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On the second day of Christmas, my true loves gave to me: two U.S. passports and a mushy brain with no memory
Mere days after I concluded that I did not, in fact, have a ‘big’ family, we went to the U.S. Consulate. The Canadian-born baby did not have a passport. And the British-born five year old was the proud owner of an expired passport. Even though I wasn’t in the mood to plunk down money for a new passport for the big kid, I was kind of excited at the thought of replacing his ‘three-month-old’ picture with something a little more current.
After all, the kid isn’t a baby anymore. He has hair. And eyes that can focus. And no rolls under his chin. His official likeness should reflect that.
But even with such a minor incentive, I was still dreading the experience. Which is probably why I postponed it for nearly two months. Something about trying to get kids to behave in an orderly fashion in an office where loud screaming is frowned upon. And a long wait is all but guaranteed.
So, if you’re thinking of moving to Canada and having a baby, but the one thing that’s holding you back is the mystery surrounding how to get a U.S. passport for the baby, look no further.
Step one: get a birth certificate. This requires going to the ‘Registry’ office and paying 35$. And waiting about a week for a phone call to let you know that it has arrived and you may return to pick it up.
Step two: find a pocket of time to go to the Consulate, which is open to the public from 8.30am-12pm. If you’re at all prone to feelings of procrastination or dread, as in ‘ugh, I don’t want to do that today’, this step will take nearly two months.
Step three: arrive at Consulate and endure airport-like search of property and person.
Step four: fill out two sets of passport paperwork (which requires a modicum of concentration) while trying to singlehandedly keep two boys plied with candy in the hopes of eliciting their quiet cooperation. ‘Singlehandedly’, because…..
Step four (a): send husband out of Consulate to take passport pictures of newborn. Yes, this could have been done ahead of time. But that’s not how we roll.
Step four (b): husband returns with newborn and pictures, departs with five year old for a repeat of step 4a
Step five: fill out Social Security and Consular Report of Birth Abroad forms while holding wailing pacifier-less baby. (Pacifier is in pocket of husband’s pants, most likely).
Step five (a): glare at husband when he finally returns with five year old (and two year old) and more passport pictures. And baby’s pacifier in his pants pocket.
Step six: color with oldest son on the floor of the consulate while waiting for them to review paperwork.
Step seven: make mental note to find marriage license and fax it in
Step eight: husband departs Consulate again to go get cash because their credit card machine isn’t working, prompting security guard to warn husband that ‘this is the last time’ he will let him back in. Apparently one may only leave and be re-admitted three times on a particular day. Who knew?!
Step nine: swear that information on forms is true. All while baby is crying, boys are knocking chairs over and yelling about various things. As the 3 other people waiting in the office look on at this ‘zoo’ of a family. And then I realize, three kids is a lot. We have a big family. Sign forms.
Step ten: pay….270$ for two passports and a consular report of birth abroad form; 30$ for two sets of pictures; 10$ for an envelope so they can mail the passports to you; and 10$ for parking.
Two hours later, we leave the building 320$ poorer. And late for Kindergarten, again. I wonder how long it would have taken if the office had actually been busy?
Since baby 3 will join us in twenty-one-days-or-less, I thought a little roadtrip to Banff might be in order this weekend. Especially since the week’s five days of rain and clouds had finally disappeared.
Secretly I hoped a vigorous hike might coerce B3 – whose latest name is ‘Jerry’ courtesy of his big brother’s addiction to Tom and Jerry cartoons – to abandon the comfort of the womb ahead of schedule. (Insert laughter and ‘wishful thinking’ comments here.)
We agreed Saturday night to skip church on Sunday and leave in the morning. I awoke around 2am with the distinct feeling that someone was rubbing my belly. Unable to open my eyes, I kind of felt around the bed to figure out what was going on. There was an interloper, alright: one five year old boy had come into our room and ensconced himself between Jason and me at the foot of our bed. I had no recollection of his arrival. ‘Are you rubbing my belly?’ I asked him in a sleepy, confused voice. ‘Did the baby kick you?’ he asked, hopeful that his rubbing of the proverbial lamp had awakened the baby genie. ‘Mmh,’ I replied. What is it with these children and their strange sleep patterns? The Hen asked me for a book the other night….at 3.30am.
Let’s hope it’s their last hurrah of crappy sleep before Jerry arrives on the scene.
The family began getting up in shifts, starting at 7am. I was the last to get up drag myself out of bed, at 8.30am. Still, it took an hour and a half to get all the stuff together for our little excursion. While the boys ate pancakes, I grabbed clothes, and snacks, and camera. Around 10 we headed out the door. Destination: Banff National Park.
