there: a minion's tale

Have you ever flown with two toddlers? There is one simple way to make this be an effortless and smooth experience...

Don't.

I stood at the edge of the security line, which loomed like a fire-breathing dragon, out to consume all morality, sanity, and hope. Justin hugged each of the kids, instructed them to obey mama, and then tickled them until they would forget all previous directions. He wrapped me up in a big hug and said, "I'll miss you."

Yes. Yes, you will miss me... when this whole flying affair actually rears up its villainous head and kills me. Offer some nice poetry at my eulogy.

I hugged him a moment longer than necessary... how many seconds are in a moment? Is it, like, a thousand or fewer? The hug was clearly too long for my husband, who started the awkward hug ending cues. He was really going to do it. He was going to walk away, while I wrangled two children, two blankies, two monkeys, two juice cups, four carry-ons, one stroller, and ten dramamine pills through security, onto a plane, and across the country. ... Wait, I'm forgetting something... oh, me. Yes, I also have to wrangle me and my attitude problem onto that plane... without earning a strip search... which is really the challenging part.

A whole stack of little gray totes later, I exited security with two children, two blankies, two monkeys, two juice cups, three carry-ons, one stroller, and ten dramamine pills. Those observant of you who excel at math will note a slight variation between what entered security and what left it. At 3:45am I am neither observant, nor good at math, so the slight modulation of stuff eluded me.

Our plane was not leaving until 5:40am. Fun. Two hours to entertain the minions in an airport where nothing is open. We found our gate in two seconds. Then, we decided to walk. It was thirty minutes later as we passed a space ship that Noah swore looked like a lion (the very same one that ate Daniel's betrayers) that the PA buzzed: "If you recently passed through security checkpoint six and left a carryon, please return to retrieve it."

For half a second I actually thought, I don't really need that bag. It's not like we're going to the North Pole. It was then I looked down at my darling daughter's concerned face. Her kitty shirt was in that bag.

"Ah crap." I muttered, and we trekked half an hour back to security.

I needed juice to dissolve the dramamine, to drug my children. I'm not proud of that sentence.

We walked fifteen minutes back in the direction we had already gone to find an open store with orange juice that must have been squeezed from the rare golden oranges of Coranoque, which only grow once every seven years and are fertilized by a bee on the endangered species list. (This is the only logical reason why orange juice would ever need to cost that much.) We hoofed it fifteen minutes back to our gate, I engaged in alchemy, and I waited with perhaps too devious of a smile for my children to show signs of Aurora's slumber. ... They did not.

I changed Noah, but the process took so long that I did not have time to change Hannah. I'm sure that won't come back to bite me later on...

I wrangled our FOUR carryons, and all that other junk down the tunnel, Hannah boarded the plane, I folded up the stroller, Noah and I boarded the plane, we recovered Hannah from first class (a second later and she would have been sipping a martini and reading Forbes magazine), and found our seats.

It would be too much to detail the disaster that ensued. Therefore I will list the events and allow your imagination and desired chronology to supply the minutia.

Both children slept for forty-five minutes.
Hannah demanded goldfish.
Noah demanded goldfish.
Hannah ate Noah's goldfish.
Noah demanded fruit snacks.
Noah demanded the Ipad.
Hannah demanded the Ipad.
After being told to wait her turn, Hannah kicked the seat in front of her incessantly.
Hannah was strapped into her seatbelt.
Hannah stretch-armstrong-slid her way out of the seatbelt.
Unable to complete his dinosaur puzzle Noah kicked the seat in front of him.
Screaming.
Hannah peed through her diaper.
Mama cleaned the seat with baby wipes.
Hannah danced naked on the chair while mama tried to wrestle her into her kitty shirt.
Noah took his shoe off.
Mama threatened that all nakedness would end in death.
Hannah peed through her diaper again. (too much spiked punch)
Naked dancing.
No available weapons.
Baby wipes cleaning the seat.
Screaming.
Exasperation from the woman in front of us.
"Is this your first time flying?" condescendingly from the man in front of us.
Whimpering.
Turbulence.
Still.
Lots of turbulence.
Pretzels for Hannah and Noah, Cookies for Mama.
Pretzels for Hannah, cookies for Hannah, nothing for Mama.
Hannah demanded more goldfish.
Screaming (me).

I have now prepared a long and scathing letter for the makers of dramamine. Because this is all their fault.