Travel Trauma

Summer Vacation!
It can mean only one thing at the Kawa Bungalow: flight across country to visit family!

Last time we attempted this, Abby was two years old. And as I'm sure you know, taking a two on a plane is the modern day equivalent of drinking mass quantities of hemlock while seated in a port-o-let. But with more elbows.

There are two major problems with the child/air-travel pairing.

First: The trip itself. Which won't be too bad on the trip out, but when you factor in the return trip will average out to something approaching Dante's 6^th level of hell.

It's commonly understood that air travel is its own bizarre form of punishment. What with security delays, overbooking, hide-and-seek games with luggage, and such. Add a toddler to this equation, and you get "Cruel and Unusual Punishment" as is supposedly outlawed by the Constitution of the United States (for this exact reason, I'm sure.)

Second: the obvious, rapid, and inevitable deterioration of a child's manners when privacy does not permit appropriately threatening intervention. Or in simpler terms: the kid goes berserk.

Within about three vacation days, my formerly angelic child - that gift from God I routinely get down on your knees and thank him for - figures out that under "vacation/visiting" circumstances, discipline takes a rest. Or possibly endures a vicious headlock and simultaneous atomic wedgie.

After a couple of days of seeing discipline come in the form of gentle reminders, and snickers from elderly relatives, she suspects what I already knew: SHE is in charge.

One simply cannot correct a child effectively in the presence of others. I don't care if you're Donna Reed. And I'm not talking about beating the kid senseless - good heavens, no! But even your basic redirection or timeout strategy gets derailed. You can't enforce a timeout when cousins are bouncing around, or when Grandma offers Twizzlers to "make things better."

Grandparents have two jobs in life: To make sure their grandkids are happy at all times, and to VEX their own progeny as effectively as possible in the process.

So it's impossible to threaten, even in a strained hiss under your breath. Someone will hear, and wonder if you would, in fact, string them up by their toes, or send them off to be raised by a pack of wolves. We never DO what we threaten. That's why they're THREATS. They HAVE to sound scary.

So, in my case, within 72 hours (give or take) I generally find myself saddled with Linda Blair on a pea soup day. And there is nothing I can do about it until we get home.

I'll share with you one of my more vivid pertinent memories.

After three decent days of vacation, followed by four days of demon child hell - deeper than any pit of despair known to man - I found myself sitting in a strange airport with clenched jaw, and clenched arms around my toddler daughter, the Queen of Holy England. My husband knew there was about one inch between me and Chernobyl. It was crowded, as airports are wont to be. There was one seat available, so I sat with my burden to wait while my dear husband sauntered off in search of snacks, or possibly a day-spa.

Abby wanted to run around and play. Sometimes this is practical in an airport. This was NOT one of those times. It was the Mayflower in there. So I held on to her, despite her increasing protestations.

None of my normal techniques were feasible. Time out? Where?
Put her down and walk away? Clearly out of the question.
Spanking? Nope. Not my style (though I'll admit mulling it over at approximate three-second intervals.)
Hollering? Not allowed on the Mayflower.
Valium? Where oh where to get some?

When my husband returned, he found his two-year-old daughter pummeling the living hell out of his wife, from a half nelson holding position. At that point, I was merely attempting to escape without serious injury to the face.

And do you know, he had the poor sense to LAUGH?

Then he helpfully reminded me that our only other option would be to drive the 1500 miles. 

And here we are again, come full circle. I wonder how post-traumatic-stress syndrome is going to look on me.