In the months leading up to our first flight with the babe, my husband let all sorts of awful scenarios fill his head: Evie screaming her head off the entire way from Chicago to Mexico; us making our way through security while drawing death-ray stares from the child-free fliers behind us.
“Mostly,” he says, “my fears revolved around us being ‘that couple.’ I mean, we had a two-week discussion about whether to drive to the airport or strap our daughter’s car seat into a cab.” Breaking character, I remained relatively unworried: I just thought, “We’ll do what we need to do to get through the flight: We can always strap a bag of puffs to her mouth and let her watch an in-flight The Office if she gets fussy.”
As it turns out, Evie, at the time 10.5 months old, was a dream passenger, and is now on her way to become a miniature frequent flier. We planned our flight to correspond with her morning nap, I nursed her while taking off to keep her ears pressurized and she fell asleep just as The Odd Life of Timothy Green started playing. A notoriously light nap sleeper, she even made it through the pilot’s extremely loud and incredibly close greeting, which bordered on filibuster in its length. Dan and I were oh-so-pleased with ourselves as we settled in for the movie… until I made the embarrassingly rookie mistake of cracking open my ice-cold Diet Sierra Mist and woke Evie up 45 minutes into the flight. We hadn’t even passed over Kentucky and I was already in the dog house with my husband.
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