If you've ever walked around with an octopus stuck to your face, you may be able to grasp the concept of how frustrating it is for me to fly with my nearly 2-year-old son. After just one flight with him, I'm physically altered. Aside from wearing both my coffee and his cloudy, backwashed cup of water on my pants, I also have blurred vision and teeth gnashed down to the nub. He doesn't scream, cry or make such a pest of himself that other's are inspired to double up on their birth control, its just that he glaums on to me and grasps every single object he can or can barely reach ... just when I get him in a tolerable position, like perched along the cliff of my knees, I'll catch one of his body parts covertly stretching out to make contact with things that are just slightly out of reach. Even if it means the perfect stranger next to us who's all... "Maybe if I concentrate really hard on this book, I can ignore your son's outstretched big toe stroking my wrist hair." At one point, Squigglepuss managed to balance somewhere up near my clavicle, slump over my head, and inform that same gentleman next to me that we were On. The. AIRPLANE! AIRPLANE! AIRPLANE!
Now I'm sleepless in Seattle. I should be getting some rest because I 'm catching a flight to Alaska in just two itty- bitty hours, but I simply can't stop the celebration of being the sole occupant of my personal bubble. A celebration that can only happen because finally, Finally, FINALLY, the baby and his tentacles have slipped into a jet-lagged coma.
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