Friends, Family, and un-known blog readers, I thought I'd give you an idea of what my life has looked like, and is about to look like again. I'm traveling by myself, with my one year old. This is an interesting task to undertake, all the while rewarding. My one year old happens to be the easiest child on the planet. So while this is a stressful endevor, he makes it as easy as possible.
Let me start by telling you a little about us. I am a slightly easily aggitated person. My dad once got me on tape absolutely loosing my mind because my sister pronounced syrup like sir-up instead of seer-up. When people brake at green lights I sometimes wish I was a police officer so I could pull them over to tell them just how stupid they really are.
Andrew is a laid back, silly kiddo, who wants to go go go. He is a bottomless pit for food and water. He has the most beautiful long wavy brown hair. Everyone thinks he's a girl, no matter how blue the outfit.
Now to the story telling. A few weeks ago I made a trip to Texas to see a handful of family members. The way to Texas was fairly uneventful. We caught our flight to Memphis. From Memphis we caught our flight to San Antonio, day over. Our visits were pleasant, nobody got sick, nobody got bitten by dogs... good trip. The way home, however, was a little different. My first flight was at 6AM, so our day started at 3:30AM. Andrew woke up with a smile on his face, asking for milk. Perfection. We get to the airport with more than enough time. Awesome. We caught our first flight, and things start to go wrong. I knew from the time that I booked my ticket that I only had 38 minutes in Memphis, so nothing could go wrong in San Antonio. Well, someone decided to get sick, or have a panic attack or something, so we couldn't take off. After two hours of sitting on the tarmac, we get some paramedics on the plane to escort our sick friend off of the plane. Obviously I'm going to miss my next flight. When we get to Memphis, 95% of my co-flyers are ticked beyond description. I, shockingly enough, am rather calm. The pilot instructs all of us who have missed, or may miss, flights to speak to the representative that is at the gate. After gathering my stuff and my child I attempt to get off the plane. Grown men start throwing bows (elbows) to get off the plane before me. So here I am, pregnant, and carrying a child, being elbowed in the face by "gentlemen". I begin to feel a little annoyed. After I finally get off the plane I am instructed to go to a different gate where I will be assigned my new flight. I'm still a little annoyed, but not with the airline, all they did was take care of a sick man on the plane. But I'm still being kicked in the heels and shoved by other people with the same instructions. Ultimately I am re-routed through Atlanta, and then to Raleigh. All of a sudden my 6 hours of traveling turned into 14. Now, I go take a seat in Starbucks to get some coffee and breakfast. I sneeze and my nose starts gushing blood. Pregnancy rocks. All that Starbucks had was napkins, so I used about 10 napkins to stop the bleeding. After that humiliating episode I decided to take Andrew to a secluded part of the airport where he can just run around for a while. On my way to find such a spot, THREE people stop me to tell me what a beautiful little girl I have. FYI my stroller is blue and brown, and Andrew is dressed in a dark blue jumper with dinosaurs all over it. I internalize the irritation and just smile and nod. Finally my flight to Atlanta boards and we start on our way. After pulling away from the gate the pilot announces that our takeoff sequence has been changed and we won't be leaving right away. Translation: get comfy, we're going to be here a while. My layover in Atlanta was only an hour, so I knew that I was going to be cutting it close. 45 minutes later, we take off. When I get to Atlanta, I'm the one throwin' bows. I get Andrew into the stroller and we're off to the races. I have to change concourses so I have to go get on the train. I come flying up to the escalators and some TSA guy DARES to tell me that I can't take the stroller up the escalator, that I need to go to the elevator. I ignore him alltogether and shove my stroller onto the magic stair-case. I make the first train and get off at my concourse. I head back to the escalators where another TSA guy tells me the stroller rule. At this point I say "Stop me then!". He wisely decides against it and allows me to risk my childs life as I see fit. When we're off the escalator I start yelling, "GET OUT OF THE WAY!", and full out sprinting towards my gate. When I get there I am obviously the only person around hoping to board this flight. I run up to the gate keepers and wheeze out, "are *puff* you *wheeze* still *gasp* boarding *choke*?" He holds back a grin and scans my ticket and waves me towards the gate. YAAAAAAAAAY! When I get on the plane I warn my neighbor that this is flight number three for the day and that my child might be a banshee. My plan for this flight is to shove food in him the entire time. So the snacking began. My mother was kind enough to pack us a bowl of blueberries, a bowl of strawberries, a bowl of crackers, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. My son ate every bite of all of that. Impressive, I know. As we are descending I start to feel a sort of euphoric joy that we have survived the day, and are minutes away from the rescuing arms of my husband. We are sitting in the very first row, that isn't first class of course, and so are among the first to get off the flight. I have to stand right outside the plane to wait for them to bring up Andrew's stroller. So I get to watch everyone else get off the plane. I'm standing there and Andrew is playing at my feet. I am 5'10", used to be described as attractive, feeling pretty good about myself. As everyone is getting off the plane I'm getting the stereotype head to toe glance from some men. I'm thinking, "that's right, 14 hours of traveling with a one-year-old and I've still got it!" WRONG!! After getting my stroller I stop in the family bathroom to change Andrew's diaper and what do I see? I see a woman who is 5'10", either fat or pregnant, hair all a mess, with a blueberry ground into the front of her shirt. A shirt that is a maternity shirt so the blueberry stained part hangs awkwardly in front of my crotch. All to say I was given a reality check. All those glances were from men thinking, "good Lord, I'm never having children." Not so much, "oooo hottie".
So maybe my modeling days are behind me. But I've got to tell you, blueberry crotch or not, I've got the most wonderful child. I hope to thank God for him every day until I die.
I'm on my way to Texas again tomorrow... pray for me.
