To celebrate my one year anniversary of writing for the fantastically hilarious www.sahmmy.com I am reposting the article was most fun for me to write. I added a few new bits and pieces for the occasion.


I Bless the Rains Down in Africa


“I loved traveling with my kids!” A business man next to me says as me and my two kids wait in line at airport security.
I look for signs of a stroke, but he seems to just be a fucking insane person. I smile and move along peeling my four year old Frankie off the stanchion pole. I take inventory for the hundredth time this morning. Diapers. Wipes. Snacks. Movies. My computer. Books. Coloring book. Crayons. CDs. Old Disc-man. Changes of clothes. Sippy cups. Child one. Child two. Got em. It’s my first solo trip with my love monsters and I’m a bit freaked. But I am as prepared as I can be. I can do this.
“ ‘Daddy’s gonna kill Ralphie’,” Frankie says to the woman behind us.
Frankie has been quoting A Christmas Story and singing Deck the Halls at the top of her lungs since we arrived to LAX. It’s March. I’m thinking this is her nervous tick. Zoe, my little zen Buddha baby, is cool as a cucumber.
We make it through security, our first hurdle, just fine. Except for the fact that it’s really hard to close up a stroller and lift it onto the conveyor belt of the x ray machine one handed while holding a 18 month old and everyone around you acts like they don’t see you struggling. I think it might be against policy for TSA workers to be courteous human beings.
We get to our gate armed with happy meals. The kids are... happy. Content. Staying in one place. Frankie downs her milk. Zoe eats all her food. This is going well!
“Okay, time for the bathroom stop before we get on the plane,” I announce. Frankie scrunches up her face momentarily, but then gives in.
“Okay!” She says.
We go to the bathroom, cram ourselves, stroller and all, into the handicapped stall and she sees the toilet.
“NO!!!!! It’s the magical potty!” She screams.
Fuck.
Ever since she used one of those automatic flushing toilets, she is deathly afraid of them. I don’t blame her. They sound like jet engines and seem to have the vacuum power of a black hole.
But I have an idea. We go to the family bathroom. Perfect. There’s a little potty just like the one at her preschool. This is where things really go to shit. I am in a full on wrestling match with a four year old forcing her pants down and trying to make her pee. I scream. I beg. I plead. Nothing. Zoe looks on amused. I even call Papa, “MAKE HER GO!”
He helplessly talks to her, but there’s no use. The public bathroom is not happening. I take a deep breath. Okay, let it go. When she’s got to go. She’ll go.
We board the plane after waiting an excruciating thirty minutes (Note to self: Getting to the airport too early with kids is worse than having to rush. “Look at that trashcan! Is that a toy?? What’s that man doing? What’s that girl eating? Girl, what are you eating? Lady can I touch your shoe? Oh look she has a princess backpack!” Can someone say overstimulation? ). I hope we have the row to ourselves, but no. A older man sits next to us. I scrutinize his face. I’m dying to use my line on that passenger that gives me the “I have to sit next to two kids” look: If you didn’t want to take public transportation then maybe you shoulda chartered that jet. But he sits down pleasantly.
“ ‘A crumby commercial? Son of a bitch!’ “ Frankie quotes another classic Christmas Story line to the man.
The man chuckles. I actually feel a little sorry for him. This guy doesn’t even know what he’s in for.
I can’t seem to get anything organized. Everything Frankie wants she can’t have. Zoe is smearing her breakfast bar all over my jeans and to make me more annoyed the flight attendants start their spiel. Okay, let me say this. You can’t make up for being a shitty airline with