Anyway, my cousin Karen in Florida had been asking me to come visit ever since the kids were born. So naturally, we waited until the boys were at the most inconvenient ages possible (1 and 3) to book our trip to Orlando.
Now is a good time to mention that I might be the world's shittiest flyer. Everyone is a terrorist, every foreign sound is the engine failing and every raindrop will cause us to nosedive erratically into the Atlantic. Add kids into the equation and you've got the makings of a first-rate, pee your pants comedy (for everyone but me, that is). And what's odd is that I refuse to fly with my wife since I fear that the plane will go down and leave my children as orphans, but apparently am okay with us all going up in flames together with the kids. Please don't try to understand my morbidly creepy logic.
So, going into this trip, I knew I had three obstacles to overcome. They were:
1. Getting alcohol immediately
2. Ensuring my older son doesn't shit in his underwear
3. Ensuring I don't shit in my underwear
Obstacle #1 reared its ugly head immediately, as I asked the stewardess upon boarding when the liquor would be served. I felt like Amy Winehouse, but dammit, I had an itch that needed to be scratched, and scratched with something at least 80 proof. I was told with judging eyes that the drink service would begin once they reached an elevation where it was safe to move about the aircraft, or some bullshit. Considering 80% of the reason I needed said liquor was for takeoff, I noticeably grimaced while lugging Sonia's flowery diaper bag and an eager-to-walk Nate simultaneously to our seats.
The most unrealistic picture ever taken
I was so intently focused on wishing we wouldn't all die that I forgot Nate hadn't pooped himself all day. So, when do you think he pooped? About five minutes before we took off. Meaning we weren't allowed to get up and that the unfortunate souls to my left and right would need to smell feces at least for the next 15 minutes. I tried my best to hold my nose and point to Nate's butt (the social indicator that I'm aware I'm the root cause of the current odor), but none of my seat neighbors would make eye contact with me. Instead, they looked away with sour faces as if they'd smelled a fart. But they didn't. They smelled shit. Luckily, Sonia volunteered to make the change once the Fasten Seatbelts sign was off. And let me tell you, that's one offer you always accept. She could've been on crutches with patches on both eyes and my conscious still would've allowed it. As she left with Nate, naturally Antonio ran to follow, causing me to awkwardly hop over the poor Cuban lady to my right, who I'd been reaching over and apologizing to for the past hour or so. After dragging him back to his seat like a mental patient off his meds, I whispered into his ear with the only phrase I knew would instantly stop the tears. "I just pooped my pants," I mumbled. And BOOM. Instant mood enhancer. He laughed his ass off, and I was no longer embarrassed.
So while the cat's away (changing the kitten's diaper), the mouse will drink whiskey on the rocks. And drink it I did. Quickly and voraciously.Then, just as I started to really feel it, Nate dropped another bomb. So much that it leaked out of his diaper and onto his pants. And it was my turn to change him. Now, let me just say this. You haven't been truly challenged until you're drunk on an airplane, forced to change a baby's soiled diaper on an airplane bathroom changing table the size of a pocket calculator. I mean, I would've had difficulty changing a Ken doll on that thing. I tried standing Nate up on it but I bumped his head on the ceiling. Thankfully, there was some give to it (his head, not the ceiling). Although, this was the point where I started hoping a DYFS representative wasn't on board to see me stumbling down the aisle with a disoriented child and Jack Daniels on my breath. Fortunately, though, I wouldn't have to worry about walking down the aisle at all. Because the stewardess was blocking my path with the God damn drink cart. So I stood there and waited. And standing still at that point might have been harder than trying to walk. Regardless, I braved it out, because that's what mildly inebriated fathers do.
Once I was off the plane, I breathed a sigh of relief, which probably intoxicated anyone in the surrounding area. Then, as I turned on my phone, carrying a camera bag, diaper bag, my one-year-old son and a changing pad, I noticed a text message saying, "Hope you're relaxing on your vacation!" Go fuck yourself.
I'm currently hard at work (no pun intended) on my parenting book. I won't be presumptuous and set a release date, but I promise not to Chinese Democracy this thing either. Believe that.
Till next time, feel free to share this with someone you think would enjoy.
-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
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