We stopped on the way to get cash and a few more snacks at Safeway. Back on the road, the Hen closed his eyes for a snooze, which led me to believe I could safely eat the donut I’d bought at the grocery store. As I – very quietly – retrieved the pastry from the bag, the littlest one’s eyes opened. Instantly. And the oldest one leaned forward. ‘What are you eating? I smell something. I think I smell donuts. Are you eating a donut?’ It was a barrage of questions that left me speechless and Jason laughing.
‘They’re your children,’ he shrugged. And it’s true. The dog-like hearing and keen sense of smell…when it comes to food….can only be attributed to me. I was in the office the day before, eating a bowl of granola and yogurt. The Hen was playing with moonsand in the dining room. The spoon may have tapped the edge of the bowl as I prepared to take my first bite. Within seconds he was off the chair, running into the room saying: ‘I wan bi’ and settling himself into my lap.
Exposed, I reached into the Safeway bag and grabbed a plain glazed donut which I divided in two. I gave each of them a half. The Hen had taken no more than three bites when he started yelling ‘I wan mo….I wan mo.’ And there went the next donut.
When the Hen was finally asleep, I thought I’d make another attempt at eating – this time, a cheesy breadstick. I pulled it out of the bag – oh so quietly – and took a bite. ‘I smell something,’ my oldest yelled. ‘It smells like kitty food… Mom, are you eating another snack? Dad, is mom eating another snack?’
And there went half of my breadstick, too. Before my children were even born, I wondered what kind of gifts and talents they might have. This was not one of the gifts I had considered.
After two hours of driving, we arrived at Johnston Canyon. We decided to risk the 20 minute hike to the Lower Falls. It may sound like a nonevent, but consider the members of our hiking party: a 38 week pregnant woman and a 5 year old boy, who tends to start complaining he’s tired after ten minutes of walking. But, the promise of ice cream at the end, and an abundance of rocks to climb enabled him to persevere.
No family excursion would be complete without a minor disaster, of course. As we approached the end of the hike, the Hen was ‘viciously attacked’ by a bug. Meaning, the bug may have sat upon his head for a nanosecond. He started yelling ‘buh, buh’ and flailing his arms about. When his daddy told him the bug was on the ground, he went nuts and started trampling the (nonexistent) bug to death.
He spent the next four hours intermittently pointing to his head and saying ‘buh’. The painful recollection of his bug attack just too much to bear alone.
Meanwhile, the minute we were back in the car, the Gort started asking if he could play with his toys when we got home. As if we’d been on the road for weeks and weeks, and he hadn’t touched a matchbox car in days.
Things weren’t looking particularly positive, but we drove on to Lake Louise, thinking we could at least walk along the trail for a bit. Jason decided to test out the child carrier backpack a friend had loaned us, in an effort to avoid pushing around the gargantuan stroller. The Hen went ballistic. Screamed as if he’d been placed in a pack of fire. It was unreal. That, coupled with big brother’s declaration that he was simply too tired to walk uphill and was going to fall backwards, nipped our excursion in the bud.
We arrived in Calgary roughly eight hours after we’d departed. ‘I feel like I’ve aged ten years since we left,’ I said to Jason.
And to think, next time ‘Jerry’ will be along to add his ten cents to the mix.
Planning a roadtrip for a family of four requires making a plethora of lists. Lists of what to pack, who to see and what to do while at the destination, and what to get done before leaving for the destination.
In addition to packing clothes, shoes, toiletries, movies, toys and music…there is another very important component to the roadtrip. Food.
There’s just something about sitting down in a car that makes me (and those I love dearly) want to eat. And, having traveled with kids a few times by now, I know all too well that they tend to get incredibly hungry at the most inconvenient times. And starving, unhappy children, make for an undelightful trip. Thus it’s best to be overly prepared in the food department.
I am well aware that, in the course of a day’s worth of driving, I consume at least four times the amount of snacks that I would have consumed had I been sitting at home for the same amount of time. But when you’re in a car there is nothing to do other than look out the window, tend to the demanding people seated behind you. And eat.
So, making a list of snacks for the car is crucial trip planning work. And who better to help me with the culinary planning than the top consumer (besides me). My five year old.
I was in the process of drawing up a calendar of the days we’d be gone and what we’d do each day (more or less) when he approached me. ‘What are you doing,’ he asked. ‘I’m making a calendar for our trip to Indiana,’ I replied. ‘Let’s talk about what snacks we’re going to take in the car,’ he suggested helpfully. He cut to the chase – I like that.
‘Okay, what do you want to pack,’ I asked.
He was crystal clear on the matter: M&M’s, Smarties, Skittles, Apples, Grapes, Oranges, Strawberries, Cheese and Crackers and Quesadillas. Milk and Apple Juice to drink.
Whoa.
‘It would be pretty hard to pack quesadillas,’ I mentioned. So he relented and suggested sandwiches instead.
