Getting through security at the Omaha airport was the easiest part of the journey, thanks to the fact that my sister was able to walk through with us because she was flying out later that afternoon. Let me tell ya, trying to get a three year old’s shoes off, your own shoes off, liquids out of the carry on and then a baby out of their carrier, bribe a toddler to walk solo through a large metal detector and then put everything back together... It makes flying a bit unbearable. So having Libba helping us take off shoes and push things into trays was awesome. And after saying our goodbyes to Beeba, we boarded our on-time flight to Atlanta and I called Chris and told him we would be smooching his face in just a few short hours.
And here’s where it gets dicey, folks. Here’s where the wheels start to fall off the bus. So about two hours into the flight, the pilot voices over that we’re beginning our initial decent into Atlanta and should be on the ground in about thirty minutes. But then, about an hour later, he comes on again and says we had been circling the airport, waiting to be cleared because there were several tornados in the area. Yep, TORNADOS. Big funnel clouds of destruction in the air with us. Awesome. And then twenty minutes after announcing that, he says we’ve been cleared to land, but that the flight attendants must take their seats immediately because it was going to be a bit turbulent. And, y’all, I have flown many times on many small planes before, and that was the WORSE turbulence I had ever been through. We were dropping and jerking from side-to-side, and all I could do was fasten a death-grip on both kids, feed Taylor two packs of Dora gummies and say about million Hail Marys.
And when we finally touched down, taxied to our gate and got off, I realized we were about an hour behind schedule, but after looking up the gate for our next flight home, everything looked to be on time and totally doable. So, with Luke in the Ergo, Taylor on my arm and two carry-ons strapped around my body, we weaved our way though the evil abyss knows as the Atlanta airport. We went up and down escalators, on and off trains, in and out of bathrooms, and then we finally found our gate. And after getting our new seat assignments, I asked the lady working how much time we had before boarding, because there was a Ben and Jerry’s directly across from our gate that was screaming my name. And after she promised we had enough time to get a tasty treat, I walked my little entourage over and got Taylor and myself a wonderful, sweet reward for making it thus far.
And six minutes later, with non-licked ice cream cones in hand, we walked back across the concourse to our gate and I stood there blinking at a digital screen that instead of reading Asheville, NC, now said Monroe, LA. And I looked to a guy sitting there and said, Huh. Did they change the gate to Asheville? And he snapped back, No. They cancelled the flight to Asheville. And I sucked in a deep breath and shrieked back, Cancelled? Did you say CANCELLED? And with one swift movement, I spiked my not-even-tasted ice cream cone in the trash, grabbed my phone out of my pocket, called Chris and started crying.
And after my husband talked me off the ledge, I let Taylor finish her ice cream and we packed up our belongings and made our way to the Delta customer services counter, which had about a million people in it. We stood in line for about twenty minutes, and then Taylor tugged on my arm and said, Mom. I gotta go potty. And my response was, Of course you do!
So we lost our place in string and went and found the nearest bathroom, did our business and parked ourselves in the back of the procession of other angry fliers for another forty minutes before it was finally my turn to whine to the person working. And after unsuccessfully trying to get on board any flights to any of the airports within a two-hour radius of Asheville, I was told my options were to either accept the fact that we were rebooked for a flight that left at 9.30 the next morning, or I could sit around and be 27th on the stand-by list for a flight that left for Asheville at 11 that night. So basically I was stranded in Atlanta overnight with two kids and no luggage. And it was all I could do to not slam my forehead on the counter in front of me to put myself out of my misery.
But luckily my husband is fabulous at crisis management, because even though his first response was to drive the four hours south through the tornadoes to rescue us, he helped me calm down and come to terms that the only logical solution would be for me and the kids to shack up at a hotel for the night and come back the next morning for the rescheduled flight home. So Chris called and made us a reservation, and Taylor, Luke, our two carry-ons and I reworked our way on and off trains, up the escalators and out the doors of the airport towards the hotel shuttles. And I must have looked at frazzled as I felt, because the minute I got outside, a loud guy in a Best Western shirt screamed at me, Hey! Lady with a baby! Where you going? And even though my response was the Hyatt North and not the Best Western, he smiled and said, That shuttle won’t be back for another 20 minutes and you’re right next to us. Get in!
And seven minutes later, after generously tipping Mr Best Western, I walked into the Hyatt where, after speaking with and being forewarned by Chris, they were waiting for me with my room key and a room service list. And after getting into our suite, I finally let Luke out of the Ergo for the first time since landing in Atlanta, and OH MAN! it felt good. And after having a crib delivered, we adventured back down to the lobby to grab a bite for dinner and a few beers for Mama to take back to the room. Then I fed Luke and put him down to bed, turned on a movie for Taylor and took a much needed shower, followed shortly after by all three of us snoring like logs, eager to end the day.
And, Thank Goodness!, I had packed an extra set of clothes for both kids and an extra shirt for me in my carry-on, so when we ventured out of our room the next morning to catch the shuttle we only slightly resembled gypsies. So we chowed down our continental breakfast, got in and out of the shuttle and found ourselves at the evil Atlanta airport for the second time in the last 24 hours. And before walking in, I raised my arms and shook my fist in the air and said, Today, TODAY, I shall win. We WILL be leaving this city TODAY! And then I tripped over Taylor while coaxing her to go into the giant revolving door to get us inside.
And that should have been indicative of what the next five hours would hold for me. Like when I took Luke out of the baby-carrier to walk through the metal detector, and realized everything under the Ergo, including myself and my son, was warm, wet and covered in poop. Or like when after we finally got down the escalator, on and off the train and back up to our concourse and designated gate, I saw that our new, rescheduled flight was delayed another two hours and on the other side of the airport. I mean, it was just getting comical. I was almost waiting for someone to pop out of corner with a video camera announcing that I was the latest contestant on a gameshow called The Universe is Messing with You. But after putting our last diaper on Luke and depleting the final surge of the portable-DVD player’s battery, we finally boarded our flight home, which, ironically, only lasted 45-minutes and both kids slept the entire time on.
And the minute we touched down onto the Asheville runway, I let out the deepest, longest breath ever. I retrieved our luggage from the Delta counter just in time to see Chris walk in to greet us. And even though we smelled and looked awful, he gave all of us big hugs and kisses to welcome us back home. Finally.
