Five hours in, I was feeling pretty chuffed. We’d broken the back of this flight. Only a paltry two hours to go, and the big two were still engrossed in Angry Birds while the baby and I were happily romping in the back. It was dark, it was quiet, and the meanies in the seats in front of us couldn’t glare, tut or throw themselves back in their seats in protest at the honestly minuscule rumpus behind them. The baby was crawling this way and that and having a great time, when someone came back to use the loo so I scooped him up out of harm’s way. Joining The Bile-High Club Or so I thought. Suddenly, he gave a great heave and was vastly sick into my fingers. This is the third time in two months that I’ve had a really noteworthy puking episode on my hands. Which brings me to believe there must actually be a God of Vom, who sees my posts as acts of hubris, when his elvish minions, eternally clutching their stomachs, hand them to him on his Apple Yak as he sits in his den of insickquity. “Right”, he must think, “you thought that was bad. Here, try it at 39,000 feet! Not a bottle of Dettol nor shower in sight!” I have to say, it felt strangely pleasant, like a sort of hot fudge sundae oozing through my fingers. But I couldn’t pause to enjoy the sensation, more tummy turbulence was on its way. I burst into the loo – difficult with my slippy paws and dangling baby – to allow the poor tot to get it all out. He did so, and was then immediately chipper, in the amazing way they always are when little. I began to survey the fallout. Never has an aeroplane toilet seemed so tiny as when trying to cleanse all its surfaces while attempting to stop a baby from touching any of them. The delightful mixture of Ella’s organic pouch, the purple pruney one, and airline bread roll was all over the seat and inside of the loo, the floor, the wall, the sink, both my beloved Converse, my jeans and my arms. And, of course, my darling source was absolutely covered. I hate waste – I take holey socks to textile recycling rather than chuck them – but I just had to throw away his top. I would have been there for hours de-chunking it with the aeroplane tap, which is both weak and super-spray-y. Ironically enough, I had joked to my husband only a few minutes before about my bold preparation: “I didn’t even pack spare clothes for the baby”. The Vom God must have heard that and rubbed his hands together with glee. How I wanted to summon my husband to help, but you don’t really want to alert a whole flight to the fact that there’s a tummy time-bomb on board, do you? It was my guilty secret, and I covered my tracks pretty well. The contamination zone was pretty refined by the time I told the steward. Under cover of darkness, I’d wiped it off the life raft bit by the window and all that was left was a pool on the carpet in the corner. The air steward was a true angel of the skies. “I’ve seen a lot worse in 20 years of flying,” he told me as he snapped on his rubber gloves and unpacked his special “sick kit” (something that, even in my distress, I noted as something I need to replicate in my own home). As is so often the way, it was him being so nice that finally brought me to shed the tears I’d been holding back for the past half hour. Luckily, our baby was not sick again, and as we finally touched down, I felt like I’d earned my holiday. Now I’m just trying not to think about the flight back.
Related post
Cleaning Up Chunks – A Mother’s Glory
September 1, 2020
The Bile High Club – New Lows in Flying High. Only Parents Need Apply – Wry Mummy
maximios Blog
Five hours in, I was feeling pretty chuffed. We’d broken the back of this flight. Only a paltry two hours to go, and the big two were still engrossed in Angry Birds while the baby and I were happily romping in the back. It was dark, it was quiet, and the meanies in the seats in front of us couldn’t glare, tut or throw themselves back in their seats in protest at the honestly minuscule rumpus behind them. The baby was crawling this way and that and having a great time, when someone came back to use the loo so I scooped him up out of harm’s way. Joining The Bile-High Club Or so I thought. Suddenly, he gave a great heave and was vastly sick into my fingers. This is the third time in two months that I’ve had a really noteworthy puking episode on my hands. Which brings me to believe there must actually be a God of Vom, who sees my posts as acts of hubris, when his elvish minions, eternally clutching their stomachs, hand them to him on his Apple Yak as he sits in his den of insickquity. “Right”, he must think, “you thought that was bad. Here, try it at 39,000 feet! Not a bottle of Dettol nor shower in sight!” I have to say, it felt strangely pleasant, like a sort of hot fudge sundae oozing through my fingers. But I couldn’t pause to enjoy the sensation, more tummy turbulence was on its way. I burst into the loo – difficult with my slippy paws and dangling baby – to allow the poor tot to get it all out. He did so, and was then immediately chipper, in the amazing way they always are when little. I began to survey the fallout. Never has an aeroplane toilet seemed so tiny as when trying to cleanse all its surfaces while attempting to stop a baby from touching any of them. The delightful mixture of Ella’s organic pouch, the purple pruney one, and airline bread roll was all over the seat and inside of the loo, the floor, the wall, the sink, both my beloved Converse, my jeans and my arms. And, of course, my darling source was absolutely covered. I hate waste – I take holey socks to textile recycling rather than chuck them – but I just had to throw away his top. I would have been there for hours de-chunking it with the aeroplane tap, which is both weak and super-spray-y. Ironically enough, I had joked to my husband only a few minutes before about my bold preparation: “I didn’t even pack spare clothes for the baby”. The Vom God must have heard that and rubbed his hands together with glee. How I wanted to summon my husband to help, but you don’t really want to alert a whole flight to the fact that there’s a tummy time-bomb on board, do you? It was my guilty secret, and I covered my tracks pretty well. The contamination zone was pretty refined by the time I told the steward. Under cover of darkness, I’d wiped it off the life raft bit by the window and all that was left was a pool on the carpet in the corner. The air steward was a true angel of the skies. “I’ve seen a lot worse in 20 years of flying,” he told me as he snapped on his rubber gloves and unpacked his special “sick kit” (something that, even in my distress, I noted as something I need to replicate in my own home). As is so often the way, it was him being so nice that finally brought me to shed the tears I’d been holding back for the past half hour. Luckily, our baby was not sick again, and as we finally touched down, I felt like I’d earned my holiday. Now I’m just trying not to think about the flight back.
Related post
Cleaning Up Chunks – A Mother’s Glory