Motherhood Uncensored

When Bedtime Stories Are Smarter Than You

"A-pah-sema..."

"a-POH-seeema..."

"Ay-PAH-sama..."

"A.PAH.SE... *interrupts* "Mommy! You just say it like this: 'pasta'"

Damn dinosaur books with long words like "aposematism." I still don't know how to say it.

I Spent the Entire Day at the Philadelphia Airport and all I Got Was a Ziploc Bag and an $8 Sandwich

Clearly, someone is trying to tell me something.

I should have known when everything fell right into place for our little weekend trip to Hotlanta. Nothing forgotten. Happy children. Cheerful mother-in-law.

But then, we arrived at the airport to find every single person in Philadelphia trying to fly to Atlanta today. I know, the CNN Center is just fabulous and I love me some Japanese Prune Coke at the Coca Cola Museum. However, I'm not sure that's worth the hellishly long lines at the ticket counters and security -- with two children, two car seats, a stroller, three bags, and a mother-in-law.

I was hoping that with the huz being employed by an airline I might get some special privileges.

Apparently that was the ONE free ziploc bag for my Preparation H cream with the butt tip that stopped the x-ray tray in front of half of the city.

Nice.

As airline employee dependents, you fly standby. No special red carpet, no stickers, and no cute set of wings. And, clearly, no special treatment. As I learned, do not for the life of you mention the word "pilot," at least to gate agent Mr. Sherry F., a man with a very weird first name for a man who's not a pre-op trannie, because he will not offer you the two open seats on your flight because "you are a party of four."

Yes. Four humans -- two of whom are small children and can clearly sit on laps and take up two seats.

"Don't make me whip out my boob and nurse right in front of you, Mister" I thought, considering the possible ramifications (and exciting blog post) of such an action.

But alas, I didn't think Mr. Sherry F. would have cared. And so started our long field trip day at the airport.

We had a picnic lunch under the large overhang at Gate E-3. We tested the various toilets and sinks at each of the two women's restrooms. We ate large amounts of candy, including gummy bears, lollipops, and twizzlers.

We listened as my daughter cheered for the arriving planes and cried loudly as they left without her. And we watched solemnly (and looked away, as many of our country people are doing) as the casket of a soldier was loaded onto a plane with a military escort and salute.

And we cried when the third flight was over sold with no chance of us getting on it.

So, our trip to Atlanta was not meant to be. We'll have to meet Ted Turner and indulge on an hour long sugar high sampling of cokes another time. And while I have to admit that the airport was almost as exciting as the zoo (less animals, air conditioning, and just under half the stench), I'm pretty sure you won't see me listing it as an "Indoor Listen and Learn" activity at Gocitykids.

And our only saving grace was that we at least got our parking free. And that my children are gems.

Maybe that's what someone was trying to tell me.

We know it's hard mommy. That's why we read our own bedtime stories sometimes.

Mom - 0, Sweet Potatoes - 1

So after reading your comments and watching my son attempt to swipe all food that was anywhere within reach of his grubby little hands, I decided to give the food a whirl. Plus, he's really against eating in public, which complicates matters when we are out for the day.

Notice: If you see some tall lady with great shoes (ahem) laying on a bench trying to nurse her son, that would be me. Our trip to the zoo had me attempting to thaw a bag of breastmilk under cold water in the restroom sink.

Wow. Now that is an asspain.

Sadly, he associates eating with sleep. But who am I to complain about that? There are way worse things to associate with sleep, so oh well, right? I can pack a bottle! And milk! And food.

Right. FOOD.

So, I tried some sweet potatoes mixed with breastmilk -- I'm calling it 'Momtatoes' -- you like? Or maybe 'Boobietatoes'? And it just came right back out. Off that tongue and into hands, feet, hair, and everywhere else. Bib, schmib? Seriously, what are bibs for exactly except another thing to wash?

I'm not sure if it was the right time, or the right food. But I'm not giving up just yet. But for now, sweet potatoes (or Momtatoes) have clearly one up on me, and every single piece of clothing both he and I were wearing this morning.

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Welcome to The Mom Trap. Click around and stay awhile. I try to keep it fairly neat and clean around here.

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