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.

Scooby Snacks

There I stood in the kitchen, the picture of pure domestic bliss. The house was (somewhat) clean, my makeup was (partially) applied, my hair was (kind of) combed, and I was (sort of) dressed. But, best of all, after an hour of my best wild wild west wrangling, I had roped and subdued the tiny terrorist into the sweetest of nap time slumbers. I practically skipped out of her room as I oh so quietly closed her door, danced over the squeaky floorboard, gave my dog the look that said "you bark at the mailman even a little and you're pound bound" and stopped for a moment on my way to collapse on the couch just to revel in the serene sound of silence.

As I eagerly anticipated working out the mind numbing reality television show in which I was going to fully indulge, I heard the faintest sound of knocking. The dog's ears perked right up as she emitted a low growl. I frantically lunged at her as I whisper shouted SSSSHHHHHH! She looked at me apologetically. She didn't want to wake up the toddler any more than I did. I glanced toward the front door, confirmed that no one was standing there, and, convinced that both the dog and I should have our hearing checked, proceeded to turn on the tv.

I was only two seconds into the glorious drama that is Southern Charm when I heard the sound again. Knock, knock, knock. The dog jumped up, the hair raised on her back, poised to bark and ruin nap time and my subsequent veg time. I couldn't let that happen. I quieted the dog as I tiptoed toward the front door, ready to yell at what I thought for sure was the UPS guy. Thanks for supporting my online shopping addiction, Mr. UPS Man, but I swear to God if you wake the baby it is so on!

But no one was at the front door. Fully perplexed, I scratched my head in confusion but nothing - NOTHING - was going to keep me from the comfort of the couch and the endless time suck of the old tube. As I turned my back to the door, I heard it again. This time, the knocking was authoritative and definitive.

What. The. Heck.

The dog and I looked at each other, then looked down the hall, then looked back at each other. Her expression matched my bewildered one as I muttered, in my best Shaggy voice, "Uh oh Scoobs! This isn't good!"

The knocking, you see, was coming from inside the house. My heartbeat quickened as my spidey senses kicked into high gear. Slowly, I walked down the hallway, the pooch following closely behind. I made it to my daughter's room and as I cautiously opened the door and looked down, I saw it....

The tiny toddler terrorist had catapulted herself out of her crib and was furiously knocking on her bedroom door, demanding to be let out! She laughed when she saw my face, patted me on the leg and ran down the hallway with the gusto of an inmate who had tried for years and finally succeeded in busting out of the 'pen.

And as she claimed her new found freedom, I felt the carefully constructed walls of my own autonomy begin to crumble. I almost had a whole hour to myself - And I would have, too, if it hadn't been for that pesky kid!