This is what I get for saying I hoped there would be no drama to report on our trip home. I have more drama than I can fit into one blog post. I have so much drama, this might be a two-parter. We’ll see how it goes.
You may recall that on Wednesday we had the pleasure of sprinting from one terminal to another in the Atlanta airport with only seconds to spare. It was far from ideal traveling conditions, and we were looking forward to a much more leisurely layover on our trip home. But that was not in the stars.
After an hour delay this morning, we were allowed to board the first plane. The kids were already tired and antsy from sitting around the airport for two hours, so they started out at a deficit. They also started out with about a quart of root beer in their tummies. We had been upstairs, enjoying a 10:30AM lunch at Pizza Hut when the airline announced they were finally boarding, so we had to gather up our leftovers and dash to the gate with no time for a pit-stop along the way.
Once we were on the plane and at a comfortable cruising altitude, sure enough, my 2-year-old announced that she desperately needed to pee. At that point, the beverage cart was blocking the aisle, so I managed to get the attention of the flight attendant and persuade her to move aside so we could access the back of the plane.
Well, R took one look at the facilities and flat-out refused to go near it. So there I stood, crammed into the rear corner of the aircraft with an audience of 10, trying to persuade my stubborn 2-year-old to use the unconventional potty.
I finally decided the fight wasn’t worth it, so we made our way back to our seats without relief. She seemed to forget the urgency of her bladder situation and promptly asked for water. She was not amused when I declined her request. I explained that she could have water if she would go potty, but that got me nowhere. Then I tried to bribe her with gum, but all that did was make her scream and yell for gum. Grand. So we spent the last half of our plane flight in a stalemate, a loud one at that. I’m sure the people in front of us were delighted.
As our plane began to make its descent, we checked our watches and determined that if we could summon our super powers, there was a SLIGHT possibility we would still be able to make our connecting flight. So we herded the kids off the plane and took off running through the terminal as fast as humanly possible with two adults, three kids, and six carry ons. Naturally the puddle jumper we had flown into Atlanta dropped us off in the bowels of the airport, and we had to walk the longest possible distance to get to the tram that runs between terminals.
When we got off the tram, we headed for gate B1 which was, you guessed it, located in the very far corner of terminal B. So off we went again, half-dragging, half-carrying our kids along behind us. We did take a moment to stop at the restrooms because I knew there was no use in trying to convince R to use the airplane potty. I decided I’d rather miss our flight and wait around for the next one than try to fly another 2 hours with a child refusing to use the facilities. (And the inevitable result of a child trying to hold a quart of root beer in her 2-year-old bladder for 4 hours.)
This time we were more fortunate than we had been on Wednesday, and we got to our gate right before they started boarding our plane. I even had time to grab a latte at a nearby coffee joint while we waited for our zone to be called. It would seem that our luck was on the upswing. But the drama doesn’t end there.
This post, however, does.
To be continued…