Since my post Baby on a Plane, we haven’t exactly changed our travel planning or expectations as much as we probably should have. After all, they say lightning doesn’t strike twice so once the terrible has happened you may as well stop worrying right?
Wrong. Lightning does indeed strike twice and so do the chances of your baby having an incident, far worse than you’ve experienced before, occurring on a plane – again.
I’m sure there will be plenty of you readers out there that just think this is a fiction. A way of recycling an idea and getting some laughs at the expense of real experience but I can assure you the following really happened.
I’d remind you of our previous health, safety and hygiene violations we experienced the first time around if my posts were shorter. However, they are too long as it is and you should just go re-equate yourselves with the original baby/plane related disaster Baby on a Plane.
This time we were on our way to La Azohia, located in the southeast of Spain, to spend a week with my wife’s family. The hour and a half flight felt like a lifetime as though we’d entered the Wardrobe and spent 100 years in the White Witch’s deep winter. The seatbelt sign illuminated, it was time to land, we’d made it through the other side and we were almost on holiday. (Ooh Déjà vu. Only this time it was more like the 100 years Sméagol spent hiding in the Misty Mountains once he strangled Déagol to acquire the One Ring, transforming into Gollom.)
Wait, rewind – Let’s get some context here.
We’d set the alarm for 04:00.
Scrap that, rewind – Let’s get some more context here.
My wife had booked a flight at an airport that’s 40 minutes away from our home for 06:30 due to cost. I could just about cope with her obsession with the ‘best deal’ to let this one slide until… My wife set the alarm for 04:00.
Half asleep, I pack the car while my wife carefully manoeuvres Millie from her cot to the car seat while still asleep.Well that was the plan anyway. A few minutes into this process I get a spine-tingling call to come upstairs. I assume the worst and bolt up the stairs and into the nursery. An overwhelming smell fills my olfactory system. Millie is asleep, lying in the giant pool of vomit, reminiscent of Gary in the film Team America: World Police.
We both feel immense guilt as we remember the previous evening when we had ignored a couple of short cry bursts in favour of our Gotham marathon on Netflix. We ensure that Millie doesn’t remain asleep by changing her and washing her hair as best we can in the few minutes we have remaining before missing our flight becomes a real possibility.
During the journey to the airport I constantly replay the scene over in my mind and consider cancelling the holiday in favour of taking care of Millie in familiar surroundings with our home comforts and with english speaking doctors. I voice my concerns to my wife who assures me it’ll all be fine.
We board the plane tired and stressed. Millie, aside from remaining awake since 4am and hair still smelling of sick, appears ok. She takes a milk feed 30 minutes into the flight and falls asleep.
Fast forward – My wife’s arm has succumbed to severe pins and needles from the weight of Millie’s resting head. The seatbelt sign illuminates, it’s time to land, everything’s fine, lightning doesn’t strike twice…
This time Millie projectile vomits like I’ve never seen before, across the three seats of our aisle (and yes, there is someone we’ve never met in seat C). This was more Peter Klaven in the film, I Love You, Man than Gary in Team America. All we could do was build upon our previous experience, reach for the wet wipes and laugh it off. And apologise to seat-C lady obviously, who actually took it much better than John Favreau’s Barry McLean.
Our holiday was spent caring for our poorly child, but ultimately, even though my wife and I both became ill ourselves for 24 hours, she was right when she said “It’ll all be fine”.
Since that flight we still haven’t altered our travel planning schedule. Millie has flown 8 times now so that’s a current devastation rate of a quarter… Maybe we are just lackadaisical but “lightning doesn’t strike thrice” is definitely not a phrase is it?