Broke Wife, Big City
Babies
on a plane!
By Aprill Brandon
If I had to list in order
the Top Five Most Annoying People, they would be:
People who talk too loudly
on their cell phones while in tiny, enclosed, public spaces. (It’s
an elevator, buddy, not “The Real World” confessional booth. I’m
just trying to get to the fifth floor without intimate knowledge of
your weird armpit rash).
People who squeal and throw
their arms up when they see their old college roommate walking into
the bar.
People who don’t
understand the flow of cart traffic at the grocery store.
People who live tweet the
TV show they are watching.
People who are Taylor
Swift.
You notice who is not on
the list? People who take babies on planes. Because if anything,
these people deserve our utmost compassion and if you see them, you
should buy them one of those $9 airplane cocktails. Or five of them.
Because people who take babies on planes are wonderful, nice people.
And pretty. And smart.
With a great fashion sense.
OK, OK. The jig is up. I
know that people who take babies on planes are just the worst. And
three months ago, I would have gladly plotted with you the best way
to permanently exterminate these idiots off the face of the planet.
(My preferred method? Booking them all on the same flight until the
sound of all the crying babies makes them go all “Hunger Games”
on each other.).
But then three months ago,
I had a baby. An adorable baby. An adorable baby whose maternal
grandparents and 64 other close relatives live 850 miles away. Which
means an adorable baby who now has 66 people who live REALLY far away
that REALLY want to see him.
Which means next week I
will officially go to the dark side and get on an airplane
with…(shudder)…a baby.
And it’s going to be bad.
Oh, so bad. You know how I know? Because I was always, ALWAYS, that
person on an airplane who loudly groaned every time I saw someone
bring a baby onboard. I was always that person who turned around and
shot evil looks at the toddler kicking my seat. And I’m pretty sure
that at one point in my writing career, I dedicated an entire column
to how unfair it was that parents of small children got to board the
plane before I did (which included a line that went something like
this: “Just because you’re not smart enough to figure out birth
control doesn’t mean you should be rewarded with getting to jump to
the front of the line.”)
Oof.
Yeah. Hi, Karma. How you
been?
Needless to say, I’m
terrified. Granted, the flight is only two hours and 15 minutes, but
have you ever heard a baby cry? That sound has the miraculous
capability to make time virtually stop. I can’t tell you how many
times I’ve tried comforting my screaming child, freaking out
because he hasn’t stopped crying for three hours, only to look at
my watch and realize it’s been 45 seconds.
And my baby’s recent
behavior has done nothing to ease my fears. He’s become more
flighty than a teenage girl. Yesterday, he loved Mr. Giraffe. Today?
He hates him with the passion of a thousand witching hours. This
morning, only his binkie could get him to stop crying. Tonight? Don’t
you DARE put that vile thing in his mouth. Else he will cry ‘til he
vomits. And then he’ll vomit some more, just to show his disgust.
But they say the key to
winning any battle is preparation and so I’ve been spending the
past few weeks coming up with my battle plan. Extra bottles of breast
milk for when we ascend and descend? Check. Another extra bottle full
of water as backup to try and trick him once all the breast milk is
gone? Check. Mr. Giraffe? Check. A knife to kill Mr. Giraffe in case
Junior still hates him and wants to see him die for his alleged
crime? Check.
And just to
be extra safe,
I’ve been saving up these past few weeks so that I can afford to
buy everyone on the plane one of those $9 cocktails.
Can’t get enough of
Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at
http://aprillbrandon.com/
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