Travelin' Man

Late Thursday night, we made it to our hotel in New Orleans, in the French Quarter.  Eventful trip?  Yes, to say the least.

First of all, as we trooped through the airport, we looked like a band of gypsies.  Three suitcases, a hanging bag for my suits, a laptop bag, a camera bag, a diaper bag and a car seat, attached to one of the suitcases with a bungee cord.  Oh, and J.P. rolling along contentedly in his stroller.  Seriously, I bet people who saw us thought we were leaving town permanently.

The suitcases we checked, the rest of the gear we carried on the airplane.  As we boarded, I struggled to carry the car seat down the narrow aisle of the airplane.  I carried it in two hands, in front of me, with my suit bag banging into the heads of people sitting in aisle seats behind me.  Once I reached an empty row of seats, a flight attendant took one look at me, tapped me on the shoulder, and said, "sir, may I assist you?"  She proceeded to belt the car seat into the window seat in about 30 seconds, a task that would've taken me 30 minutes.

Jude and J.P. followed a minute or two later, after she checked the stroller with the flight attendant, as they boarded the airplane.  As we prepared for takeoff, Jude tried to strap J.P. into his car seat.  That's where the fun began.  He began screaming like a banshee, wailing and, generally having a nuclear meltdown.  Among the unfortunate souls sitting near us, some made eye contact with us, nodded sympathetically and smiled (I call those the "I've been there" group), while others stared vacantly, shook their heads and turned away (I call those the "Oh, my God, please don't tell me there's a screaming brat on my flight" group). 

Yes, instantly, my child had become "that baby," the one we've all dreaded having near us on a flight. 

Once we were airborne, I pulled out the portable DVD player, slapped in a "Baby Einstein" DVD and prepared for the blissful sound of silence.  I looked at the screen.  Nothing.  I punched buttons.  Nothing.  I looked closer.  No power.  J.P. continued screaming and crying.  I began to cry (not really, but I thought about it). 

Panicked, I switched to Plan B.  I pulled out my laptop, inserted the "Baby Einstein" DVD and . . . wait on it . . . it worked!  Instantly, J.P. stopped crying, started smiling and began pointing at the screen.  Beautiful.  Home free.  Right?  Wrong.

As we began our descent into New Orleans, J.P. began whimpering quietly.  That's never a good sign, because normally it portends the arrival of an unpleasant substance.  Vomit.  True to form, J.P. began vomiting.  We were somewhat prepared for this development, though, as we hadn't fed him or given him milk prior to the flight, so he wasn't able to projectile vomit (as he did the last time we were on an airplane with him, when we foolishly gave him milk to drink WHILE WE WERE IN THE AIR).  Jude quickly pulled out a bag and prevented a bad situation from becoming downright ugly.  Good save, Jude.

We landed, gathered our gear and began the trek to baggage claim, looking like a family convoy of some sort.  Shortly thereafter, we loaded up our rental car - a minivan - and began the 30 minute drive into New Orleans.  As we approached the French Quarter and our hotel, J.P. vomited again for good measure.  Of course, it was more like the "dry heaves" at this point, because there really wasn't anything in his stomach to throw up.  

We checked into the hotel and put him down to bed at 9:30 p.m. or so.  I hustled out to find dinner for Jude and me.  The Sugar Shack, a restaurant/bar nearby, was serving dinner until 10:00 p.m.  I sat down at the bar, ordered takeout, took a deep breath and drank three beers in 20 minutes as I decompressed, thinking "what a long, strange trip it's been."