I used his list as a blueprint and resorted to purchasing and packing most of the items he’d suggested. I eschewed oranges, remembering the customs officer who’d had ‘issues’ with my citrus back in April. I packed bananas instead, which was a huge mistake. They get bruised and mushy and no one wants to eat them. Won’t do that again.
As we were moseying down the vast expanse of road before us, my oldest would lean forward at the slightest crinkle of a paper and announce insistently: ‘I want some of that….what are you eating…I want some.’ When it comes to food, he has ears like a dog. He can hear something tasty being unwrapped from miles away, especially when I’m trying extra hard to do it quietly. If I offered a snack to the Hen – the man who ate nothing but crackers on this trip – he would chime in immediately: ‘I want some too!’ even if he’d just had a snack three minutes prior. And when he found something he liked, I had to keep it coming – and fast. ‘I want some more…I want some more….I want some more.’ A bottomless pit, eyes glued to the DVD player, absentmindedly putting his hand in his mouth. Repeatedly.
During our drive, Jason may have hinted that his job was much more taxing than mine. Sitting in the driver’s seat, occasionally hitting the gas or the brakes, while listening to the radio station of his choice and holding out his hand so that I could fill it with snacks. Tough, indeed.
I contend the person sitting in the passenger seat (in this case…moi) has the worst job, by far. Tending to a flock of demanding peeps with outstretched appendages demanding ‘more’. Rotating head and torso 45 degrees every three minutes in order to dole out snacks or drinks or tend to the DVD player, while being sawed in half by a seatbelt. Trying to nod off for just ten minutes, only to be rudely interrupted with an ‘I’m hungry….I need a snack….I’m thirsty…I need a drink…..the movie stopped working….he’s bugging me….’
Perhaps I’ll replace the snacks with Benadryl for the drive back to Canada.
Sometimes it really feels like I am the man living in a house full of girls. Girls spend all their time the bathroom, the stereotype goes. Well, this girl sure doesn’t. She has 3 boy people who spend all of their time in the bathroom. If I get in there for 5 minutes a day, I consider myself lucky.
And, nothing like a bit of trip planning and preparation to confirm what I already know: I’m the low maintenance one, chez Johnson.
Anyone who has ever taken a long car trip knows two things. Or, should know two things. (1) riding in a car that is stuffed to the gills is no fun whatsoever; (2) returning home to ten loads of laundry is demoralizing, and causes you to rue the day you decided to take a roadtrip.
So, in order to combat the aforementioned problems, I instituted some rules for our upcoming 2000 miles-one-way-road-trip. Each person would be allowed to pack 3 outfits, 2 pairs of shoes and one pair of pajamas. Along with the necessary toiletries, 2 pairs of socks and 3 pairs of underwear. Well, the only Johnson who didn’t make a big stink about my proclamation was the one who doesn’t say much more than ‘no’ and ‘mine’. Mr. J and Mr. G protested. Heavily.
Jason likes to say that our oldest is a chip off his old mother’s block. But while there are some definite similarities in our personalities and preferences, I contend he bears definite resemblance to both of his parents.
Not least because, like his father, he is a serious overpacker.
I thought I’d enlist the 5 year old to help with packing his things. You know, generate some excitement; instill some ownership in the process. Well, Mr. G didn’t quite see it that way.
Aft first, he was happy to pick out 3 shirts and 3 pairs of pants, but was not content to stop there. He also wanted 5 pairs of socks (why?), a winter jacket, a puffy vest, fleece pajamas (in addition to the one pair I’d already set aside), wool slippers, a blanket and a variety of books and toys and 4 pairs of shoes. It’s as if he tried to anticipate every possible contingency. I had to wait until he left the room (ostensibly to get something else) to surreptitiously remove the fleece pajamas, vest and winter coat. The wool slippers ‘disappeared’ the morning we left. I braced myself for a violent reaction when it was discovered the choice items were missing…
Jason wanted to bring along 3 pairs of shoes, not two. And made all kinds of disparaging remarks about the unreasonableness of my packing ’suggestions’. Moaning about how he’d have to sit around in his underwear because he wouldn’t have anything to wear, etc.
What’s so wrong with conservation and minimalism? Clearly, in the Johnson household…..more is more.
So in the end I brought only one pair of shoes – that my precious other half (princess) might have 3. I’m thinking my red Mary Jane Crocs are going to get real old, real fast.
We made the slightly insane decision to drive with our young pups all the way to Seattle and back. In four days. I’m guessing it’s about 1500 miles roundtrip. Maybe more.
Our journey o’fun started on Wednesday at roughly 4.30pm. Having borrowed a DVD player from a friend, and completely altering our children’s world view, (you can watch movies….in a car?) we drove to Kalispell. Montana.
