Travelling with a toddler

Transatlantic travel with a toddler - five words guaranteed to make grown people sweat - both the family of said toddler as well as every human being destined to be on the same aeroplane. 

My son turned 3 in April. The Terrible Twos are over. Nobody said a word about the Traumatising Threes. Now that the child can speak full, coherent sentences, it doesn't mean he can now "use his words, thereby lessening his frustration which was the cause of those awful tantrums."  No. It just means his temper tantrums are more painful because he feels he's an adult in a peer to peer negotiation, and so can no longer be silenced with a glare, chocolate or by being ignored. Oh JOY.

Because my family selfishly live in England, I made that annual, laden with homesickness, decision to fly myself and toddleboy back to England for a holiday. I ruled out the usual London for 48hrs then a train ride up to Worcestershire. If it was going to be just me and the boy, I had to limit the potential carnage - so we decided to fly into Birmingham via Munich.

I've seen women travelling with 4 young children. I was with 1. How hard could it be, for goodness sake. Well, it depends on the child. 

Mine likes to talk to EVERYBODY. He has a pretty creative imagination. In addition, he likes to scare himself (wtf), charm ladies and sit very close to strangers if they have interesting-looking snacks. 

He also lacks any kind of filter. Dear god. You know where this is going. 

To the kindly, respectable-looking rabbi at Dulles airport security line: Thank you for smiling at and engaging my boy in conversation. You didn't flinch or move away when he suddenly WWE-grabbed your thighs. Nor did you swat him off when he tugged really hard on the white rope tassley things attached to your trousers. And when he sat on the plastic molded box carrying your headwear, you merely smiled. I realise he desecrated at least two religious articles but you could not have been nicer about it, telling me to stop apologizing and that there was no harm done. So, please accept my 85th and hopefully final apology for that moment when you turned to him, smiled and in return he screamed "SCARY MONSTER! SCARY MAN FACE! NOOO!" and ran away. I blame it on Scooby Doo, specifically the episode we saw that afternoon. It just so happened the baddy had a beard. Like you. 

Dear TSA lady at security: I'm sorry.  Your ID tag was in the wrong place at the wrong time. My child is 3. He's not a perverted midget. He just wanted to see and hold your ID tag.

Dear, dear, dear lady in line at Annie's Pretzels: Again, it's Scooby Doo's influence. A cartoon he shall never be allowed to watch again. In his defence, your attire did slightly resemble The Wax Phantom. I'm sorry he pointed at you whilst yelling "GET SCOOBY! IT'S A PHANTOM!". He was definitely saying "phantom", not "fat one".  I swear. 

To the woman sitting in front of my son on the overnight flight: If I'd had duct tape, I would've taped his legs and arms to his body, and the tray table in its upright position. Permanently. His mouth too, probably. I failed. 

To the rest of the passengers within earshot: He didn't scream or cry (thank you god) but yes, he sang. Not even *I* knew he could sing for two hours nonstop. I was as surprised as you. I will most certainly teach him more than the first verse of Bananas in Pyjamas before our next flight. It IS quite repetitive, isn't it.

Air Stewardess, Fräulein Kirstin: When he asked for coffee, he meant hot chocolate. It's a sort of game we play at home. We don't feed our toddler actual coffee. Honestly. There's nothing like a "What kind of mother are you?" glare from a German woman to make one almost weep. 

When we finally made it to Munich, I was relieved. No iPad or tantrums = a Miracle. Cue angelic music. 

On the plane, I'd made a 55-piece lego plane. *self applause*
Dragging a child who hasn't slept in a long time through a super busy airport is challenging. As it was Munich, I felt perfectly okay shrieking "That's IT. I'M LEAVING YOU HERE, GOODBYE" and marching ahead. Germanically. Fast, efficient. Not that the child cared. He just continued flying the plane and saying Guten Mongey (Guten Morgen, obvs) to everyone. EVERYONE. Every thirteen seconds a piece of the plane fell off - a wheel, a wing, a combustion thing. Every sodding time, I reneged on my "If it falls off again, WE ARE BLOODY LEAVING IT!"  That 15 minute walk was more stressful than the flight. 

The travelator/moving walkway. FML a million times. About 20 feet from the end, a wing fell off the plane. You're wondering why I let him continue carrying it... Let's just say, each time I took it from him I got a glimpse of all the tears and fury saved up from the flight. Not a battle I wanted to face. Anyway, the wing on the travelator -- I knelt down to pick it up and the next thing I knew, I was going backwards on my bum and my bags had come up under my knees. I couldn't stand up or roll onto my knees. And my bum was knocking up against the end of the travelator. If I've ever felt such mortification before, I cannot recall the time. After grabbing the boy and literally using him as leverage to crawl sideways onto terra firma, I stood up, announced a high-pitched "I'm FINE" *raised plane wing into air to signal success*, grabbed the boy and bags and strode off as though nothing had happened. True British grit, that. (Oh, the SHAME, she secretly sobs)

Anyhow, we made our connection to Birmingham without any kind of incident. After the travelator episode, my son felt so guilty that a steely glare stopped any more shenanigans. That and the stern "Remember how mummy nearly DIED saving your plane?".

We've been in the motherland for almost a week now and are having a wonderful time with family. The child has avoided any broken bones (his own or his cousins') and has yet to drive his grandparents to an early end. Things are looking good. Two weeks remain. 

Having finished typing that, the sleeping child just sneezed and rolled off the bed. Goodnight. 

Elaine