A Whole Different Kind of Mile High Club

Have you ever been somewhere, just minding your own business, when the shrill shriek of a mounting toddler tantrum pierces the air? It's cringe-worthy for sure, but most of us with small children send the parent of that difficult toddler a supportive sympathy smile while secretly thanking our lucky stars that it's not our kid. "That sucks," we think as we go about our business.

But you know what really sucks? When it just so happens that your child is the tantrum throwing jerk. And you know what sucks even more? When your sweet, adorable child turns into a maniacal monster on a freaking airplane. Having family and friends up in Northern California, we travel up there quite a bit. In a prolonged fit of insanity, we've managed to visit five times in the last year. The toddler terrorist is accustomed to flying, and although she does get squirmy and antsy, she has never had a full on meltdown that made me want to don my oxygen mask and holler at the flight attendant to bring me as many mini vodka bottles as she can carry, stat. The powers of the universe convened and ultimately decided that I was indeed due.

On this particular trip, I was flying solo with the terrorist. Being a rather large and cumbersome seven months pregnant, everything seemed a little more complicated than usual. The wait at the airport set the tone of trepidation, as somehow I had forgotten to charge every single electronic device intended to distract Bugsy's attention. Oh hey, little terrorist, want to play on the iPad? Oh crap. Just a second. Mommy sucks. Don't cry don't cry don't cry! Here is the DVD player. It's dead too? Ohhhh no. This can't be happening. Dear sweet baby Jesus, have mercy on me! As the toddler terrorist began to loudly voice her disgust, I sent a code red text to my husband.

As we began to board the airplane, I prayed to all things holy that the toddler would keep a lid on the volcanic tantrum eruption that seemed inevitable, but as we settled into our seats steam came out of Bugsy's ears, her face turned bright red and with an explosive scream that could ground airlines within a fifty mile radius, the flight took a hostile turn.

I did everything I could. First, of course, I took a picture for evidence. Then, I begged. I pleaded. I scolded. I raided the arsenal of toys I had packed in my over-stuffed carry on. I prayed. I felt the sweat trickle down my back and hid my face in shame. I imagined every passenger raising a skeptical eyebrow as they surveyed the scene, certain that they were eyeballing my pregnant belly and concluding that I couldn't even handle one baby, let alone two.

Just as I had resigned myself to the inevitable fate of certain death by toddler terrorist, she arched her back, chucked a shoe at the window like a Cy Young award winner, and, with a final howl of indignation, the clouds parted, the birds began singing and Bugsy passed the hell out. I had just been inducted into the a whole different kind of mile high club. I smugly looked around, puffed my chest out with the confidence of a Mother of the Year and opened a magazine. Piece of cake.

Hit the Road, Jack

Have you guys heard about the family who left their three-year-old daughter at a rest stop for over an hour? If not, let me tell you what went down. It seems that a couple stopped at a rest stop, stretched their legs, got back into the car with two of their three children and hit the road, jack. Well, perhaps they noticed little Cindy Lou was missing as they pulled out onto the open highway, you say? Nope. Well then certainly Mama turned around to say something to cute baby Georgie and noticed with a gasp that Cindy Lou was missing, you might suggest. Wrong again! This family of five got ninety miles down the road when, like out of the scene from a thriller movie, a voice spoke to them through the radio.

"Mr. and Mrs. Smith?" the radio crackled. "Mr. and Mrs. Smith, please return to the rest stop you vacated over an hour ago. You left cute little Cindy Lou here and she would like to be returned to her family. Party of five, currently traveling as a party of four..."

I don't want to launch a grenade and participate in a battle of Mommy Wars and I certainly don't want to be a Mommy Shamer. I am no mom of the year myself, as illustrated by the following questionable parenting moments:

• I once let my precious little seven month old terrorist crawl off the precipice of my bed, failing to catch her as she plummeted face first into the floor. I was so horrified and ashamed that I didn't tell my husband about it for weeks until he finally did something as equally cringe-worthy. Then, taking pity on him, I told him my regrettable tale to help alleviate some of his guilt.
• One time I let my daughter lick the bottom of her father's flip flop (barf!) because I was fatigued from hours of toddler tantrums and felt that this was one fight I was going to sit out. 
• More than once I have hidden in the closet while binge eating jelly beans. When the toddler finds me, rather than hiding my stash and pretending I was just playing a game of hide and seek, I sheepishly hand over the bag and let her eat some. It only seems fair.
• Sometimes, when the cupboards are bare, I strategically plan my Costco trip around the toddler terrorist's dinner time. I then let her eat every sample in the store and call it a balanced meal.

There. My shameful confessions are out on the table. I understand that parents are exhausted, juggling a thousand things with only two hands at one time and trying to maintain some semblance of sanity. But forgetting your toddler at a rest stop? On the never-ending checklist of a mom's cluttered mind I would just think that adorable Cindy Lou would be on the top of the priority list. You know, it should look a little something like this:

• Road trip tunes? Check.
• Snacks? Check.
• All of my children? Check.
• Toothbrush? Damn! I knew I forgot something! 
• Extra diapers? Mr. Smith, I can't think of everything! I am only one person for crying out loud. 