When I mentioned to a couple of friends that we were going to do this, they asked me questions. ‘Do you have four-wheel drive?’ No. ‘Snow tires?’ No. ‘Chains?’ No.
Oh.
‘Well you might want to pack an emergency kit [in case you get stranded.]‘
The drive was a bit treacherous. Something about it being dark, and driving through mountains. Passing by signs for ’snow-chain removal’ areas. And lots of signs warning of animals darting across the road. Combined with actual animal sightings: elk hidden behind trees. And a bunch of deer-like creatures standing on the side of road. Thankfully, staying on the side of the road.
Around 10.30pm we arrived at the prestigious La Quinta Inn in Kalispell. After having parted with three oranges at the U.S. border crossing.
Since I’ve yet to meet a customs officer with a discernible sense of humor, I didn’t point out that the oranges were from California. And had (presumably) already been deemed ‘acceptable’ by customs officials. So, why banish them now?
The problem with arriving at a hotel at 10.30 at night is that one’s kids have already fallen asleep in the car. And, when a certain nineteen-month-old wakes up upon being deposited in a hotel room – particularly a La Quinta Inn hotel room – he goes nuts. Runs to the door, and bangs on it while screaming bloody murder. And nothing and no one can stop him.
Our Hen was like a woman in labor and we were his team of doulas. At one point, I was sitting on the bed rocking him. Jason was rubbing his feet. And his big brother was rubbing his hair and kissing him on the head. All in an effort to get the kid to pipe down before the people in the adjacent room called management.
We were finally asleep by midnight. And awake by 6am. There is truly nothing better than staying in a hotel room with two kids.
I had the misguided notion that, since we’d gotten up at the crack of dawn, we might get an early start on our drive to the Emerald City. But, it apparently took 2 hours and 40 minutes: for 2 adults to shower and get dressed; feed 4 people breakfast; and to re-pack bags and do a triple check of the room to make sure no one’s favorite monkey or pillow case got left behind.
It was 8.40am by the time we left. And it was snowing – confirming the less than rosy weather reports we’d been watching on the television.
But the snow didn’t stop my better half – aka Mario Andretti – from exercising his disdain for speed limits recommendations. Google maps ‘recommended’ a driving time of 2 hours…from Kalispell to I-90…yet he did it in one hour and twenty minutes. On minor ‘highways’. In snowy conditions. Awesome.
It was another treacherous drive through a multitude of terrains and every possible weather condition imaginable. Snow. Rain. Sleet. Sunshine. Avalanche (control).
It was dinner time when we drove into (rainy) Seattle.
But even the rain couldn’t dampen my spirits. We’d arrived. And there was green grass to be seen. And our hotel appeared to actually resemble the pictures on its website.
Though our priceline.com-obtained room, did not. It may have been the smallest hotel room I’ve ever stayed in.
The room on the website had featured a beautiful bath tub – the very essence of luxury and relaxation. But the ‘European’ shower in my room fell short, somehow.
The good thing about taking kids on trips is that they’re generally excited about anything and everything. They don’t complain about small rooms. Because they’re completely enamored with the trains passing by every twenty minutes, and the chess and checkers games in the lobby. And the view of the water from the lobby. And the elevator. And the large flat-screen television in our room.
The only phrases that came out of G’s mouth for 3 days were: ‘I want to watch some boy-tv…..can I watch some boy-tv now…when we get back to the hotel, can I watch some boy-tv?’ It is possible he watched a month’s worth of cartoons in the three days we stayed there. By the end of the three-day period he had learned that ‘commercials’ are but momentary interruptions to a particular show.
They do not signal the abrupt end of a show, and do not warrant a massive panic attack each time they occur. ‘Don’t worry, it’s just a commercial,’ he advised his brother when their cartoons were interrupted on our last morning there. As though he’d known this all along.
One morning I asked him: ‘what do you want to do today?’ His reply: ‘I just want to stay in the hotel and watch boy-tv.’ But eventually we ventured out. We went to the ‘fish museum’ and the Arboretum. The boys went to the Olympic Sculpture Park while I walked around the Market with my mom. We had good coffee, and pastries, and cheesecake, and macaroni and cheese. Jason and I even went out to dinner. By ourselves.
If it weren’t for ‘The Drive’ I might have considered it a rather successful trip.
We left Sunday morning at 9am – Seattle time – which was really 10am in Calgary. There was a mandatory stop at Target in Marysville, which, admittedly lengthened the trip by at least an hour. But there was no way that I was going to leave ‘A-muhr-i-ca’ without stopping at a Target.
Of course, Jason/Mario tried to make up for lost time by speeding through British Columbia. My nose was buried in my book when I noticed we were stopping. On the highway.
‘Are you being pulled over?’ I demanded incredulously.
Sure enough. I saw the police car. And the lights.
