As as soon as we cleared security, Hamza started the interrogation. Where was McDonalds? I immediately regretted the promise. What was bothering me most was I don't normally let them eat McDonald's.. with the exception of an occasional summer cone or sundae. I had been on a "real food only" commitment and had our places to eat out (which was not all that often) narrowed down to Chipotle, Panera Bread and Chick-Fil-A. But our travel life I find, has completely different rules than our non-travel life. It's like entering another dimension where the airports are the portholes and rules bend and twist.. lines blur, money takes on a different value, and what seems insane becomes perfectly normal like riding walkalators when you could just walk, and roaming up and down long corridors on a hunt for spongy fake chicken burgers. One begins looking forward to bland in-flight meal options and the dazzling array of over priced quirky travel paraphernalia and other "necessities" offered in the SkyMall catalog.
We rode the walkalator all the way to the end, and back again before I found the "You Are Here" map that I'd somehow past which was right near our gate. In case anyone's wondering, the McDonalds in terminal 8 at JFK does NOT have a dollar menu.. which by this time I was really counting on. I explained in my calmest "mommy-in-public" voice what we would be ordering. There was a brief protest, which was squashed by the need to order fast, as it was our turn in line. In the midst of it all, and between (what seemed at the time) the stupid look on the face of girl taking our order.. (which changed twice.. our order that is-not her face) and the stares burning a hole (I swear it) in the side of my head from the (what seemed at the time) jerk in a suit waiting on his order and the indecision from the boys as to which happy meal toy to choose and the impatient request now coming from Ayah to nurse; as she hung just under my chin in her carrier, I could feel the annoyed rage rising to the surface when... my phone began to ring. It was my dad calling from mom's phone. I looked for a clean table as he explained mom was out and had left her phone as usual. He'd seen my missed call and wanted to check on me. I decided I would just pretend he was mom and I told him about the ticket ordeal, but for some reason all he kept wanting to make sure of was that we were near the gate. He kept insisting that I stay near the gate so that I would not miss the flight. Of allllllllll the flights I've taken, how could he think I was capable of such a rookie move like THAT! And that was it. That was enough to make me explode. As much as I wanted to keep it together, I couldn't. I won't go into details here, but of course understanding what stress I must be under, all he said in the end (in his cheerful- don't-worry-be-happy phone voice) was "ok honey, I'll put some money in the bank for you.. call us when you get there!"
Taking long flights with small children is a form of torture somewhere in the world, I'm sure of it..
The next flight was the longest, and the one I had been dreading. But everyone had done so well the first flight that I was feeling pretty optimistic and I should have known better than to do that to myself. We were stuck in the center isle seats which I thought would be all for us till the sixth seater showed up. Not having the extra seat meant I would have to hold Ayah the entire flight. The kids were only good for 5 minute intervals with her which I needed to reserve for restroom breaks.
I had anticipated the plane to be cool as they usually are, but this flight was operated by the Royal Jordanian crew and that meant that everything from the cabin temperature to the beverages to the food would be tepid at best... It's a Middle East Thing, you WON'T understand. This also meant the fleece jammies with the feet in were way to warm. I had to change her or she'd never sleep.
It was a 11 hour flight roughly and to my delight she slept shortly after take off and didn't wake up till about an hour before landing. So that was good. What was not so good was that Hamza was stretched across us all and was trying to sleep as if he was in his bed, which meant turning and talking in his sleep and kicking the sixth seater on occasion. I tried best I could to control his flailings but holding Ayah meant I only had one good arm. At one point between flashes of sleep, I managed to pass her off to visit the WC and regain the blood circulation in my arms. As I approached the stalls, my eye caught sight of something protruding from the wall on just the other side of the restrooms. As I turned to look, I couldn't believe what I was seeing! Whaaat! What was this!!?! Little pod-like bassinets where hooked onto the walls with little bundles tucked into them fast asleep, while just opposite, mothers lay snoring-legs outstretched-arms freely tucked under heads. I couldn't believe it! WTH! Was I dreaming this up? This wasn't even first class. Who was the genius behind this operation, and more importantly why weren't Ayah and I included!?!.. But I already knew why, as I sleepily made my way to my cramped seat.
