Sorry for the radio silence. We've settled into a nice rhythm, and since things are good and mostly smooth right now, I've been enjoying myself rather than writing. So, without further ado...
Last time we talked, I was telling you about the stress of traveling and the fear of being judged a "bad" parent. The important question by which to judge all travel stress is, "What's the worst that could happen?" Some may argue that a screaming baby is the worst that could happen, but unless you've got a colicky baby, it's more likely your little one will tucker him/herself out at some point. And if you're flying with a colicky baby... God help you.
I maintain the worst that could happen is having your baby puke or shit on a total stranger. This...didn't happen to us. So the second worse thing happened to us. Poopmageddon.
Our stay in California was wonderful. Nice weather, relaxing, and The Baby was pretty darn cooperative. We didn't really start to worry until the two days before our flight, when we realized it had been a couple days since The Baby had pooped. No biggie. She'd gone three or four days in between poops in the past, and we were confident we'd see some action before the flight. Day before the flight - still no poop, but still not too worried. Day of the flight - no poop, getting a little worried...
For some reason, I was still confident though that our beautiful little daughter would never do something so cruel as save up four days' worth of shit just to let it fly during a full flight. I am a stupid, stupid man.
The Wife is nursing The Baby when she feels a sudden and unexpected warmth in her lap. Her hand comes away smelly.
Our sweet little shit factory had given us a Level 3 Code Brown. (Level 1 Code Brown is a minor breach of the diaper; confined to the waistband and/or leg holes. Level 2 is above the waistband but below the armpits. Level 3 is armpits. Level 4 is neck. Level 5 is hair)
Thank god our neighbor was a flight attendant who was deadheading back home. She figured out what had happened and investigated the bathroom, and lo and behold, it had a changing table! This was the first plane upon which I'd flown to have a changing table in the bathroom. We took our little shit nugget back and worked on a plan. Onesie was a total write off - we stripped it from the neck down. I started grabbing handfuls of Kleenex and wiping the bulk of it off. At this point, I looked around and realized what a horrible, awful mess it would make to try to use the plane's garbage, which features a spring-loaded door that swings closed strongly enough to trap you like a weasel. I poked my head out and asked a flight attendant for a garbage bag. Onesie and soiled Kleenex went in the bag. Then I went to work with wet wipes. Wipe after wipe after wipe until they started coming away clean. All into the bag, which I then tied up. A smart man would've just thrown the whole thing away, but as I mentioned, I'm not a smart man. I'm a stupid, stupid man who cannot bear the thought of throwing away a five dollar onesie just because it'd dirty. Plus it has little popsicles on it! The bag came off the plane with us and I later donned rubber gloves and separated that onesie from the disgusting jumble of wipes and Kleenex and washed it. Did I mention I got the flu the day before we left? So I was feeling great.
So that was Poopmageddon, and is realistically the worst thing I can imagine happening on a flight. And you know what? It wasn't that bad. We got far more sympathetic nods than dirty looks (we didn't get any dirty looks as far as I could tell). The onesie came out clean, The Baby still wears it to this day, and I've got the perfect story for her wedding day.