Climbing the stairs for the 17th time at Lambert.
After our trip to CA, we returned to STL to pick up Henry from his grandparents' house. Our flight the following day was scheduled to leave at 5PM and arrive at 7:30PM. We were aware that flying with a toddler, during that dreaded window between 5PM and bedtime (aka the witching hour), on the Friday 5pm flight of a 3-day holiday weekend was possibly asking for trouble (or at least some angry glares from other passengers), but it was the only flight home that we could find with 2 seats together. After my parents dropped us off at the airport (and then presumably proceeded directly to happy hour after spending one week with a toddler - at least, that is what I would have done), we were promptly informed that our flight was delayed by 45 minutes. Since we were already pushing the reasonable limits of Henry's routine, any type of delay was taking us dangerously close to meltdown. However, on the plus side, a delay gave us a little time to stroll around the terminal and burn off some energy. It was not long before we received our 2nd notice of another delay - now our flight was delayed 1.5 hours.
Being stuck in the airport with a toddler wasn't really all that bad. We found sections of the terminal that were unoccupied and Henry roamed freely. In fact, I wish I had a pedometer strapped to him that night because I suspect he walked several miles. The delay announcements kept coming.* Mike said jokingly, "We may not arrive home until 2:30 this morning!" Truer words were never spoken, because, as predicted, we didn't arrive home until 2:30 AM the next morning.
We decided that we should save all of our provisions in case the delay continued for hours (which it did) and that we should treat ourselves to a real meal for dinner. Every time we did a lap around the terminal, looking like gypsy caravan with a stroller piled high with backpacks and diaper bags, Mike and I would wistfully glance toward the only bar/restaurant, but, not only did it not have any high chairs, the harried serving staff and exhausted patrons shot us looks like "Don't even think about it."
So, we went outside of security in search of better dining options. Bingo! A Pasta House in the main terminal - Henry could have spaghetti and mommy and daddy could have a much needed adult beverage. Henry must have worked up an appetite from all of his airport laps because I have never, ever, seen him eat as much spaghetti as he did that night. It was unbelievable. Finally, we had to cut him off because it just didn't seem possible to stuff any more pasta into his tiny little body.
By the time dinner was over, we had received notification that our flight was again delayed 'til 10 PM. It was now technically past Henry's bedtime, and he showed no signs of slowing down. All of the pasta just gave him the energy to climb 30 flights of stairs. Literally. Henry found a flight of stairs to the upper level of the main terminal, which he could climb and quickly return to the lower level on the escalator (with assistance, of course). So, Henry and his dad completed that circuit 30 times in a row. I counted because I had nothing else to do. Ok, so by now, Henry has walked, more like trotted, through the terminal for 3 hours straight and has climbed 30 flights of stairs. Surely, by now, he was ready to fall asleep and stay asleep until we gently laid him in his crib at home? Nope. He remained wide awake.
Although he refused to sleep, Henry did eventually zone out in his stroller. At close to 11PM, we finally boarded our flight, which meant that we had been in the airport for 7.5 hours. Once we were in the air and the cabin lights were out, he finally, finally took a little nap - about 45 min. As soon as we landed, he was wide awake again. Remarkably, when we arrive at 1:30 AM at ATL, it was as if it were 1:30 PM. The place was a zoo! Storms had delayed every flight to/from one of the busiest airports in the world and there were tired, strung out passengers EVERYWHERE. We heard a few horror stories about being stuck on the tarmac for 3 hours (at which point planes are required to return to the gate) and we were grateful that, although we were stuck for hours, at least we were in the airport. I can't imagine what we would have done being stuck on the plane with Henry for that long - no deserted terminals to explore, no flights of stairs, no spaghetti, and no diapers!
We got our luggage, took the shuttle to the car lot, and drove home. We pulled in to the driveway at exactly 2:30 AM, and Henry was awake for all of it. Fortunately, he went to sleep the instant we placed him in the crib. We went to bed soon after that. The next morning, we woke up at 9:30 AM and I could have sworn that it was 6 AM. Henry slept in. Finally, at 11:30 AM, we decided that we better wake him up or else this was going to cause some significant schedule disruptions.
The 3 of us spent the rest of the day in a haze. All things considered, M and I were starting to feel like we got away with something. We left him for a week with his grandparents and he was fine; we survived a very long airport delay and, not only did he not cry, he even had fun in the airport; he stayed up until 2:30 AM and was contentedly playing the next day; so, yes, we were lulled into a false sense of confidence, even self-congratulatory in nature, when...
The moment of reckoning was upon us. At exactly 6:22 PM on Saturday, 16 hours after returning home, Henry hit his breaking point. The earth shook. The thunder roared. The wind howled. And so did Henry. It was time for his apparently much needed and unavoidable MELTDOWN.
Oh, and who, in his estimation, was to blame for all the recent crimes against him? Me. Who was the target of his fury? Me. Who did he banish from his room? Me. (how soon he forgets about the time I saved him from that poisonous snake...) The meltdown subsided after 45 minutes of solid wailing and then he fell soundly asleep. It was uncharacteristic of Henry, but I am certain he had a lot of pent up frustration and confusion to let out. Message received. The next morning, we all woke up at the usual time, in our own beds, and breathed a sigh of relief.
*As an interesting aside, we received updates frequently from the airline regarding our flight status but Mike and I never received them at the same time, in the same way, or with the same information. For example, M would receive a text from the airline informing of a new estimated departure time and about 15 minutes later, I would receive a recorded voice message from the airline with an even later time of departure. It was as if the airline planned to alternate status updates - one for me, one for Mike. Perhaps the airline thought that it would be too irritating if we received simultaneous texts/voicemails? Or maybe the airline thought that by staggering the update method and recipient, it would give us something to talk about and thus be the glue that held us together during what was certain to be a stressful period?
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