Olley Olley.

Yep, made it on the flight.

It seems I have used all of my good travel karma- not to mention other travelers' good will.

Yesterday's travels capped off an otherwise stellar week with simply abysmal airport conditions. (I realize it's rather bougie to complain about expensive travel- and jaunts that get us home safely, at that- but permit me the post-holiday catharsis of a good ol' transit whine.)

I was already feeling rather mopey about leaving the homestead. Not only was it wonderful to see my family and spend Christmas with everyone, but it was so darned NICE to not be the one in charge. I didn't do a single load of laundry (yet I had neatly folded piles by my room each night), didn't cook one meal (yet ate full to bursting every hour on the hour), and maybe washed one cup (but used eleventy hundred). I napped. I showered. People held Suzy and entertained Nora. There were movies, Mario Kart tournaments, fires in the fireplace, anthologies read, and more than one platter of cookies demolished by me personally.

You understand my hesitation to leave.

But leave we did. To Albany International Airport, to be exact. Usually heading through their security is a skip through a [short] field of daisies. But not yesterday. After a positively Clampett-like dragging of all worldly possessions through the baggage check-in line (seriously, it was like we had one pair of shared hands between us, and they were newly acquired. Thank God Susannah was tied to me, or she might have been left in the car. We had no idea what our deal was, nor why we were completely unable to manage our disproportionate number of bags), we finally made it to the security check point.

Which wrapped eighteen times til Tuesday back over the drop-off overpass. For they were using one scanner- for the entire airport. One. Three lines, one scanner. (Even Chicago's Midway, at its absolute worst, uses at least four.) So we waited in that line until WELL past when our plane boarded. We even (inadvisably) got into two separate lines (me with Zuzu, Peej with NJ), to see if we could "race" and have at least half of our family board the darned plane.

Unfortunately, Nora became aware of this plan once the two parties were neatly separated by about a hundred exhausted and be-luggaged travelers. And she thought that this meant I wasn't coming home with her. And no amount of reasoning could convince her otherwise. And so she had a fit. (Causing the elderly grandmotherly type in front of P.J. to turn and shoot them dirty looks for the rest of this venture.)

Suzy, for her part, was sleeping nicely in her sling this whole time. This might be directly due to the fact that, while sliding out of the sling/hanging on for dear life, she may or may not have been losing oxygen. Either way, by that point I was fairly convinced that I was carrying at least two unrelated persons' baggage.

We were then cut off by a twentysomething girl who informed everyone that her plane was boarding. (Yeah, she was on our flight.) I informed her that half the line was on that flight (for we had all been talking). She smiled vapidly and continued to cut her way to the front. I almost threw Susannah's shoe at her. No one's that pretty.

We went through the scanner with little incident- except for the moment when I had to be reminded that I had a baby strapped to me. And she needed to be removed. Whoops. (I don't even know if I was wearing pants at this point, I was so brain dead. Just kept removing things. Except the child.)

Made it through security at roughly the same time as Peej and Nora. Double whoops. Absolutely booked it down to our gate. Forget numbered boarding- we had missed boarding altogether. And the gate was empty. We barely made it on the flight, but thankfully the gate attendant let us through.

"Wow," he said incredulously. "This is an all-baby flight! You're like the sixth one!"

Amazingly, there were three seats left together on the entire flight. And they were in the coveted last row before the bathroom. (I wouldn't have cared if we were on the wing by now, I was just desperate to sit down. And to see if Suzy had fallen out on the sprint.)

Aside from a ridiculously turbulent takeoff ("This is it," I announced to a crazed P.J., at least three times), the flight was pretty okay. If you don't count the fact that Susannah filled her diaper the moment we sat down and, due to the lack of changing table in the bathroom, didn't get so fresh and so clean clean for another two hours. Which I don't.

Last ones off the plane (which, I'm pretty sure, is good luck) and last ones to the baggage area- except for the gal with the orange lips and fedora who almost kicked Nora as she tripped over her and expressed her disdain for all things humanity. (Peej berated her and [edited] suggested that she go think about how to be a nicer person. He received passerby applause.)

Made it to the shuttle in time to awkwardly struggle with two bags, four carry-ons, and two overtired girls. The driver barely waited for me to clear the partition before he shut the doors. (Note to shuttle bus drivers: If you see a woman with a baby (sorta) tied to her, struggling to heft luggage onto a bus, fling a diaper bag into a seat, and prevent a toddler from falling back into the road- and all you do is avert your eyes, you know you're kind of a wad.)

