We waited to see how Ethan's recovery progressed after the doctor advised that he "would not be fit to travel." Of course the pediatrician would never commit to a firm yes or no to traveling with the flu. Have you seen people with the flu? No. Because they're at home, buried in blankets and Kleenex, popping Advil and trying not to die. Questionable parenting aside, with Ethan clearing the contagious period easily and the rest of us still within the incubation period, we made the leap at the last minute possible, threw ourselves in the car fully packed, and headed to the airport. What's the worst that could happen? We all get the flu, or pneumonia, or another ear infection.
Traveling with Ethan has been great these few years. Truly. Easy peasy, and dare we say mostly a joy—but yes, not without a couple epic cruising altitude blowout poo stories of course in which all of us survived and we learned to pack an extra shirt. For David. Before Thursday, Ella had three round-trip plane rides under her milk-bloated belly, including a Gold Club epic poo. Other than the illnesses, we had little to worry about. Quick 2 hour flight and a rental car pick up, ending in a late night middle-of-quietville-burb hotel arrival.
It took us a bit to figure out where it all went so very wrong. Some families talk about how their kids are great to fly with at night. Their kids are tired, they fall asleep on the plane, the parents get to watch a movie, then drag their kid's limp body from plane to car to final destination.
Not our kids. And as a result, we will never fly at night with them ever. Holy sh*t never again. Like text my parents, "Kids are total d*cks" right after landing never again.
