TURBULENCE

There are two types of turbulence. One kind is when the airplane drops twenty feet, everyone gasps and looks around to make sure the plane is still in tact. The other is flying with two very small children. 2 months and 25 months. We are moving to Florida. Pit stop in Texas to spend Christmas with my family. Hubby had to drive Mister (our 100 pound yellow lab).  So, I was on my own with the girls, two car seats, a stroller and enough luggage for three weeks in tow.

Goodbye Los Angeles, as much as I will miss you and the millions of people smushed on top of me, I am desperately excited for our new house and yard *gasp* where kids and animals can run crazy expending every last drop of energy they have before they pass out into a beautiful sleep and mama gets a few minutes of quiet. Ahhh, I have high hopes for you Florida. 

Arrive at airport. Load all crap luggage on the belt and watch it disappear. We say goodbye. See you in a few days. Good luck with the 100 pound blond bomber. I hope he doesn't blow you out of the car with his gassy behind.

Security. I am trying really hard to be patient. We strip down. The three of us walk through the detector. You want to go through the bags? grrrr. Yes, I am alone with all this crap. do you see anyone else standing around me? Yes, beautiful day. California has the best weather.  good riddance CA. uh, huh. Your gonna dump my daughter's juice?  grrrr.  Thank you, I like her pig tails too although she doesn't.  Do not touch my children. Do not touch my children. Your coming to close. Yes, I know they are freakin' adorable. Lady, my blood pressure is rising. I step back a little and let her finish her search. Oh, we are clear? Well, la te da. Thank you very much.

Cue Punks, "juuuu, mama". I give the nice TSA lady a smart ass "thank you very much" look for dumping my daughter's juice.  Now, I have to pay $10 for a juice box and listen to Punks ask for juice 95 times until I am actually able to get to a place to purchase the dang thing.  I walk with #2 strapped to me tight. Her head is resting on my left bicep while the rest of my arm is wrapped around her head in order to get the bottle into her mouth that is chirping open like a baby bird. damn kid. your such a little piggy. you need to learn to hold your own bottle. I push Punks in her stroller with my right arm, all the bags hanging off the side. Are we there yet?

Juice? check. Arrive at gate. "Mama, babe down" um, okay. Where shall I put her? she can barely hold her head up. Punks and I people watch. Not the best thing to do with a toddler. They have no filter.  We entertain ourselves as we point and stare.  "birrrr" I smile, "she likes your bird hat".   "booo hair" I smile again, "she likes your blue hair".  "uuukkkk, mama" goth girl with 25 piercings. oops. ah, well she was already angry.

Into our seats. "How about we play the color game?" What color is your shirt? mommy's shirt? She points to an older gentleman.  He has used quite a bit of hair gel to hold what is left of the hair on his head in place.  not hurricane season, sir. Too much gel in white hair and it actually turns...  "ELOW MAMA ELOW!" as she points in his direction.  Good job Punks, making friends.  Here, have an animal cookie. I don't dare look up. Pretend she isn't so blatantly pointing at him.  That lasts about 3 seconds and she starts to chant "iCa Mama iCa" What 2 year old do you know watches iCarly? Punks is obsessed with it. She wants to watch it all. the. time. over and over and over.  I tell her in my most calm voice that iCarly does not come on the little tv staring her in the face.   "Nooo, Mama" She mimics my voice. Puckers her lips. Points her finger in my direction. I try not to laugh as people are starting to stare.

We finally take off.  I order a Bloody Mary.  Don't judge me. It was necessary.

I wrestle with Punks for an hour and she finally passes out for the duration of the flight. I sneak the seat back into the bed position. #2 sleeping in my arms.  ahhh, heaven. game over. 


All is well. Uncle Chris met us at Baggage Claim. whew.
~SOS