But we made it to our car. Fed/cleaned/buckled at least two children inside. Got home just in time for bedtime (two hours late). While Peej made a grocery run, I mopped the floors and completely unpacked. (For I am clinically insane.) Begged the newly home P.J. to help me change all the sheets. (For I was desperate for a non-catified bed.)

And slept like the dead.

Until Susannah decided to wake up, two hours later.

And then again, every hour on the hour.

(It's good to be home.)

Also "Lords A'Leaping." I Also Wish You That.

In light of the fact that I am currently traveling through Chicago's luxurious Midway Airport, I'll keep my Christmas greeting brief (yet full of love- and perhaps only a bit of pith):

During this holiday season (and anytime else, really), I wish you cookies without slightly burned undersides, rendering the whole cookie kinda smoky...

...And helpful people. Like mail carriers who remember to close the mailbox on rainy/snowy days. And toddlers who don't remove their boots in public places. Like restrooms. While we're on that note, I wish you more Helpful Toddler and less Public Restroom in general.

I wish you naps. Glorious, snuggly, 3-blanket drowsy naps with nary a responsibility in the world...except maybe to inform someone what kind of beverage you'd like upon awakening. Maybe even the type of nap where a fabulously droney documentary is playing in the background, so you can sleep with the fuzzy knowledge that, by napping on the living room couch, you're still being borderline "social."

I wish you abject joy. The kind of joy that comes from explaining- with as much technical jargon as humanly possible- how exactly Santa Claus works. I hope you have a season where you get to concretely affirm the existence of magic (at least once).  

And lights. And decorations. And really, truly, eye-poppingly crazy displays of holiday cheer that- yeah, sure- are placing obscene amounts of money directly into the pocket of ComEd...but I still wish it for you. Because garish ornamentation at Christmastime makes one feel like a seven year-old. And, for real, is there anything better than being a seven year-old at Christmas?

I wish you love, family (or a decided lack o' family, if that's your happy place), and more than your fair share of nog. (Again, only if you like it. If not- NO NOG.)

And I hope you receive the noisiest, sparkliest, newest, and pokey-eye-outiest toy this side of A Christmas Story.

Oh yeah, and I also wish- as I have since I started writing letters to Santa in 1986- for world peace. (But also the sparkly toy, if that's cool.)

(Merry Christmas.)

On [in] the road [air] again...

This is how I USED to travel.

This morning, the mini Schoeny clan o' Chicago shall be heading back East.

Sadly, this involves plane travel.

Over the past few years, I've come to realize that I am a car trip kinda gal. So is my daughter. So is my husband (sans the "gal" part.) In fact, that last part is a bit of an understatement. Peej is the KING of the road trip. (And I am his consort. I can never be the Queen, you see- for I am, at heart, a commoner.)

Plane trips seem to bring out the planniest part of my nature. That's not a good thing.

I begin making lists- weeks in advance- when I know we'll be taking a flight. Lists to pack, lists to check, lists for carry-ons, and lists for stuff to do at home (because- and I really hope I'm not alone in this- taking a flight brings out the fatalist in me. This requires that everything be cleaned, washed, and put away. You know, just in case someone shows up to judge my homestead after I'm gone).

I make lists of how to pack things; ease of getting things from the car to the gate, ease of getting things in and out of security, and ease of transpo for the toddler. (The Nora part used to be cinched up by having me, at 6am, put her in a cloth sling. I'd take her out at roughly midnight and that would be that.) Now, sometimes we use a stroller. And sometimes she runs and I lure her with stickers and the promise of an iPhone show. Tomorrow will feature the device I enjoy best- Daddy's Shoulders. (Freeing Mama up to carry the diaper bag, carry-on bag- which, let's face it, holds nothing for my personal in-flight entertainment sans a broken blue crayon. Fun!- and various incidental things like Proof That The Baby Is Ours. I'll say it again- if anyone wants to take a child on a flight- theirs or otherwise- do not make them show documentation. Why the heck would they willingly travel with a child if not bound by blood and/or familial responsibility?)

I pack three pairs of [Nora's] pants. In "my" carry-on. Because nothing signals the beginning of contained travel like peeing through pants, hers or anyone upon whom she is sitting.

You'd think the snacks I carry could sustain the entire passenger list. (Ooh, there's an idea. I could clean UP! "Cheese stick? Yeah, that'll be nine dollars. Half eaten apple? Hmm. Fourteen. Hey, buy it or don't- it's the last one.)

