So.

We survived.

Our first family vacation. Four flights, two layovers and countless numbers of goldfish crackers and cheerios later, we’re all in one piece. I’m pretty sure, anyway.

My son behaved for the most part on the flight, save for ten minutes on the way there and about fifteen on the way home where he morphed into changeling baby and shrieked as though unforseen hands were trying to rip out his organs. Other than that little blip, things were fine. But yes, I did notice the burning stares of death from the surrounding passengers when we walked on the plane for the first time. You could just see their thoughts: “Please don’t let them sit here. Oh God, please. I just know that kid will throw a tantrum and spill his sippy cup all over my People magazine. Keep moving…keep walking…oh, crap.”

Thankfully though, on each flight, there was a child so bratty and obnoxious that our kid could’ve run up and down the aisle naked and pissed on everyone and he still wouldn’t have gotten the title of Child Most Likely To Be Thrown Off The Plane Without A Flotation Device.

It’s funny, isn’t it? I don’t know if this is anyone else’s experience, but when I’m in a public place with my kid, especially one where I really, really want him to behave, my husband and I smile gleefully at each other when someone else’s precious baybee starts throwing shit around and having a Mach Five Meltdown. Because, of course, at least my kid won’t be the only brat at the restaurant, in the grocery store, whatever. And my kid is also at the stage where other children are the most interesting, fascinating thing. Especially when they’re flipping out.

So, any of you who have bratty kids and live in the Chicago area, please feel free to email me your upcoming weekend itineraries! I’d love to be assured of a “brat cushion” for the next time we go out in public.

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