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.