Then we do the prayer dance that a) our bags are among the first fifty bags off the flight...and/or b) that our bags made it at all.

And among my absolute favorite parts is trying to flag down one's ride...which is currently impossible to do, as it is illegal- punishable by death- to stop anywhere near the curb/airport/major metropolitan area to pick up one's passengers. Unless they are already in your car when you pull up to Arrivals, then you are doing it wrong.

And it cannot be stressed enough that this is for a One. And. A. Half. Hour. Flight.

If this were a car trip, we'd all be wearing hoodies, we'd shove ourselves in the car twenty minutes after we rolled out of bed, and halfway through the trip I'd toss a banana back to Nora. (And we'd be HAPPY.)

Here's wishing you all a Thursday free of peed pants and lost anything, and with all of the complimentary snacks your heart desires.

Even peanuts.

Unless you don't like them.

Then I wish you a day with no peanuts.

Whine and Jeez.

Magical cookies.

I totally jinxed myself.

Why oh why would I put it out there to the cosmos that I was relaxed- especially after my drama-free flight? And how about the fact that yesterday afternoon I actually mentioned that I had NOTHING to blog about for Monday morning?

That'll show me.

United Airlines Strike Number 1: The flight was delayed. For mechanical reasons. In fact, it hadn't even left Chicago by the time I got to the airport, less than an hour before takeoff. (Kid at the counter: Uh, we updated the flight status twenty minutes ago. Me: I usually give myself a little more transit time than that. Do you think I live in the airport parking lot?) Also- To Whom It May Concern, rounding an hour and forty minutes delay down to "an hour" is NOT whimsical nor is it refreshing.

Nora Jane Point 1: "Mama- dat!" This was exclaimed happily toward every single piece of artwork, display window and ceiling installation...which, truth be told, I would have entirely missed due to grumpiness.

United Airline Strike Number 2: The kid at gate counter (what, is it Take Your Surly Tween To Work Day?) was eye-poppingly rude. Because of the late hour in which we'd be landing, I wanted to check on the availability of two seats together and the Economy Plus seating- which, hilariously enough, was the same free option on the fight out east. He snapped that they don't just GIVE those seats out, there's a reason people PAY for them. (Blink, blink.) Really? Is my money no good here? Am I a little match girl begging for crusts of bread? HAVE I OFFENDED YOU BY ASKING YOU TO DO YOUR JOB? He also demanded to see my boarding pass before he'd let me put a gate tag on Nora's stroller. Yes, because during all of this fun, I'm going to pointlessly hand over the easiest method of transporting my kid onto a flight which I have no intention of taking. Would you also like her sippy cup and spare diaper?

Nora Jane Point 2: She rustled up some good will amongst the cranky passengers, hopefully buying us some time on the flight for peace, love and understanding. She also attempted to share what appeared to be the best shortbread cookies in the history of the world, ever.

United Airlines Strike 3: The gate kid refused to acknowledge priority boarding between groups 1 and 2- which the flight heading east most certainly did. I realize that this is not a humongous deal except for the pain in the buttitude for those boarding directly after me having to wait and watch me heft two carry-ons, my child, and fold a stroller for AN OBVIOUSLY GOVERNMENT-REGULATED GATE CHECK. And this is before we even get on the darned plane. And- and- I could've just sucked it up and acknowledged the fact that we were all running late, let's get on the plane and shut up, if not for the fact that he was giving me The Eye during the boarding process (and I am not normally paranoid), daring me to say or do something. In terms of Example Making, he wanted me to be the Piggy to his Jack. (Anyone?)

Nora Jane Point 3: She let me hoist her under one arm with nary a peep during the boarding shenanigans.

United Airlines Strike 4: (Seriously, if I had had any other options at this point, I would've lit someone on fire. Maybe this is unwise to post in conjunction with an airport story?) United seated me in a two seat row next to an extraordinarily obese woman. (No joke- she needed two seatbelt extenders. I didn't know that EXISTED!) And, most magically of all, she was holding a nine month old baby. Two kids on the whole flight and they're wedged together. (Also, I do believe that United's rules prohibit that kind of thing in one row, but I wasn't about to whip out the rule book at this point.) I had to sit sideways with Nora's legs dangling over my armrest into the aisle. This is no exaggeration- the woman took up her seat and over half of mine. NOT COOL. I asked an attendant if there were any other seats so that the kids didn't keep each other up during the flight- she said she'd check.

