There is a point in a child's life, somewhere between the emergence of mobility and the traversal of the two-year mark where airplane travel ceases to be terrible. Friends, we've reached that point.
This trip across the ocean was positively pleasant. I watched a whole movie! An entire one! From start to finish. Granted it took me two hours to get through the first 20 minutes, but I finished it! Right to the credits!
And my child slept. A solid three hours or so! It was bliss. An answer to my prayers, a realization of a dream, a fantasy come true.
There were, shall we say, a few episodes, wherein my lovely daughter expressed her great displeasure at the injustice of having to wear a seat belt. And she refused to consume anything that wash a ka-ka ilchk (cup of milk) or anana (banana). And one of these aforementioned rage incidents involved a wrath attack in which it was revealed that Mr. Chef was correct in insinuating that I was psyho-crazed-bonkers to consider allowing my child on an airplane diaper-free and newly potty trained.
And that's all I'm going to say about that.
I watched other mothers bounce and rock their very awake and over-stimulated infants in a battle for sleep impossible to win. There were women who were repeatedly kicked in the face as their newly mobile child executed yet another arched-back swan dive in an attempt to escape and run through the curtains and into business class, shrieking all the way, while their husbands dozed unaware beside them. Weeeeeeeeeeehehehehheheheh!
And I thought ladies, man. I've been there. I totally get it. It sucks so hard. But just you wait, ladies, in a few months you'll be able to rot your child's mind on TV and iPad and you two will enjoy a whole entire movie and that will make you endlessly happy.