‘Where you’s going?’ The police man inquired. ‘To Calgary,’ I replied. Politely ‘Did they call you’s and tell you’s Calgary was moving?’
Ha ha ha.
Twenty minutes and $196 later…we were on our way.
We stopped at a McDonald’s for dinner. When Jason picked up the Hen to carry him back to the car, he started screaming.
I wanted to, too.
It should be mentioned that I took this photo yesterday after an unexpected trip to Jason’s work. Apparently (thanks to the awesome weather here)…the bus he was supposed to take, never came. So he walked back home – half an hour late for class at that point – and we had no choice but to hop in the car and take him to work. Despite the fact that two of us were still wearing our pajamas. And one of us hadn’t showered in thirty six hours or so. Lovely!
Flying back from London to Calgary, I had a considerably high level of excitement. Largely due to the mere thought of seeing my boys at the airport. The excitement all but disappeared, however, when the pilot made an announcement over the speaker system. ‘Currently, it’s minus fifteen degrees in Calgary and there are about four inches of freshly fallen snow on the ground.’ Why he felt the need to share that piece of bad news with me, I will never understand. Suddenly I had zippo desire to be back in Cowtown. It really didn’t matter that it was minus fifteen degrees Celsius, not Fahrenheit.
Though London may not exactly be the ‘promised land’ (at all), I much prefer its climate to Calgary’s. At least nine months of the year – the summers there are pretty muggy. As I rode in my friend Kyla’s car from Heathrow airport to her ‘flat’, I practically gushed about ‘the green grass’ and the ‘daffodils sprouting from the ground.’ She thought I was a little weird, going on about things like grass and daffodils, but she’s never been to Calgary. Actually, I may be the only person I’ve ever come across who likes the weather in London.
Frankly, blue skies and sunshine are highly overrated. Especially when partnered with subzero temperatures, and grass that hasn’t seen the light of day since December 6, 2008. Not that I’m keeping track.
So it’s been a little bit of a challenge, re-adjusting to life in Calgary.
I have mental images of myself walking the streets of London in a coat – no gloves, or hat. Feeling warm. I spent five whole days without mediating any fights, threatening to take away toys (taking away toys), or engaging in a battle of wills. The only time I saw a diaper was when a friend changed her little girl a few feet away from where I was sitting. I didn’t use a stern voice with anyone, not even once.
I had meals with people and no one asked me to cut their food or blow on it. No one cried because their food was too hot or too spicy or too ’something’. No one pilfered anything from my plate. There were conversations during the meals, and I listened – attentively – as people spoke. Not with one eye on the speaker and another eye scanning the room to make sure everything was okay. Occasionally, I spoke too. I might have even made some sense, but I don’t want to brag.
After meeting Karen, the bride-to-be, for brunch on the day before her wedding (at a nice place, where I didn’t even think about anyone spilling something or having to exit the restaurant in a cloud of shame), Kyla and I walked to Covent Garden. For the record, I walked past La Maison du Chocolat. I did not go in, and did not buy chocolates that cost 80 pounds per kilogram. We’re in a recession, after all, and being in London – just walking past the chocolate shop – was good enough. As we walked (nay, hobbled) along, it struck me that no one was complaining about the distance we were walking (well, except me – silently..because the Danskos on my feet felt like metal shackles) and no one asked me to carry them.
In the end, I didn’t do a whole lot in London – especially not by other tourists’ standards. I never made it to the London Eye. The only museum I spent any time in was the National Portrait Gallery. There were two quick visits to Borough Market where I sighed over the variety and beauty and quality of the food. And there was a little bit of shopping for the peeps back home.
I guess the best part of the trip was getting a break from the daily grind of taking care of two little people. Having the chance to catch up with people I haven’t seen in too long, and doing things I wouldn’t have been able to do had my adorable sidekicks made the journey with me.
With that, I’ve been summoned for ‘wiping’ duty.
Well folks the substitute teacher is now in the room so you get a reprieve from that homework you didn’t finish, so just put your head on your desks and lets all take a nap. That’s right our favorite blogger is off to jolly olde England and has appointed me to fill in. (A side note: actually as I write this our favorite blogger is sitting at the airport waiting for a replacement plane since the initial craft that was to be used is out of service at the moment. Details forthcoming I am sure)
I don’t of course assume that my appointment is related to anything approximating writing ability, but instead to a desire to see if I can survive a week of variously aged testosterone battles. The boys and I have hammered out the details of this arrangement and have decided upon 4 simple rules that will make this week of bach’n it a unbridled success. We have recited these rules in the car sitting in rush hour traffic for a good hour after dropping of the lovely ms. N and I can now shout out “Rule Number 2″ and G dutifully spouts the rule with such sincerity it almost seems plausible that he will A. remember the rule and B. obey it. Its like the Von Trapp family before the curtains become play clothes, or if you prefer the Pre-Mary Poppins clan with the banker father and his clock. In short there is no way it can last but until our singing heroine returns to bring back joy and laughter we have 4 simple rules.
