The Flight of the Chickadee

by cindy

Early in the new year, I was given the opportunity to accompany my daughter and the Chickadee to California for a few days. Given that this was a business trip for her with all expenses paid and given that it had already been too long, too cold, and too snowy a winter for one of us (me) to tolerate, I shouted a resounding YES! and immediately began to pack my things. The trip wasn’t until February but I was ready to go in less than a day. Waiting was a problem, true, but I was more ready than I have ever been for anything. in. my. life.

My role in this adventure was, once again, to be Nanny McNightmare to the cherubic yet-to-sleep-through-the-night Chickadee. No matter. If it meant warmth hovering anywhere above freezing, sunshine without the glare of icicles, and colors other than white with cinder-gray crusts, I was going.

And go we did.

The flight was six and a half hours long. With a four month old. A detail I had failed to consider.

He was good, the Chickadee was. He seemed to be enamored of our seat mate, a rather attractive 30-something female. He stared at her. And stared. And stared some more. And he cooed and drooled and watched as intently as he possibly could, in what appeared to be an effort to charm some attention from her. After all, everyone else in his life adores him! She was having none of his charms. The inevitable meltdown certainly failed to warm him to her or anyone else onboard. It was a long flight.

Our visit to southern California was lovely. The Chickadee and I took many walks, through shops and art galleries as well as along the beach. We soaked up as much fresh air and sunshine and color as we possibly could. Too soon, it was time to return to the airport for our flight back east, the prospect of which had never completely left my mind. More hours on a plane. No matter. My psyche was replenished just enough to handle anything. Anything?

Well, maybe…

As our plane headed up into the clouds, I began to hold the Chickadee for a bit. This time, there were only two seats, no third party for him to charm. Yet he was being ever so delightful. The kind of delightful that usually means a diaper will need to be changed. Quickly. THAT DIAPER NEEDS TO BE CHANGED NOW!

Onto the floor went the cokes that had just been delivered. Up went the trays. Out came the changing pad which was slapped across our laps. In a flourish, my daughter stripped off the rather messy onesie and ripped off the overflowing diaper. We were quite the tag team—me grabbing one wipe after another and tossing them her way while she wiped and wiped and wiped some more. The comedy of the situation was inescapable. We burst into giggles at the expense of that poor, sweet Chickadee.

Suddenly, my daughter blurted out, “Mom! Watch ou…!

Instinctively, I cupped my hand over the Chickadee’s boy-parts, only to feel a geyser of warm liquid. My hand was cupped at such an angle that the pee poured from my palm down my wrist. And from my wrist, it ran right down into my lap.

It took no time for me to realize I was sitting in a puddle of pee. A puddle. Of pee. A massively deep puddle. Of pee.

Laughing at the expense of the Chickadee, eh? Hmmm. Revenge is sweet. And in this case, it is also swift, warm, and very, very wet.

Puddle of Pee

I love you, Chickadee. Just wait, though. Just wait until you bring the girl you want to marry home to meet me. Just wait…