Fight or flight or both

Well, we made it. Stephen, Ivy and I are now DC inhabitants, for the summer anyway. Stephen started the drive a week ago, and made it from Utah in three days. Ivy and I and a really large, overstuffed, barely passed the wight limit suitcase, flew on Tuesday.

Isn't flying weird? You're packed in a metal box with, what, a hundred strangers? And no one really wants to talk to each other and some people smell weird and some people have been flying for thirty hours straight and are pretty much walking dead, and some people have the audacity to bring a small child who can't sit still for more than three minutes at a time. Me. I'm that people. I prepared for the worst. While blessing the food at a family dinner the night before, my dad prayed, "Please bless that Ivy will be manageable on the flight tomorrow," and I opened my eyes and looked at my mom. We both had knowing looks because we were confident there was no way that was going to happen. I loaded the ipad with sesame street, packed an entire pack of graham crackers, three bottles, dolls, books, binkies, OH, that reminds me. Quick tangential story: So we barely made it through security without Ivy having a complete melt down, and I was trying to carry her, a back pack, a purse and a camera to our gate so when Ivy dropped her binky there was not way in H E double hockey sticks that I was going back for it. But then about halfway down the terminal, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around to see a pregnant woman with three kids. "Here's the binky you dropped," she said. I was so flabbergasted that I rushed through a thank you and hurried away. I should have given her a long hug, shed a few tears, and told her she should run for president. I don't care if she's killed someone or sold drugs to senior citizens or driven in the carpool lane without any passengers, that woman is going straight to heaven, because she's pregnant and has three kids but she went down the escalator, grabbed the binky, went up the escalator and followed me who knows how far just so my baby would have a binky. Freaking saint.

ANYWAY. Ivy and I were the last to board the flight,  and as we finally made our way to the back of the plane, after being touched and photographed by a group of foreign tourists (it's not as flattering as it seems, they also took pictures of the baggage claim carousel) and hit in the head with some luggage, Ivy got mad. She cried and squirmed and peed and then the guy in front of us moved his seat all the way back. I sat there stirring with anger, feeling like the world was closing in on me as Ivy wailed. And then, I did something I never thought I would be able to. I tapped the should of the man in front of me and said, "I'm sorry sir, but I have a child on my lap and we don't have a lot of room. Could you move your seat forward a little bit?", he said sure and I should have hugged him and shed a few tears and told him to run for president, but I was too embarrassed. But also proud, because usually I just think terrible thoughts about people who probably have no idea that they've done anything to make me mad.
So, I was no longer having a panic attack and Ivy, who was watching Sesame Street, was no longer crying, and things were looking pretty okay. Then. THEN. I can't believe what came next was anything but divine intervention. Ivy fell asleep. Never in her 16 month life has she fallen asleep in my arms. But there she slept. For three hours. It was bliss. I watched Safe Haven without any sound. I played iPad solitaire. I sipped my diet coke at a leisurely pace without any fear of it being knocked over. I sat and stared. It was the best flight of my life.

Sure, as soon as we made it to Dulles Ivy threw up on me, and sure, we had to wait forty-five minutes for some misplaced luggage, but we made it alive.
Now we're here and we couldn't be happier.