Up, Up and Away (Goes My Brain)

I am so excited that tomorrow, Ella and I are heading to my parents' house for a little more than two weeks for the holidays.

And by "excited," I actually mean that I'm about ready to keel over and throw up from the sheer anticipation of the horror that may or may not occur while Ella and I attempt to make said trip.

You see, tomorrow, I fly.

Up, up and away in an airplane.

With a 6 month old. Alone.

There isn't enough tranquilizers in the world that will likely get me through this.

First, consider the fact that I am not a good flyer by myself. I get a bit doomsday surrounded by that many people hurtling through the air in a metal tube.

Add an infant - a loud, chunky, active infant - to the mix? Well, you do the math.

I've been overly preparing in my head for over a month; surveying my packing list, buying a supremo baby carrier, taking the teeny-tiny, easily fold-able stroller out for a spin.

I've read Web sites on flying with infants. I over-analyzed airline schedules to find the optimal time for Ella to be airborne and hopefully happy.

I've prayed countless times that I get an empty seat next to me on the plane so my child doesn't kick someone while she's nursing.

But now? It's almost D-Day. And I'm. Not. Ready.

I keep picturing a packed plane filled with two kinds of people: The baby-haters who glare at you even though your child is sleeping peacefully and roll their eyes and sneer in disgust if they have the unfortunate coincidence of being seated next to you. Or the lecherous, single frat-boy, whose all, "Oooh! She's breast-feeding! Free boobie show for me!"

Thankfully, from drop-off to pick-up, I shouldn't have more than eight hours of travel. Blessedly, I only have to make one connection, as well.

The bad news is, that connection happens to be in purgatory itself: The Atlanta airport. In other words, The Place All Planes Get Grounded For No Explicable Reason Causing You to Live on Subway Sandwiches and Sleep on Benches for About Four Days.

With a baby, mind you.

Don't forget that little nugget of truth: I have to do all this with a baby.

A baby who has no attention span. A baby who likes to whip off my nursing cover, pop off the boob, and give everyone in a 5-foot radius a breast-milk shower.

A baby who has never flown before.

I am sitting here, sweating profusely, at the thought of all this.

I'm already picturing myself walking off the plane, handing my father Ella, and yelling over my shoulder, "Dad, I need a stiff drink and a nap. Stat."

So, all of you seasoned mama flyers, who are rolling your eyes and guffawing at me right now, listen up.

I need your advice. Your wisdom. Your Jedi mind-tricks to getting a baby through two airports and two flights with ease and grace and minimal frizzing of the hair and armpit sweat.

Tell me your secrets.

But don't tell me to give her a bottle or a pacifier. Because Ella hates both of those.

And don't tell me to relax. Because it's too late for that.

I'm panicking, and only your sound, wise advice can stop me.

I need good, concrete tips. Something along the lines of "Bribe the flight attendants with some singles so they can arrange for you to sit in your own private row whilst feeding you endless amounts of Perrier and organic grapes."

Or, you know, tell me how to get through security without losing my mind or my purse.

Wherever your gifts lie.

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Happy Wednesday, everyone!