#1. Naps- (All day, every day) OK we will settle for one nap of a decent length and I don’t mean for the kids. For some reason there are women among us who hate the idea of a full grown man napping in the middle of the day. Well those women are gone so when I say nap time I will be right there with them, not asking them to do anything I wouldn’t do.
#2. Be Kind- Uh I’m looking at you little man as you try and take big brother’s comic book and run away laughing maniacally only to then pummel said older brother when he tries to take it back. Its like watching Danny DeVito try and beat up Shawn Bradley (sorry if you aren’t knowledgeable on 90’s era 7 foot white centers in the NBA you may have to google this one.)
#3. NO YELLING!- Its going to be like a library in here. SHHHHHHH. Actually I am just hoping I’m not the first one to break this rule.
And finally since rules shouldn’t just be about what you have to do or not do but about what you might want to do, I give you the rule that trumps all the other rules and I imagine will be key to us surviving the week.
#4 Ice Cream- In this case it is both verb and noun and comes in a strawberry flavor.
When I got home from book club, not quite three weeks ago, there was a card sitting on my pillow. From the other jason johnson.
Mr. Johnson is quite a card maker when he has the time and inclination, and this was certainly one of his finer ones. As I started reading the words on the page, arranged in his signature style – meaning you have to read it twice in order to understand it – I was surprised. Very surprised.
Apparently, my darling husband had hacked into my email account and stolen the email address of a friend from London. The same friend who was getting married in late-February; who had sent us an invitation to attend her wedding. In London. An invitation I declined as graciously as possible because our pesky house in Indiana still hasn’t sold, and it would be rather difficult to leave town for an extended period of time.
But Mr. Johnson, for better and for worse, doesn’t view situations the way I do. Instead of turning down an invitation to a wedding for financial reasons, or scheduling difficulties, or because it’s crazy; he solicits donations from my closest family members and spends hours on the internet looking for an affordable flight. And buys the plane ticket, before I can tell him that it is a very bad idea, and doesn’t make any amount of sense.
So this week, thanks to my very sneaky, and equally bullheaded husband, I will be flying on a plane to London. Alone. To see a dear friend get married, and visit friends and places I haven’t seen in nearly five years.
Honestly, if I had the opportunity to go to a wedding in Iowa, by myself, I might be just as excited. But, even better that it’s London.
In order to soften the blow of my departure, I bought an enormous container of Golden Grahams. So at least breakfasts will be fun while I’m gone. I tried to talk to Mr. G about my upcoming absence the other day: ‘did you remember that I’m going to go to London next week?’ I asked. ‘Is that when we get to eat the fun cereal,’ he replied. Make no mistake, he’s been eyeing that box every morning for the past week. I also left a tub full of chili in the freezer, and five boxes of Annie’s Mac & Cheese in the pantry. That should sustain them, at least for a couple of days.
I’ve also suggested Jason buy an enormous container of moonsand and set up the sandbox in the kitchen, so the boys can just play in there all day long. He could even allow them to play in diaper and underwear only – minimizing dirty laundry at the same time. A kitchen filled with moonsand, and baths lasting from 6-8pm, should fill up at least half of the day. Easily.
I told Jason if he wanted to sleep in a bit, he could set out bowls of dry cereal the night before and put a teapot of milk in the fridge. G should be able to retrieve the teapot and pour milk over the cereal. The kid is practically five, after all. The Hen can’t yet climb into his booster seat without some assistance, but maybe it’s time he just started sitting in a regular seat. He’s almost eighteen months old. Harvard is looking for exemplary students, not run of the mill ones.
I can only imagine the excellent blog posts Professor Hotness will write as he takes over the blog in my absence. I expect our reunion will go something like this: he’ll drop me and the kids off at the house, and I’ll just hear tires squealing as he drives off.
But that’s okay. Because I’m going to London. By myself. For five days.
It had started smoothly enough – the journey back to the land of the frozen tundra. We’d left Jason’s parents’ home on time. Arrived at the airport two hours before our flight, and even had time for a quick lunch.
The single piece of checked luggage we’d brought from Calgary had (thanks to Christmas gifts and a shopping excursion) turned into three large bags, one of which was 16lbs over the weight limit. We’d already paid $45 just for the privilege of checking the bags, when the guy said it’d be another $50 for the overweight bag. I’m not sure if it was the looks on our faces, or because it was the end of his shift, but he slapped an orange tag (HEAVY!) on the bag and wished us a happy New Year, waiving the $50 charge.
An auspicious start, I thought.
