A hilarious mommy story told by Johanna Stein.
-So, we're at the airport on our way to visit the in-laws but the 2-year old is losing her [Unk]. She is screaming at the top of her lungs "No airplane! No airplane!" as we board the plane and take our seat at the bulkhead. Passengers are filing past us with varying looks of pity and horror but mostly relieved that they are not seating next to the kid who was screaming like a Mongoose that's been stabbed with a rusty steak knife. At this point, the husband and I do the only thing we can do. We turn on each other, he glares at me and I glare back at him. You know that, "I will divorce you in the next 4 seconds unless you fix this- that clear?" His response is to rub her back and say, "It's gonna be okay, it's gonna be okay", [Unk]. Since that's only slightly less annoying than the screaming, I take control of the situation by ransacking the diaper bag in hopes that something will stop the infernal sound that's coming out of her face hole. "Binky? Cookie? Coloring books? Super Plus tampon hanging out of a torn wrapper?" Nothing works, I rifled through the seat back pocket and pulled off a SkyMall magazine. "I love the SkyMall, where else can you buy a one-person submarine for only 9,000 dollars?" Evidently she does not share my love for mall of the sky. She just grabs the magazine and flings it and the tampon unto the lap of a businessman who's seating 2 rows back. "Sorry sir, Konnichiwa." As a last ditch effort I reached my hand into the wall pocket and I pull out the-- the airsickness bag and I scrawl a face on it, and I put my hand inside and I say the funniest thing that I can think of - "oga, boga". The child stopped screaming, she smiles and then she giggles. I couldn't be prouder if I just disarmed a highjacker with a Uni ballpen and a lavender scented sleep mask. I should write a parenting column, or maybe write a book with helpful advice like "Changing the World: One Diaper at a Time". Smell that? That's a [Unk]. The child who's now human again interrupts my fantasy publishing life - "mo puppa momma". I think to myself, one puppet-- well that's good but two puppets? Now that's a show. I reached into my husbands wall pocket and I pull out his airsickness bag. I draw another face like, give it glasses and curly hair - I know, nice touch - and I stick my hand inside and that's when my world contracts because it seems this airsickness bag has been used before, but not for a puppet show. No, it's been used for the purpose that it got intended. Yes, haha, yes. My husband looks at me understanding immediately what has taken place and he is horrified, though, I think I see the tiniest hint of a smile creep across his face? After deciding the divorce on the moment we touch down, I turned to the matter at hand, on hand. It's on my hand. You think that having a child has prepared you for the bodily functions of humanity, until you find yourself wearing a glove made of the puke of a stranger. I spring out of my seat afflicted, hand still in bag, and I make my way to the back of the plane but the aisle is filled with humans still lumbering to their seats. I wanna leapfrog over them, crawl between their legs, fatally stab the stewardess if I have to - anything to get to that lavatory. Finally, I claw my way in and slammed the door behind me. I pull my hand out of the bag. It is covered in a substance that is wet, viscous, beigey, and interspersed with flecks of something - honey roasted peanuts I suppose. As I washed my hand in water hot enough to cause a third degree burn, I take a moment to marvel at what has just happened. Roughly 2 million people fly the friendly American skies every single day. How many of those travelers ever actually use an airsickness bag? And out of those phantom pukers, how many would think to tuck the vomit-filled vessel back into the seat pocket? But then, what's the probability that a cleaning crew would overlook this sack of sick, huh? And finally, what are the odds that all of this would become into a perfect set-up for an arrogant moron who tries to make a hand puppet out of a barf bag? [Unk] me. Sorry. Now, normally and event like this would send me into a rage long enough to write at least half of an angry letter. But, I can't condemn this barfing bandit whose moment of questionable judgment has made my list of life's most disgusting experiences. Seriously, who am I to judge? Now, all I can do is chuck this one up to experience. Parenthood, upon learning, is a minefield of unpredictability. Sometimes the mines are made of tears, sometimes they're made of undigested food.