Nora Jane Point 4: Babies! We love babies!

United Airlines Strike 5: There were multiple single seats open next to people who really really wanted extra space for their Kindles and nap pillows. The flight attendant asked if anyone would be willing to move or have a baby next to them. NO ONE WOULD. So we took off. And did I mention that the massive woman reeked of stale smoke and her kid was already starting to do that hehhhh whine of extremely overtired babies? (I know it well. I was doing it, too.)

Humanity Point 1: Some generous soul reluctantly agreed to be moved to Economy Plus- IN HIS OWN ROW- and this allowed Nora and I to take the back row of seats before the toilet. Win. The rest of the flight progressed as follows: snacks, books, twenty second increments of Dora the Explorer on iPhone, five minute increments of app deleting, snacks, books, stickers, snack of stickers, Chex mix massage for laptop, hiding of blueberries (later to be found directly on the butt of jeans), the hour long version of Itsy Bitsy Spider, tweaked laughter, no sleeping.

I'm not entirely sure how I managed to birth a better traveler than myself, but I'm eternally grateful. Another fun fact: Did you know that certain economy jets do not come equipped with a changing table in the bathroom? None. Nor do some flights offer any dairy products aside from powdered creamer? The combination of apple juice and nary a spot for diaper swapping inspired some awfully creative changing action. It didn't phase her.

Nor did the fact that during this quick change, I got a nose bleed.

I'm amazed she's even talking to me today.

Upon getting home, I became a pile of Useless and was promptly tucked in at 10pm CST- if it was even that late. I inexplicably woke later on to check on Nora and make sure tags were displayed somewhere. I checked the clock, thrilled that I had gotten such a good night's sleep so far and that Nora hadn't yet stirred.

It was 11:41pm.

          I made the Top Five for Parenting Blogs! Go vote!

Can I write a Trip Advisor review?

Nice.

I am really, really relaxed.

This does not make for a compelling read, I realize.

But let's see if I can create some dramatic tension, twists n' turns, and cliffhangers for bloggy's sake.

On Tuesday morning we got Nora out of bed at 5:45am to head to O'Hare. I had booked the earliest flight possible, thinking that it would be easy that way. (Sure, 'cause nothing says 'easy' like an exhausted toddler.) And an accident on 90/94 made me panic about dragging NJ through the baggage check and security. (TENSION!) But...P.J. got us there in [safe] record time, we were first in line to check our bag, and security took all of three minutes. "She's such a good traveler," an agent told me. (Not really, I wanted to reply. Her carry-on bag? Not to mention her ziplock baggie? Chaos. She also wholly disregards the three ounce rule.)

Winning the Mom Of The Year award, I let my kid scarf a sausage McMuffin and a hash brown in front of an airport TV.

We boarded a positively dwarven plane- you know a plane has a low roof if the 5'4" gal complains- and sat in the front row. Awesome! Except...you know that wall at the front of the plane? Plenty o' leg room, but not so much in the storage department. I was told that I needed to stow both of our carry-ons in the overheard compartment. (So, uh, the seven hours of kiddo entertainment? Yeah, I'd have access to none of that.) I shoved as much as I could in my pockets (a surprising amount) and put N on my lap. Oh- and I had booked a single seat as opposed to the double seats across the aisle...but when our gate changed, so did our commuter plane. Reversing the seats. So now I was in a window seat with no access to the overheard sanity-savers, anxiously awaiting the unfortunate soul on the aisle who was to have my child directly up their nostril for the flight. (TENSION!)

But...they never showed. The flight attendant tapped my shoulder and smiled at Nora. "She can have that seat, if she wants."

I buckled Nora into a seat after we took off and watched her sit and read. (I hadn't planned for that.) It was awesome. She had a juice. Played with some dolls. Charmed her fellow flyers. And sure, had a high-stakes standoff on the changing table of the loo, but that was fleeting and ended well.

We landed early. Our stroller was the first item off of the plane. We rolled to meet my mother at the gate and got the suitcase- the first one on the conveyor belt. Nora napped on the drive home while I had one of my favorite sandwiches in history- liverwurst and mustard on dark rye. (Seriously. My Mom makes this amazing sandwich for me when I'm sick/visiting/home for lunch from kindergarten. I was the coolest five year-old ever.)

Oh, Mim.

