Sitting across the aisle from a young mother of two on a 1 1/2-hour flight today, watching her struggle to keep “Dilly” (short for Dylan) from screaming, I couldn’t help but remember my own personal flying nightmare – with twins.
The guys had just turned two and we were moving from Florida to California. My husband, father and five-year-old son drove across country with a rented moving truck, a car on a flatbed, and another vehicle. My mother and I flew.
I cheaped out and opted for “lap children.” To my fellow passengers that day, I plead temporary insanity.
The plane was delayed and stuck at the gate for more than an hour. They wouldn’t let anyone get off the plane, of course, and the flight attendants weren’t serving. The guys quickly consumed all of the juice packs (this was before 9-11 when you could bring liquids onto a plane) and most of the snacks. They were two. They were wiggle worms. They were bored and soon to be overly tired. Once the plane was given the green light for take-off, we still had a five-hour flight.
Perhaps nightmare is the wrong word. I don’t swear (publicly) so I’ll just use baby talk and say it was H-E-double toothpicks. Mothers of twins, you know what I’m saying.
Advice. Spend the money when flying with toddlers.
All for now.