Over the River and Through the Security Line

Millions of Americans this week will stick their hands into the frigid neck hole (or worse) of a cavernous, slippery, naked and butchered bird to retrieve a dismembered neck bone and livery innards. As they silently make a prayer to the Holy Defroster that everything will turn out okay with El Butterball, they'll be thinking that this is one of the more unpleasant aspects of the holiday season.

They'd probably be correct, unless they'll be traveling via airplane with small children during peak traffic times.

Much like stuffing a turkey, there are no holiday warm fuzzies when navigating (a) the holiday season and (b) TSA and (c) anyone who requires you to yell "RED LIGHT" in public.

I'll do whatever it takes to get my kids through the parking lot, ticket counter, security line, and boarding gate without a meltdown. And THEN I can deal with hours of restrained seating in a hurling sardine can full of germy, antsy strangers and my own un-napped and over-stimulated little ones who know that they've completely got me because hey, there's no 'time out chair' on a Boeing 737.

I understand how much I ask of my kids to be cooperative in stressful situations, and travel messes with the holy trinity of sane children: food, sleep, and sanitation. In a world of long lines, loud noises, irritated travelers and over-stimulated and over-restrained toddlers, a mama needs more tricks up her sleeve than Q offers to Her Majesty's secret service.

One of my favorite tricks is the "Airport Nack". This is when I break down all my self-imposed rules and prejudices about fast food, sweets, and overpriced junk offered up as a source of nutrition. It's pure distraction and bribery and I'm completely down wit' it.

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On a trip home from Chicago a few months ago, I bought a very large bag of artery-busting buttery popcorn for our flight. After strapping on our seatbelts and getting our groove on with Bob The Builder in the DVD player, I pulled out the popcorn and put it between me and Sam to share. We collectively munched away, our hands rubbing up against each other in the buttery bag as he happily watched the movie and I ever-so-happily read a magazine. Ah, bliss.

And then it started to smell rather ripe around us. There were several small kids nearby and I remember thinking "Ugh, someone's gotta deal with thaaat", and then naively popped another crunchy kernel and went on reading about Gwenyth and her secret to happiness and beauty and other important nuggets of truth (FYI: eating no white food and hiring a staff of minions will make a girl happy and waifish).

And I should put it out there that Sam does not so much dig the dirty D; he's pretty clear with me when he needs to be changed and seemed to be quietly enjoying his dinner and a movie.

Denial. It's not just a river in Egypt.

After a few sideways glances where I'd seen the little guy happily mesmerized by the wonders of Scoop, Muck and Dizzy, I did a double take and watched as he stuck his hands up through the leg opening of his shorts, into his diaper, retrieved his own scoop of muck, and mechanically wiped the contents of his diaper onto his seat back. And then took another handful of popcorn out of our shared bag.

Yeah, there's a reason they no longer serve food on airplanes and it has nothing to do with cost savings, by the way.

With eternal gratitude to a very helpful and mortified flight attendant, the mess was quickly cleaned up and disinfected, Sam was changed into a new outfit, and I'm pretty sure that a call was made to notify Haz Mat to meet our plane at the gate when we landed. The teenage girl sitting next to us probably is still having poo nightmares or seeking counseling. She never spoke to me again after I saw her covering her mouth in a blanket while making gagging noises at the window. Clearly, there will be no need for a "family planning" talk with this girl. She may never try air travel again, either.

I, however, I am just not that smart.

Earlier this month I got caught in the poo triangle when BOTH boys decided to simultaneously empty their bowels as our aircraft descended. If you've never had the privilege of having to make choices about your children and whose poo is going to get ignored the longest, consider yourself very, very lucky.

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Somehow the snow covered sleigh being pulled by horses who know their way to Grandmother's house seems a whole lot more appealing.