I got to take a nap that day. And eat stuffed pork chops. Watch an MST3k with my Dad. And let my Mom feed/bathe/change/play with Nora. (TENSION...was completely nonexistent.)

Even being the solo Nora-getter in the wee hours of the morning hasn't been so crazy. Maybe she's catching up from a nutso past few weeks, but she's napping and sleeping like a champ- this has allowed us to have some terrific excursions around town. These include a life-changing free chair massage and a stellar reading from a talented lady. Today we're having lunch with an honorary Mom of mine (she's earned the title by taking me to the ER as many times as my own mother) and later going for a swim.

Maybe I'll even get a nap.

To those who say you can never go home again- they are sadly misinformed. Not only can you go home, but it'll be a seamless trip, your Dad has new music for you to hear, AND THERE'S SEAFOOD FOR SUPPER.

Plus all of the Clifford episodes one could hope for. If you like that kind of thing.

They've got everything here.

Let us pray.

Hi!

Nora's a really good little kid. I feel like I haven't been blogging about her as much as I used to- back in the days of first food, first sounds, first episode of The Office- because she's always just around. Being cool. Sure, she's in the stories a ton, but hasn't gotten a ton of solo press lately. So here's what's up with the biggie little in the house:

-Anytime I've helped one of my kiddos out on the potty, she toddles in and points to them and then herself. She then pats her bum and says "Dipe." THIS IS AWESOME. As anyone who's ever tried to train a kid to use a toilet well knows- Obstacle One is getting them to realize where they should pee. And not pee, so much.

-This kid needs a ton of alone time. Not that I blame her. I feel like I'm forever hoisting her into the car for work, appointments, and errands. So when she gets to choose, she's happiest in a tiny nook of her own making, turning the pages of board books. This can go on for a while. You know what else can go on during this time? Showers, meal preparation, towel naps...

-We've had bedtime rituals since day one, and no one knows them better than Miss Bossy Britches. Right before bed, I hug her and hand her to P.J. for The Final Countdown. We always say "Goodnight Nora/Goodnight Mommy/Goodnight Stairwell", etc., etc. (I am NOT kidding. It can take an hour.) The other night, right after the hand-off, she leaned back over to me with an 'mmm' for a kiss. On her own volition. (Without me badgering her- "Kiss Mommy goodnight, gimme a kiss. Kiss kiss, Nora." She never had. But I wouldn't kiss me either with that kind of pressure.) The point is, she did it. And I almost peed, I was so excited. (That would've put the kibosh on further kissing, no?)

So why all the NJ love? Cinchy.

I am trying to convince the cosmos of how much I adore my child. That way, they can return the favor just in time for our upcoming flight tomorrow morning; in the form of a docile child, speedy flight, and the safe arrival of every single thing and person aboard- with nary a threat of someone riding the wing.

Here are the items that I have packed in our carry-on as a) a mother, b) a nanny, c) a savvy passenger, and d) a person whose first rodeo this AIN'T:

-Enough diapers/medicine/wipes/ointment/sanitizer/tissues/bibs/placemats to catch/clean/treat the bodily functions of eight children twice her size.
-Seven books (my hope is that by the time she gets to the last book, she'll have forgotten all about the first one.)
-One baby doll named Dot.
-One frog named Doc (her syllables are shockingly similar- but those in the know can tell the vast difference between a cry for Doc and Dot.)
-Snacks in a Snak-trap, snacks in a baggie, snacks in their sealed packages, bananas.
-Milk that I've been assured will not be thrown away at the security checkpoint- but which, come on, will.
-Two episodes of something or other concerning baby animals.
-Stickers/paper/crayons/packaging of the stickers (it's all about buying time, people.)
-A toy cell phone with which she'll happily play and then demand...
-...My cell phone.

And if all goes according to plan, we will be on the plane for a little less than two hours.

Pray for us, St. Christopher. Pray for us, United Airlines. Pray for us, Patron, patron saint of miniature liquor bottles.

I probably need a few more stickers.

Don't trust that smile.

Nora and I just returned from her nine month checkup and I'm happy to report that she is indeed growing. And moving. And hitting milestones- in fact, she's knocking 'em over like a sprinter catching his track shoes on a series of hurdles. Which, you know, isn't usually a positive metaphor, but one that kept popping into my head. Kick, thwack, karate chop. Milestones.

