I interrupt this series of old posts to bring you the story of my flight to California. Almost every mom who has traveled with small children has a 'plane story,' and I only offer up mine because I feel confident that my experience earlier this week puts me in contention for the top prize.
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When my husband announced that he wouldn't be able to join us on our vacation in California right away because of work stuff, I didn't think twice about taking all four of my kids on a cross-country plane ride by myself. My older kids are big enough, in theory, to comprehend the concept of playing quietly, and Cameron is an angel. No problem.
Just to be safe, though, I deliberately sat myself and my offspring in the last row of seats on the airplane, just in front of the kitchen and lavatory.
The flight was booked to maximum capacity and the very last two people to board the plane--a middle-aged couple--had the privilege of sitting in our row. Kellen welcomed the duo to the party by offering them a handful of M&Ms warmed to body temperature and half melted. The man disguised his excitement of getting to rub shoulders (quite literally) with my offspring with a long sigh and a pained look; his wife must suffer from epilepsy because she had what appeared to be a seizure when she counted how many children were within an arm's reach. I assured the couple, as well as the occupants of the row in front of us that they wouldn't even know my kids were there. I had lots of activities to keep them occupied for the 6 hour and 45 minute ride.
As it turned out, I grossly overestimated my children's interest in coloring books and crossword puzzles and simultaneously underestimated the amount of high fructose corn syrup that would be required to induce a temporary coma. My kids consumed their entire stash of candy shortly after takeoff and, with twelve sticks of gum in their mouths each turned to me and asked, "Now what?"
Fortunately, I was prepared for this question and pulled out the electronic babysitter, otherwise known as my husband's video I-Pod. I was smart enough to download several Disney movies onto the contraption before leaving the house. I was not smart enough, however, to remember to charge its battery. The device was so low on juice that it wouldn't even turn on.
About the time that I pointed my kids in the direction of the list of complimentary beverages in the in-flight magazine, Cameron began to cry. In fact, the only time he didn't cry over the next half hour was when he was eating, so I sat him on my lap facing me and fed him, first a 6 ounce bottle, then a jar of mashed sweet potatoes, and after that, a jar of pureed green beans. Immediately after consuming his last bite of beans, Cameron coughed and then vomited up the entire contents of his stomach onto my chest.
Cameron felt much better after his purging. I felt considerably worse. Kellen, who was sitting next to me at the time, began to hyperventilate, not at the sight of a gallon of green vomit pooled in my lap, but at what I was using to mop it up. In the panic of the moment, I grabbed the object closest to to me, which happened to be Kellen's most treasured possession: his special blanket, which he's had since birth.
"You ruined it! You ruined it!" he cried, just as the man sitting in the seat in front of him peeked through the crack between the seats and asked me to ask Kellen to stop tapping the back of his chair with his foot. The man was trying to sleep.
My attempt to keep the events of row 37 on the down low were frustrated further by the couple across the aisle, who, at the sight of so much vomit, began frantically jabbing at all three flight attendant call buttons above their heads.
The flight attendant was a little slow in coming because she had to make her way through the crowd of people lined up in the aisle next to our seats, who were waiting to use the bathroom.
The man standing directly over my head tried to refrain from stating the obvious, but in the end, the impulse to offer commentary on someone else's misery was too hard to repress. "Your baby just threw up," he observed.
"I think a little got on you," I replied. The man's smirk dissolved into paranoia and disgust as he threw himself into a frantic search for droplets of partially digested milk products on his elbows, shirtsleeves and rear end.
The flight attendant finally poked her head over the top of chair and grimaced at what she saw. She returned a few seconds later with a thick stack of paper towels. "I would have wet them," she apologized, "But we don't have any water."
At that, she retreated to her microphone where she announced over the loudspeaker that the ground crew in Philadelphia failed to refill the plane's water supply and, as a result, the plane was out of water. The toilets still flushed, but there was no water in the kitchen and lavatory faucets.
After changing Cameron and cleaning my clothes as best as I could, I returned to the task of entertaining my kids. Although the episode was over, it was made difficult to forget by the lingering scent of bile. "Something smells back here," the head flight attendant stated matter-of-factly, as she passed by my row.
"It's me," I confessed.
The flight attendant laughed before leaning in for a quick sniff. A few minutes later, she returned with a bottle of air freshener, which she sprayed into the air around my seat.
At the top of hour 2, I began to shiver. The vomit had soaked through my clothes and I was getting cold. Real cold. Faced with another 4 hours and 45 minutes of flight time, I thought I would feel better about myself if I took off my drenched underpants and went commando.
I thought wrong.
The kids went to sleep at the four hour mark, leaving me almost three hours to smell myself and plan future husband-free vacations.
The plane landed at 2:30am Eastern time. The plane had barely touched down on the runway when I called my husband, waking him up from a deep slumber.
"How was your flight?" he asked, groggily.
I didn't say a word. I let Cameron--who was crying at full intensity again--do the talking.
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Think you've got me beat? There have got to be some excellent stories out there. I welcome any and all challengers.
Bring it on.
"There isn't even a sash!" I complained to my husband after our first meeting on Tuesday. "I don't know if I can do this without a uniform!" I whined.
More than a costume that resembles a green bean, I want something that makes my position of authority transparent to the world, or at least to a bunch of fourth and fifth graders...and their parents. What I'm looking for is an outfit that says, "I am emotionally unstable. Do not mess."
The winner of 
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