In Jack's short lifetime, he has been on nine flights, not including connecting flights. (Yes, you can judge me because he is spoiled and I am spoiled and I know it). Spencer has been on three of them to help, and even when I've flown with Jack by myself, it hasn't been pleasant but it's been doable... that is until this last trip to Arizona.
The flight to Arizona was all on one plane, but with an hour and a half stop in St. Lewis. We were on the same plane for almost 6 hours and Jack acted exactly like one would predict a toddler stuck on a plane for almost 6 hours to act - terrible. He cried, he grabbed the person next to us' drink, he cried, he grabbed the person next to us' laptop, he cried, he grabbed the person next to us' phone, he cried, he sat on my lap while I went to the airplane bathroom two separate times (and had a
this is seriously my life right now?! moment), he cried, he had two poopy diapers, and he cried some more and refused to take a nap the whole day. But we survived! And we had a great time in Arizona! But I was dreading the flight back home and I had every right to because the flight home was an absolute living nightmare.
We woke up up at 4:30 am, we got to the airport late (thanks to my mom and Elizabeth, ps I still love you), we waited in a ridiculous long line to get Jack's boarding pass, we tried to check my bag but it was 3.5 pounds overweight (thanks to me, who can't correctly do math on the scale with little sleep), I frantically grabbed things out of my luggage as my underwear was spewing out the sides, we took an extra long detour because we couldn't find an elevator, we rushed through airport security even though it's not actually possible to rush through airport security with a baby (the carseat to take out of the stroller and the stroller to fold and then unfold and the shoes to take off then put back on again and the computer to pull out and the baby food that needs inspected and the extra stupid gallon size bag of oatmeal and extra pack of diapers that were pulled out of my too heavy of luggage that were probably not even worth keeping but I kept anyway), we missed family boarding and cut in the middle of the "B" boarding section, I balanced Jack and the carseat and the diaper bag and the backpack and that stupid bag of oatmeal and extra pack of diapers down the tiny plane aisle (my arms were shaking and my whole body was sweating), and after all of that rushing, we had a one hour delay on the plane due to maintenance issues. We did the poopy diaper on a plane thing, the crying and bored baby on the plane thing, and we landed in Dallas ten minutes before my next flight was supposed to leave. We sprinted across the airport (if you could call it a sprint with Jack and all of those bulky accessories that come with him) and thank goodness, they held the plane for me. When I got on the plane, the only seat available was an aisle seat next to two old ladies already asleep who I just knew were going to hate us. I sat down and when Jack realized we were on another plane after just getting off of one 5 minutes before, he had his first real, back arching, kicking and screaming, temper tantrum.
But then my miracle happened. Those two old ladies that I thought were going to hate me, didn't hate me after all. They gave me gum to "help my ears" at take off, and the one at the window seat grabbed Jack, calmed him down, and held him while the plane took off. He only lasted two minutes with her, but those 120 seconds were all I needed to take a deep breath and say a prayer of gratitude for making the flight and a prayer for strength to get through the final stretch. Those two ladies turned out to be my angels that day. Together, we fought Jack's desire to walk in the aisle, his boredom, his fighting against his nap (we lost that battle), and his refusal to eat food.
They happened to have peanut butter crackers (basically his favorite and only snack he eats) and also gave him pretzel sticks that he also miraculously ate. They continued to say he was such a cute and sweet baby when he was acting the total opposite of cute and sweet. When they pulled out the two Cinnabons they had bought for themselves to eat, but insisted that Jack and I share one of them, I felt that quiet familiar voice:
I know you're tired. I know you're stressed. I'm helping you.
Those ladies must have thought I was crazy as I accepted their Cinnabon with tears in my eyes. What those ladies didn't know was that Jack is a terrible eater, and that he has put himself on a strict diet of oatmeal and yogurt for the last two months and that I stress out about it way too much. They didn't know that just two days before, he miraculously ate half of a cinnamon roll (a whole half!), which was the first non-cracker solid he has eaten in a long long time. They didn't know, but God knew, and as Jack inhaled his second cinnamon roll that week, I was reminded again that God is in the details of our lives.
The rest of the flight was not great, getting off the plane was not great, getting my suitcase at baggage claim and getting all of our stuff to the curb where my friend was picking me up was not great either. But knowing that God knew I was tired and stressed and cared enough to send me earthly angels made me less tired and stressed and more happy.
That night, I went to bed with gratitude for my earthly angels: for my mom and Elizabeth who helped me on the first plane, for my mom's neighbor who helped rush my stuff to my connecting flight, for my dear, Christ-like Cinnabon friends, for the lady sitting behind us who let Jack play with her tablet, for the man who lifted my luggage and stroller into the back of my truck, and for Jack who ate three chicken nuggets and half a piece of toast and a can of mandarin oranges when we got home (the oatmeal era is over! Knock on wood!).
I am grateful for my God who knows me, loves me, and who was in the details of my life on a day I really needed help.