She's still in the 10-25th percentile for height and head size (yay, consistent brains!) and solidly in the 5-10th for weight. But someone has to be, right? Or there wouldn't be a "percentile" based on "100." And, as my doctor asked incredulously, "she's a mover, isn't she?" And she has close to five teeth. And says Mama, Da, Bean, Dis, Dat, Hidere (hi there), Yeah, Yay...and she meows. The doctor also said that she'd begin standing and cruising soon (you know, like her Dad does) and would tentatively begin to let go of surfaces. Which she's been doing for a month.

My daughter= surpassing my personal record of walking at 17 months and actually doing non-bloblike things before then. (Go forth, my child...)

And then the doc said he'd see us in three months. For her one year checkup. And I- inexplicably but kinda predictably- began to well up. A YEAR?? Look, Buster, I carried her for close to four years and I know for a fact that her three day checkup was last week...so I don't know what this "one year" business is. I demand a recount.

Of course, before I get too schmaltzy and sentimental, I need to remind myself that just two days ago I was crying for a completely different reason.

It involved our return flight from Boston, a.k.a. the inevitable cosmic backlash from the hubris of the previous flight. Of course, I didn't see this coming at all. She napped exceptionally well that day. Ate dinner in the airport food court. Smiled and waved at random people. Crawled around and got all tuckered out. Then we got on the plane.

Here's how it went down:
-Random businessman told me how cute she was. I preened and admitted that she was the easiest baby, ever.
-His colleague stated that he'd never seen a baby this young with brown eyes already. I kept it in.
-Getting to our window seat, we played happily. (Nora and myself. Not the businessmen.) For ten minutes.
-She started to get fussy so I tried to nurse her.
-She dozed off for five minutes right after takeoff and I- stupidly- took out a book to read.
-Waking in a panicked and psychotic rage, she ripped the blanket from my shoulder, exposing my entire chestal areas for the first time on this particular flight.
-I tried- stupidly- to calm her down. She noted her displeasure at my attempts.
-I tried to walk her to the bathroom and bounce her a little.
-We got stuck behind the beverage cart. The. Whole. Way. Back.
-I used the bathroom. (Impressed? I know.) Nora was not. In fact, this is when she filed her formal complaint and checked out for the evening.
-Screeeeeeaaaaaamed the whole walk back. Got stuck behind attendants picking up the trash.
-Finished my drink. (Gingerale, sadly. I had a stomachache. Can you imagine why?)
-Nora helped this along by upending it on my book...and the woman in the middle seat. (She was kind. Also, she spoke no English. I don't know if this made it any better.)
-Tried to clean. With a magazine and what was left of my book. Apologized.
-Nora chewed on the soaked magazine and raged like a velociraptor when I pried the gummy pieces from her mouth.
-Took the Cheerios I had been carefully feeding her one at a time...and showered our entire row (and two rows back) with them. With big arms.
-She rubbed her eyes, so I- stupidly- assumed that she was tired. Tried to nurse her.
-She dozed off for five minutes. I closed my eyes.
-Opened them when she exposed me yet again in a freaked out angerfest, the likes of which have rarely been seen in such a contained space.
-I tried to distract with books, toys, a seemingly endless supply of snacks, and soggy reading materials on which to chomp. (I gave up- eat the paper, Nora. Go ahead.)
-She spent the rest of the three hour flight (and this was only 40 minutes in, mind you) shoving against me, shrieking with a purple face and wild eyes, and making the non-English-speaking couple next to me clutch hands and rethink their future.
-Watched as the woman sitting in front of me pushed the attendant button, only to shrug helplessly and gesture at me when the attendant showed up. Really? Really?
-Decided my apologetic and embarrassed (and super stressed) attitude had run its course, thanks to the passive aggressive behavior in row 10.
-Wished her ill.
-Wished myself ill.
-Debated putting Nora out on the wing.
-Tried to nurse once more. It worked. Briefly. Remained unconcerned when I was- yet again- exposed.
-Left my boob like that for a few minutes. Because really, in terms of being viewed as an attractive being on this flight...well, I think that's safely in the past.
-Landed. Eventually. Somehow. Waited on the tarmac for twenty minutes for a completely random and as still unknown reason.
-Apologized and thanked my way off the plane. Heard the slightest bit of subtle applause.
-Handed a completely smiling and stoked baby to her father.
-Watched, bemused, as she conked out for a solid twelve hours.

...And marveled at my ability to be completely in love with this little beastie by 7am the next morning. Biology's a funny, funny thing.

I'm certain the rest of Flight 2281 would disagree.

But you can't beat that kinda free birth control.