftly into my purse.
"Ok! I think we're done with the water bottle!" I grab it out of her hands. "Stop kicking the seat, Jenna." I shake out Kittycat and Teddy Bear but they are pretty soaked. My bag is a lost cause.
The next few hours go by like this: Please don't kick the seat, my love, OOOOOH Mommy, plane! Yes, do you see another plane? Take your feet down, Jenna, Snack, Mommy, I hungry! Ok, I have some goldfish for you, do you want goldfish? NO! Ok... I want it! You just said you didn't want them! Feet! I want it! Say please. Pweese. Hello, goldfish, mmmm, yummy! Say thank you, my love. Sak you, Mommmyyyyy. You're welcome.Mommy, I want chocolate raisins!! Jenna, please take your feet off the seat. Mommy read it! The Disney Babies go to th DAT??!?!? A lion, sweetheart, zoo, what will they DAT???!?!? What's that? Monkey! That's right, please don't kick, Jenna, see DAAAAAT?!?!?!? Sigh. A seal, where are your feet, love? Oooooh, another seal! That's right, how many seals are there? Hmmm...Please stop kicking that lady's seat Mommy read this one!! Read it! Here we have a man and DAAAT??? Those are his glasses. Gahsses. That's right and DAAAAT??? A swimming pool please love, please take your feet off the ch All done! Mommy, I want snaaaaaaaaaaaaak!!!!
And I want a whiskey.
It is 8:40 pm and we are rounding the corner of our sleepy little cul-de-sac. Jenna is cherubic, one of her round cheeks resting lightly over the strap of the harness. Her dense, long eyelashes are splayed out on the tops of those cheeks and her mouth is slightly parted as she breathes deeply, dozing.
We are home, and I have just survived my first plane trip as the only parent in charge. I am Mommy, hear me roar!
Jodi Neelin is a frequent contributor to Inspired Mother Magazine and author of The Pregnasaurus. She lives in Portland, Oregon with her daughter and husband, who will not be staying home the next time mother and daughter travel.
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