Midnight, and bound for Disney World. Watch each minute of the clock count down until the cab finally arrives to take us to the airport. Remind self, for hundredth time, that a three hour plane ride is a much better mode of transportation than twenty-five hours in a car with two young children, no matter how much I hate to fly.
2:05am: Wake family. Suppress urge to ask baby how he likes being woken at two in the morning, and pack everyone in the cab. Convince two sons that even though it’s -16C in Toronto, the reason we’re wearing t-shirts and shorts is because Florida is a balmy +25. They refuse to get in the spirit and claim they’re “F-f-f-freezing.”
3:30am: Arrive at the airport three hours before takeoff. Paralyzing fear of flying actually becomes paralyzing, and try to put on a brave face in front of children.
3:35am: Overhear son asking husband, “Why aren’t the other mommies drinking Jack Daniel’s at 3:30 in the morning?”
6:30am: Board plane and make a whole bunch of pacts with God that likely can’t be kept.
6:31am: Informed by pilot that a passenger who was scheduled to fly has decided not to board flight. Due to regulations, there will be a slight delay. Logically conclude that absentee flyer is a terrorist who has put a bomb on board. Hope that I’m wearing clean underwear, so Mom will be proud when my body is found.
6:32am: Informative pilot also advises there’s ice on the wings, as we head to the de-icing station. Now have another scenario to add to the statistical inevitability of plummeting to our deaths—frosty wings. Two-year-old baby spooked by de-icing trucks. Only sound heard over wailing infant is my Hail Mary chanting.
6:45am: Take off. As stomach is lurched into throat, remember why my fear of flying exists. Try to put on a brave face for children. There’s no alcohol allowed during take-off, so fail miserably.
7:00am: Reach maximum altitude and realize that in addition to fear of flying, I also possess the gift of motion sickness. Wonder which fear will manifest first—vomiting from nausea or passing out from anxiety.
7:21am: Try to calculate how long I’ve been in the air and how long I have to go. Three hour flight, I must have endured at least half of the trip by now. Check watch. It’s 7:20. Time is actually going backwards.
8:00am: Two-year-old son on my lap has stopped crying, but has now relieved himself all over my jeans. I look at this as a positive opportunity—should I decide to do the same thing, I can blame it on the baby.
8:15am: Five-year-old son sees his brother’s urination and raises a freezing cold water spill all over my lap. Good news is the pee’s washed away. Bad news is there’s so much turbulence I can’t go to the washroom and clean myself up. Have I mentioned I hate flying?
9:15am: Sympathetic flight attendant kneels beside me, asking if I want anything, as I’m not looking well.
9:16am: Apologize profusely for barfing on her pretty pink shoes. Ask for another barf bag whenever she has a free moment, and to keep them coming.
9:30am: The plane lands without incident and I kiss the ground unabashedly.
9:31am: Head directly to rental car kiosk to arrange for another mode of transportation for our return trip home to Toronto. It’s either that or walking.
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