We went through security where the agent fixated upon the kids’ Sigg flasks, each containing a few ounces of water, and my hard plastic bottle which had about 3 ounces of water. [I had tried to abide by the 3 or 4oz liquid rule.] ”These are for the kids, right – so they’re okay. But I’ll have to test them to make sure. This (my bottle) will either have to be discarded or you can go back into the terminal and give it to the person who brought you to the airport,’ the agent explained.
‘Can I just drink the water, quickly?’ I asked, loathe to just throw something away. ‘No, not at this point,’ he replied, kindly enough. I was in no mood to walk back into the terminal to give Jason’s parents my bottle, so I relented and told him he could just throw it away.
He spent several minutes carefully checking the contents of the kids’ flasks with a little strip of paper and distilled something or other. Not surprisingly, the contents were deemed acceptable. Then, in a surprising gesture of goodwill, the agent handed me my blue flask and said I could keep it. After telling me not to bring water through security (EVER) again. I gulped down the 3 ounces and put the bottle away.
Auspicious, I thought.
When we landed in Chicago, I gazed upon the sunshine and snow-free runways, relishing the thought of a delay-free flight back to Calgary. We were due in Cowtown at 7pm, which – assuming our car hadn’t frozen over – meant we stood a chance of a decent night’s sleep.
As we prepared to board the flight to Calgary, the gate agent suddenly made an announcement. ‘A pressure valve needs to be replaced….it shouldn’t take too long – maybe forty-five minutes- but we’ll delay boarding until that has been taken care of.’
On the one hand, I was most grateful that I didn’t have to sit on a non-moving plane with two moving children. But the thought of another round of flight delays filled me with dread. The original 3.35pm departure time was moved to 4.20pm. And the 4.20pm time was moved to 4.55pm. The 4.55pm time was moved to 5.55pm, at which point I was livid.
Our youngest cannot be corralled or contained, which means Jason and I spend layovers in airports taking turns following him around as he climbs onto strangers’ laps and moving sidewalks, steals drinks out of the coolers in snack stands, rolls around on the floor and licks the chairs. It’s a process that can best be described as ‘tiring.’ And when we have to do it for longer than expected, we get cranky.
On a side note, I’ve modified my original hypothesis that the Hen has a ‘thing’ for Indian women. He has a ‘thing’ for women of all colors as long as they have long, straight, black hair. He walked right up to a young woman with long black locks trying to get to her gate. Stood in front of her and stretched out his arms: ‘pick me up’ he seemed to say. She didn’t know what to do. She tried to bend down towards him, cooing over ‘how cute’ he is, but she didn’t have a free hand. Next he found a young woman with similar hair who was listening to her ipod. ‘Hello gorgeous’ she called to him, which was all the invitation he needed. He walked over and sat on her lap – twice. Once with a book he wanted her to read, and the second with a little game. I stood by awkwardly, not knowing what to do with myself. He also went up to a little girl and tried to pilfer her stuffed tiger. Her mom took pity on him – and gave him a toy – a stuffed ‘Alex’ from Madagascar.
As I was pacing the concourse, waiting to hear an update on the flight status, the Hen fell asleep in my arms. I sat down by the gate with the cherub on my lap. Suddenly the agent announced that we could board, as the mechanical problem appeared to have been corrected. It was just after 5pm. Relieved, we boarded the plane.
Around 5.25pm, the lights were dimmed in preparation for departure. Suddenly the pilot made another announcement, and the lights were turned on again. Bad sign. Apparently, the ‘powers that be’ had failed to realize that (1) the flight was full and (2) they’d need additional fuel due to the subzero weather conditions in Calgary.
Which means six adults had to get off the plane before it could leave. A customer service rep was summoned to entice ‘volunteers’ to delay their journey by at least 3, most likely 12, hours. Twenty-five minutes later, six adults had left the plane and the cabin lights were dimmed again.
The family who’d given the Hen a stuffed toy, sat in front of us. Their school-aged son halfheartedly played with our youngest at his mom’s suggestion. He held an Iron Man action figure in front of the Hen’s face, which the little man grabbed and refused to relinquish for any amount of money. When ‘Kendrick’ wrested the figure from his hands, the Hen put up such a fuss that Kendrick had no choice but to put it back in his greedy little hands. He tried offering a decoy toy – a stuffed Pluto – but the Hen was having none of it. He clutched that red plastic doll in his hands like it was his most prized possession.
Eventually we were able to distract him and young Kendrick regained custody of Iron Man. He looked over and saw ‘Alex’ sitting on the Hen’s lap.
‘I used to have a toy like that,’ he remarked sadly.
Like, a few hours ago?
The first harbinger of travel doom arrived in the form of an email from my mom. ‘You might want to pack some extra snacks,’ she suggested, ‘just in case you get delayed in Chicago.’
That was the day before we left.
