As our plane taxied down the runway, I felt a wave of pride. We made it to the airport on time, I had only forgotten a couple of items, and only a few of my carry-ons were stopped at security. My 5-year-old son was tucked away in his car seat, engrossed in a tablet game, while my 8-year-old daughter was getting comfy with her movie selection. I turned to my husband, grinning, and silently mouthed, “Could this get any better?” Little did I know, the universe had other plans.
Just as I settled in for the in-flight entertainment, the seatbelt sign illuminated, and the flight attendant warned us of potential turbulence. “Turbulence?” I thought, chuckling to myself. “Perfect for lulling the kids to sleep!” But before my amusement could reach my husband, the shakes began. The plane swayed and dipped violently, as if it was a marionette controlled by someone having a bad day.
I glanced over at my husband, who gestured to check if I was alright. I must have looked like I was about to pass out, clutching the armrests with a death grip. Panic surged through me. I wanted to send him a silent “Help!” message, but he just shrugged, completely unhelpful.
Then the flight attendant made another announcement: due to air traffic issues, we were cleared to continue our flight. As a mom, I felt it was my duty to keep the family calm during this crisis. I tried to swallow my anxiety and glanced at my son, still happily playing on his tablet. Clearly, he needed comfort, so I offered him a pack of organic gummy snacks. After all, sticking to a “no artificial” diet is crucial when you feel like your life is in jeopardy, right?
“I’m not hungry,” he replied, his voice trembling.
“You’re… not hungry?” I asked in disbelief. My son, who usually devours everything in sight, looked up at me with a ghostly complexion and then uttered those dreaded words: “My tummy hurts!”
What followed was a scene straight out of a horror movie. In a matter of moments, chaos erupted. Vomit spewed everywhere—so much vomit that it pooled in his lap and soaked through the car seat buckles. My instincts kicked in, and I leaped from my seat, trying to avoid the disaster zone.
Did I mention that when my son throws up, he also passes out? Yep. There he was, my little boy, covered in his breakfast, unconscious in his car seat, while I awkwardly perched on my daughter’s lap to escape the mess. Oh, and my daughter uses a wheelchair, so there I was, a full-grown woman sitting on her disabled child’s lap, trying to navigate this absolute nightmare.
My husband, a new dad himself, sprang into action, unbuckling our son and attempting to clean him up faster than I could regain my composure. I started rubbing my son’s back and blowing gently on his face, hoping to wake him up. Miraculously, it worked—just enough for him to glance over and, of course, throw up all over my husband, who promptly joined in the retching chorus. At that moment, I seriously considered whether skydiving out of the plane might be a better option.
Eventually, my son declared he was “feeling all better now.” Thank goodness, because we had loads of space between the cramped rows of seats… oh wait, that was a lie. We had a space that was about half the size of our bodies, littered with gluten-free pretzels I had tossed around in my panic.
While my husband struggled to remove his vomit-soaked shirt, I rushed to get my son changed. I dressed him in the only spare item we had left in our carry-on—another outfit that would soon meet the same fate. By the time we landed, the illusion of being a competent traveler had evaporated, replaced by the tears of a frazzled mom.
My shirtless husband grabbed our son’s puke-covered car seat while I dressed him in whatever I could find: a winter coat, a barely-fitting Pull-Up, and wet shoes from the sink. As we made our way down the jet bridge, the Pull-Up ripped off my son, leaving us with a naked child to sprint to baggage claim for pants.
Best. Flight. Ever.
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In summary, if you think your travel experiences with kids could be rough, just remember: it can always get worse.