Screaming kids on a plane is bad. For everyone.
If it's your child, you want to die.
If it's someone else's kids, you wanna kill them. Or yourself. Or hope to God you packed your noise-canceling headphones.
Thankfully, on our Easter trip to see my dad, my children were not the screaming kids. In fact, all the kids (and there were a bunch) were nice and quiet.
However, on the flight home, the change in pressure did help my five-month-old son overcome his little tummy pain. And by "overcome" I mean he "overwhelmed" and "over-filled" his stage 2 diaper.
Yes, he was the stinky kid.
I've had to change diapers at 30,000 feet before, so I think, "No big deal,"right? I whisk him back to the lavatory before the aroma envelops the entire cabin, and look for the fold-down changing table that I had on that previous flight.
Umm... where'd it go?
I run up to the flight attendant who's handing out drinks. "Is there a changing table in the first class bathroom?"
"No."
"Crap." (literally)
So it's back to my seat with the little stinker. And thus the operation commences.
We're on the two-seat side of the aircraft, so I send my daughter over to my wife across the aisle and lay Sean perpendicular to the seat, with me kneeling in my seat, my feet to the aisle, bending over to extricate the offending substances.
Upon opening up the onesie, the true horror of the situation is revealed.
It's friggin EVERYWHERE.
We're talking complete diaper failure. It's down the legs. It's up the back. The boy must have been saving up for days. Picture Michael Keaton in Mr. Mom with the goggles and tongs, only I had no such armament.
In order to pull the feat off, I'm going to have to prep the area. Two diapers go down on the seat under him as a make-shift pad. Two wipes go on top for coverage. This is just so I can fold the onesie's flap down and actually try to clean the boy off.
Now my wife and I have always rated nasty diapers by the number of wipes it takes to clean it up. One or two is relatively easy. Five is pretty gross.
This one hit a dozen.
All the while, I'm trying to keep everything on my makeshift pad so as not to funk up the seat.
That worked until it was time to get the nasty onesie up and over his head. Had I scissors, I would have just cut the thing off like they do in an emergency room, sacrificing the article of clothing for the greater good. The darn thing is likely never coming clean anyway.
But no, it had to come up and over. And that just extended the mess up to his shoulders.
Son of a ...
So I get him cleaned up finally, scrub down the seat 'cause, well, there was no way it was escaping the carnage. I get him dressed into a clean footie. I looked around as I let my daughter back into her seat, and no one makes eye contact. That's probably a good thing.
I sit back down with the boy on my lap and within minutes...
He's out cold.
Apparently the ordeal took a lot out of him. (again, literally!) He slept the rest of the flight.
Air travel is hard enough with little kids. You think it wouldn't be too much to ask for a friggin changing table in the restroom?
No comments:
Post a Comment