I stopped at Wal-mart and loaded up on Teddy Grahams, Kashi crackers and granola bars, candy, chocolate and gum. In an effort to be prepared. But the fact is, when you’re stuck in an airport, or anywhere, you get pretty sick of eating snack foods. You just want a meal. And you just want to BE at your destination.
As we headed into the security area at the Calgary airport, there was a family of three staying behind. Apparently they’d planned to go to Seattle. But the Seattle Airport decided they were going to stay in Calgary. At least for the foreseeable future. I didn’t feel too badly for them. When we left them, the dad was talking on his cell phone with his snazzy laptop on his lap. Their adorable blonde boy, nearly the same age as the Hen, calmly sat in between his mom and dad. Wearing cute orange shoes and munching on some carrot sticks. He was not trying to wrest the laptop away from his dad. He was not pounding with slimy fingers on the keys. He was not using dirty fingers to touch the screen. And he was NOT climbing onto the carefully corralled wheelchairs while looking at his mother vigorously shaking her head ‘no’. The wunderkind just sat there. Eating his carrots.
So I didn’t feel like this particular family needed much of a break. Clearly they had their act together. Little did I know it was foreshadowing…what my evening would entail.
The flight from Calgary to Chicago was relatively uneventful. There were moments – mere moments, mind you – when I thought: ‘this isn’t too bad.’ The Hen was sitting on the floor by his dad and brother, playing with the little animals I’d brought along for the flight. G was busily ‘sewing’ these cardboard construction shapes, lacing the colored string through the myriad of holes along the perimeter. I was nearing the point where I considered removing the 2009 issue of the Economist from the carry-on suitcase and possibly reading an article.
And just like that, things changed. In an instant, a happy child turned into an unhappy, tired child. Boys sitting companionably near each other, suddenly started to push and pull one another. And our youngest, who really needed a nap, screamed for forty-five minutes in order to fall asleep….only to awaken forty minutes later after I’d imperceptibly adjusted my arm and feet in an effort to minimize the tingling feeling pervading my body.
My favourite parts of the flight, and the entire journey, were the messages from our flight attendant.
Justino (our male flight attendant) announced, mere minutes after we touched down at O’Hare: ‘Unfortunately our assigned gate is currently being used by another plane…..so we’ll just have to wait here until the plane departs.’ Which took more than thirty minutes. Still, no complaints from me, since we did eventually move towards the gate. Except, then we weren’t. Twenty feet away from ‘the gate’ the plane stopped again. ‘Apparently there is a shortage of ‘rampers’ so we have to wait here until one is free.’ Which easily took another twenty minutes or more. There is nothing quite as cruel as being twenty feet away from your gate….and not being able to get off the freaking plane.
I was not consoled when Justino’s voice boomed through the plane once more, after announcing the departure gates for connecting flights. ‘Don’t worry about this delay causing you to miss your connecting flight. Pretty much all of the connecting flights have been delayed.’
Excellent. It was 6pm by the time we entered the terminal, which was well over an hour past the time it would have been had we not sat parked on the tarmac..twice. Our original flight was scheduled to depart at 6.45pm. But, when we looked at our boarding passes, the time had already been changed to 7.55pm. By the time we got to the gate, the time had been changed to 8.40pm. And then 9.15pm. Then the flight was switched to another concourse altogether. And the departure time pushed back to 9.40pm. And then 10.15pm. And then 10.05pm?!
‘All’s I know’ as some fellow Hoosiers might have said….is that we were supposed to arrive in Indianapolis at 8.47pm. And it was midnight by the time we did. When all was said and done, we pulled into my in-laws’ driveway at 2.30am. ‘Luckily’…..we live in a different time zone, so it only felt like 12.30am. And luckily the kids were fairly excellent throughout (save that forty five minute screaming fit on the first flight. And the hour the Hen spent crying on the way to his grandparents’ house, because he was tired and soaking wet.)
Negatives aside, I highly recommend taking a flight with a nearly five year old, because everything is exciting. Moving sidewalks! Airplane models in airport terminals! Looking out the window in an airplane! Getting to watch Monster’s Inc on daddy’s laptop on the floor of the terminal! A strange woman handing you a piece of ‘magic string’ (crochet yarn)! Drinking a whole bottle of apple juice!
And the Hen had his own adventures. He walked up to a complete stranger and insisted she pick him up. And when she did, he put his head on her shoulder. Which was perplexing, and sweet, and also made us wonder if he was tired of his ‘original’ family. He also doled out toys and blankets to various adult travellers, who regarded his blatant violations of personal space with a mixture of bemusement and wariness.
As we prepared for takeoff to Indianapolis, the flight attendant went around telling everyone that it was a twenty-six minute flight ‘wheels up to wheels down.’
But honestly, it felt like two hours.
