On board our 8 PM flight homeward, we were hopeful that the kids would get a little sleep so that we could successfully get them OFF the plane at home and through baggage check and into the car with a minimum of fuss. Other parents on board had the same idea, or so we thought.
If I may digress for a moment ... Everyone here has probably met a competitive mother. One who seems to believe that parenting is a gold-medal event and want to constantly throw out there all the wonderful things they do for their children? Here's the thing: I found this sport particularly prevalent at playgroups and such that I attended with Conor when he was a baby. Where, if we are honest with ourselves, mothers are really going just to connect with other new mothers in order to try and reclaim an iota of sanity after being chucked headfirst into a strange new world of midnight feedings, mustardy poop blowouts and a constant and pervasive odor of sour milk in all of your clothes. If we were honest, we'd admit that we just want to see if we're doing ok at it. The mother thing.
This longing for reassurance, unfortunately, often manifests itself as The Mother Olympics. Pitting breast against bottle, a paying job and daycare against being home full time, cloth against disposable. And on and on. Nobody wants to believe that they are not doing the best possible job for their child, but in fact we all believe we are failing in some respect. If we are honest with ourselves. So we look to our babies to prove us worthy, and mark the milestones in constant comparison to other babies. And we loudly and proudly defend our choices as parents because what other choice is there? Admit that we don't really know what we're doing? Ha! We tear down other moms who have made different choices, because that's the clearest way of all to prove that our own way is best.
Anyway.
What I have learned, being the Meanest Mother in the World, is that we are all doing the best we can. Choices that seemed so important in the early months are nothing compared to what we will face when our babies become teenagers, when they have their own agendas and don't really give a flip about making us look like good mothers. So to all the moms and moms-to-be reading this, do what you want. Do your best. Love your kids with all your heart, and know that at the end of the day, what matters is that your children grow up with your love in their heart, however you manage to put it there.
Digression over. I tell you all of that, so that I can say this.
The Queen of Competitive Mothering was sitting about two rows behind us on this flight.
And I pretty much wanted to kill her.
She was carrying on loud conversations with her toddler child, so that we'd all hear what a clever mommy she was. How interactive. We were all very proud of the QCM and her genius child. They were reading aloud, in two languages! When I say reading aloud, I mean reading LOUDLY. In a very singsong voice.
Twelve times.
Twelve times we got to hear a bilingual adventure undertaken by Dora and her friends. With perfect Spanish pronunciation on the Spanish words, just like the way newscasters do when they talk about Nicaragua. Rolled the "r" and everything.
Give me strength. Give the woman a medal and shut her up. Honestly. We get it! You are a great mom and your kid is a frickin' (NOF) genius. If you want us all to know how great you are, don't resort to these sneaky tactics. Write a trip report and brag about them openly, for goodness sakes. Be up front about it.
At last little Dora went to sleep, and her QCM quieted down.
My kids had zonked out long ago, after their doses of Robitussin.
Just kidding!
Or am I?
All in all, despite the QCM, it was an uneventful, quiet flight. I was glad it was a Friday, so we didn't have to get up in the morning for school or work or facing a day without Mickey. I sort of wished it wasn't Friday the 13th, but if we crashed, at least we were all together.
Stop shuddering. You know you've thought that, too.
We didn't crash, just so you know. We made it back to our home base airport safe and sound, and were even able to awaken the kids to ambulatory status with, as we'd hoped, a minimum of fuss. Lucky break, for Conor. He was not destined to be dropped on his other eye in the aisle of the aircraft. Sporting double shiners on the return from Disney World would have taken some 'splaining.
The in-laws (or, the out-laws, as they like to call themselves) had been in charge of our car all week. They had volunteered to pick us up at the airport. They didn't care that we were arriving after eleven o'clock. They are very nice that way. They love taking people to airports and picking them up.
After a quick stop at the out-laws' house to drop them off, we turned our trusty van toward home. The kids were wide awake again, jabbering about the trip. Debriefing, so to speak. The Disney Magic hung with us until about a mile from our house.
Then it vanished with a POOF.
Or rather, a bleeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh.
Yes, that was the sound of my sweet Sydneyralla, yakking her French fry dinner all over herself, her car seat, and the car.
Oh, the horror.
We were so close to just collapsing in our beds, leaving laundry and unpacking for tomorrow.
Instead, I had to fish my way through the mess to find Sydney's buckles, get her undone and race her up to a warm tubby. Start a load of laundry. Wash chunks out of my baby's hair. While Doug had to hose off the car seat, sanitize the interior of the van (ha! Like it didn't smell bad enough already!) All while holding his nose and covering his mouth. He doesn't "do" vomit. Lucky for me, I just love it.
So that's the way our SuperSecretSurpriseSydneyisSONotFiveYet trip ended. With our very first episode of car zzubing. At midnight, no less.
Sydney in fact did not get better for two full weeks after that. Which was scary, since she was only two at the time. Barely ate anything, and what she did eat did not stick. So to speak.
I'm sure this would have elicited much sympathy from my readers had I been posting about it at the time. Back in May of 2005.
Now, I'm sure you're just cursing me for ruining your lunch. Since Sydney is obviously fine now. Eighteen months later.
I have more to say, in another chapter. An epilogue, if you will. Since that seems to be the thing to do. And it will be vomit-free. Promise. I couldn't leave you this way.