As the plane began to roll down the runway, I felt a swell of pride. We had arrived at the airport on time, I could count on one hand the items I had forgotten, and only a couple of my carry-on pieces were taken at security. My 5-year-old son was engrossed in a tablet, while my 8-year-old daughter was settling in for movie time. Turning to my husband, I confidently mouthed, “Could this get any better?” I was ready to dive into the in-flight entertainment.
However, just as I was about to get comfy, the seatbelt sign illuminated, and the flight attendant warned us of potential turbulence. “Turbulence,” I thought, chuckling to myself. “That’ll surely rock the kids to sleep!” Little did I know, my light-heartedness would soon fade.
Turbulence hit, and it felt like the plane was a marionette being manipulated by a clumsy puppeteer. I glanced over at my husband, who was checking in on me, and I realized I might have been a tad too optimistic. The white-knuckled grip on my armrests surely gave away my panic.
Then came the announcement: due to traffic control issues, other flights were canceled, but we were clear to continue. As the designated family caretaker, I swallowed hard and glanced at my son, still blissfully playing on his tablet. I thought he might need a distraction, so I offered him organic gummy snacks because, after all, we should stick to a “no artificial” diet even when chaos is unfolding.
“I’m not hungry,” he replied, his voice trembling.
“You’re…not…hungry?” I stammered. My normally ravenous child suddenly looked ghostly pale. Before I could react, he thrust his tablet at me and uttered the dreaded words, “My tummy hurts!”
In a matter of seconds, the situation escalated. The next thing I knew, my son was vomiting everywhere—out of his mouth, down his clothes, and pooling in his lap. My instincts kicked in, and I jumped out of the “splash zone,” but not before realizing that my son has a tendency to lose consciousness when he throws up.
There I was, perched awkwardly on my 8-year-old daughter’s lap, who uses a wheelchair, trying to escape the mess. It was a true parenting highlight, with an entire plane full of witnesses to my finest moment.
My husband, who was also new to fatherhood, quickly unbuckled our son and began the cleanup process before I even got my bearings. I rubbed my son’s back and blew on his face, and somehow, he stirred just enough to turn and vomit all over my husband.
Soon, my son declared he was “feeling all better now,” but in the cramped airplane, we faced the daunting task of cleaning up. The space was barely wide enough for one person, let alone two, and the floor was littered with gluten-free pretzels I had tossed in my panic.
While my husband struggled to remove his vomit-soaked shirt, I managed to get my son out of his clothes, putting him in the only spare outfit we had—one that was destined to face the same fate. By the time we landed, my feelings of travel success had vanished, replaced by tears of motherhood failure. My husband grabbed the puke-covered car seat while I dressed my son in a winter coat, a too-small Pull-Up, and wet shoes—an ensemble that would soon lead to an embarrassing moment in baggage claim.
Best. Flight. Ever.
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In summary, while traveling with children can be daunting, some experiences are so chaotic that they become tales to tell. My family’s flight turned into a whirlwind of panic and mess, but we made it through—stronger and with stories to share.