At lunch time tomorrow we’ll be in Florida. We’re flying. With the girls. They’ve never been on a plane before. We’ve never been on a plane with them before. The first time my folks took my sisters and I on commercial airliner was in November of ’79. I was 9. I am what Mr. Webster would describe as experiencing some trepidation about the trip.
I’m trying to be positive but I don’t like to fly. I like to fly less than General Pickett likes charges, less than Ted Kennedy likes bridges, less than Assistant Principal Vernon liked John Bender. But my gut still tells me that the girls will be pretty good on the flight down and pretty horrible on the way back. And I’m willing to take that trade as of now.
They don’t quite understand what they are about to do however. For example, when we’ve driven to Florida, and we’ve done it three times, they can bring their pillows, blankets, a stuffed animal or doll and plenty of travel activities. Last night as we were getting some things ready to do they were approaching the plane trip the same way they’ve approached car trips.
Riley: Dad, where are we going to put all our sleeping stuff?
Dad: What?
Riley: My blanket and pillow and Patrick?
(Note: Patrick is a stuffed dog about the size of a two year-old kid but he’s soft and furry and doesn’t smell like pee every few hours)
Dad: You’re not bringing Patrick. Your pillow is staying here and your blanket is going in the suitcase.
Riley: Wait, what?
This led to a conversation about how much room is available to each person and what they are allowed to do. All of this information was a great shock to her. Add this to the fact that all five of us aren’t sitting right next to each other on flight into Orlando and this is a lot for her to process. Thankfully, or maybe not, Bailey doesn’t seem to care and Kinsey just took it in stride.
My sister has flown to Florida with my nephew a few times. And my nephew is not a kid who relishes stillness. So she’s given me some pointers on what to bring along to keep the girls occupied. We’re loading up on the coloring books, activity books and tranquilizers potent enough to knock out a small bear and require a license from the DEA.
Chronicles of Dad 