And after you pull into the nearest CVS to stock up on the toiletries you understandably forgot, run a quick head count, confirm that you are in fact traveling as a family of five and drive off on your merry way into the sunset.

Come Waste Your Time With Me

Recently I decided that the husband and I needed a kid free weekend. An actual overnight adventure without a tiny terrorist simultaneously killing me with cuteness and driving me to an early grave with her outrageous demands. It was now or never, I figured. As if toddler tantrums, all-consuming full-time jobs and the daily demands of life in general don't keep both of us with very little free time for anything other than a quick hello kiss and dinner in front of the television (where one of us always manages to fall asleep with the fork hanging midair), I am belly deep in baking another bundle of joy. If we didn't run away for a romantic getaway now, right this very second, we probably would never ever in a million bazillion years get to do anything again for the rest of our lives. Or until the kids fly the coop. Whichever comes first.

We settled on a quick jaunt over to Catalina Island. My parents bravely agreed to babysit, and as we said goodbye our trip was almost instantly sabotaged by the toddler terrorist as she screamed "MAMA NO!" with such intensity that my heart promptly broke into a million tiny pieces. I didn't even have time to pick up the shards of my guilt ridden heart as the husband, seeing my resolve begin to diminish, slung me over his shoulder, threw me in the car and skidded out of the driveway like a masked bandit on the run. And so, like most mothers, I began our romantic getaway by leaving my heart behind in the tiny, destructive hands of my precious, diabolical everything.

No matter! Who needs a heart when you have the vast Pacific Ocean beneath you, the sea breeze blowing through your hair, the sweet song of freedom on your lips and the man you like more than anyone else (most of the time) enjoying the ride along with you? To the outsider, we looked like the perfect picture of a footloose and fancy free couple. But inside, I was panicked. All sorts of thoughts were swirling around in my head like a tornado of doom. How is the Outlaw Bugsy Malone? What will she think when she wakes up in the morning and I'm not there? This is our first weekend away ever without her. Will she ever forgive me?

And then my thoughts turned to the man standing next to me. Oh my god, what are we going to talk about for a whole weekend? What do we have in common besides two years worth of poop, no sleep and endless episodes of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse?  Holy crap, who is this man I married?! What's going on behind those sparkly green eyes? For the love of all things boozy, I need a cocktail. Dammit, I'm pregnant. Cocktails are off limits. Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit ohshitohshitohshit. Turn this boat around, let's call the whole thing off.

Just as I was about to take a flying leap and abandon ship, Catalina came into view and for the first time in a hundred years, the rat wheel in my mind skidded to a halt. I took a deep breath, grabbed my husband's hand and allowed myself to be swept away by the beauty of it all. I gave myself permission to put Bugsy on the back burner of my brain, knowing that she was safe and spoiled by her grandparents. I looked over at ol'e what's his name and laughed. We have over ten years of shenanigans together - how bad could this be!

We crammed so much fun into two short days it was one for the history books. Do you even know how much can be accomplished when you are not worrying about putting someone else's needs above your own? Imagine a world that is not dictated by nap time. You may say I'm a dreamer, but I know I'm not the only one, baby!

For example, you can do things like be on a boat without worrying that your toddler might catapult herself into certain slumber with the fishes:

If you are so inclined, you might want to rent a golf cart and mob around the island without car seat installation frustration:

You could stop and take in the spectacular view without hearing a tiny voice complaining about "my shoe, it's stuck" over and over:

You could leisurely kick your husband's sweet behind at miniature golf and be a total obnoxious jerk about how much you suck way less than he does:

You could ooh and aah over the wildlife without frantically chasing your tiny terrorist who insists the deer is a "doggy!" and is hell bent on pulling said dog's tail:

And, if you are feeling feisty, you could take a hike without beginning at a race worthy pace and ending with a toddler demanding to be carried the remaining 5,000 miles because she ran the first ten minutes.

Not pictured: The time we got a couple's massage and Jeremiah alleges he was molested, the time we ate ice cream all day everyday, and the time we slept until 7:30 a.m.! Oh and the time we went kayaking and Jeremiah almost got eaten by a sea lion. I've never seen him so scared - and he saw my large intestine during my c-section.

So it turns out that we do exist as a couple outside of our primary roles as Bugsy Malone's mommy and daddy. The truth is, we kinda like each other. And as the boat pulled out to sea to return us to our everyday responsibilities, as the ocean churned beneath us and promised to deliver us to the tiny terrorist holding my heart, I leaned my head back, closed my eyes and smiled inwardly at the sound of drunk early twenty-somethings behind me carrying on with their early twenty-something antics. We might be frazzled, exhausted and up to our eyeballs in freaking Doc McStuffins, but we sure are the lucky ones.