Too Little Too Late

I remember now: This was the Thanksgiving trip when two-year-old Rachel fell in the toilet, wearing the frilly dress (the only dress) I had packed so she could look cute for church. And it was the time my four-year-old, with logic all her own, carefully disassembled and reorganized in long rows her great-grandmother’s almost-completed thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle. And Rachel doodled all over my aunt’s pristine walls with an indelible black marker. And Danny—

But all that came later. Rewind a few days . . .

“Thanksgiving in Jamaica?” I squawked. “Leaving us behind?!”

“It’s for work, sweetheart.” My husband pulled out his suitcase.

Well, I’m not staying home alone. We’ll go somewhere too, I decided after kissing Dave goodbye. I called my uncle in Kansas City, then booked myself and our three children, two, four, and six, on the cheapest flight still available for holiday travel. Dave had left our only car in the Detroit Metro Airport parking lot an hour away, but our friend Steve offered to drive us there.

To sweeten the deal for the kids, I promised them a Happy Meal on the way to the airport. We were penny pinchers and health food adherents, so this was a rare treat.

At pick-up time, Steve was nowhere in sight. Minutes ticked by while I tried to locate him. Finally, he screeched into our driveway, and I threw kids, suitcases, and little backpacks into the car. The kids wailed. I had PROMISED them McDonald’s. Missing our flight didn’t matter to them, but the Happy Meal did. Steve swung into the takeout line, threw three identical Happy Meals into my lap, and raced for the airport.

We leaped from the car and ran to the check-in counter, too late to check our suitcases. The airline lady phoned the plane not to close the doors for five more minutes.

Of course, being the cheapy airline, our gate was the farthest one on the concourse farthest away from the check-in desk. I flung my bag and Rachel’s backpack over my shoulder, my seven-month-pregnant tummy bumping against her stroller and suitcases swinging from each handle as we took off. Danny and Karis clung to my coat one on each side, clutching Happy Meals in their free hands, small backpacks on their backs.

“Kids, run as fast as you can!”

Our limiting factor was Karis’s four-year-old running speed. Soon we had another limiting factor: the Happy Meal Cokes sloshing out of their quickly disintegrating cardboard containers. We stopped long enough to pile Danny’s and Karis’s Soggy Meals on top of Rachel’s in her lap. She clutched all three with the gleam in her eye of a girl on a mission.

Because it was a cheapy airline, when we got to the very last gate on the concourse, we faced two flights of stairs, a door, and a stretch of tarmac—then a tall narrow stairway into the airplane. Yeah. Two-year-old, four-year-old, six-year-old, stroller, suitcases, bag, backpacks, and the precious Sloshy Meals, while the flight attendant glared at us from the door of the plane.

Inside, rows of hostile faces stared at us, annoyed by the delay of their flight. The attendant pointed out the only seats left, scattered through the plane. No one offered to move so my children and I could sit together. I buckled Danny with his Squishy Meal into the first free seat and Karis into the second, halfway back on the other side. Stuffing our suitcases and the stroller in any available spaces along the way, I herded Rachel to the seat left for us in the last row of the plane. Stony faced passengers watched this performance like a third-rate comedy.

Attempting a smile for our seatmate, I extended my seatbelt to its maximum length to accommodate myself, my unborn child, and Rachel. When it finally clicked, the flight attendant began her routine. “Welcome to flight nineteen-thirteen, nonstop to Des Moines.”

A collective gasp.

“Just kiiiiding; we’re going to Kansas City.”

Unbelievable.

After take-off, I secured Rachel in our seat with her limp French fries and ketchup, then lumbered up the aisle to help Karis rescue her Coke-drowned hamburger and on towards the front to help Danny wipe off his little prize.

Rachel, meanwhile, spread ketchup as far as she could reach. The passenger next to us huddled against her window.

“Oh, my. I’m so sorry she got your sweater! Can I help you wipe it off?”

“NO!”

I cleaned up as far as I could reach, settled Rachel with crayons and a coloring book, and apologized again to the passenger next to us. She turned her face away and closed her eyes. Waddling back up the aisle, I collected the detritus of Karis’ Sloppy Meal, then Danny’s, helping each child dig crayons and coloring books from their backpacks. All the while, Rachel howled from the back of the plane. She had dropped her favorite purple crayon.

Stumbling as the plane hit turbulence, I rescued Rachel’s crayon and buckled myself in with her. She snuggled against me. I leaned back and closed my eyes. Just breathe. I thought with pleasure of my uncle’s delight in conspiring with me to surprise my aunt and my grandmother, who lived with them.

I awoke with a jerk to Rachel trying to pry open my eyelids, just in time for the announcement of seatbacks-and-tray-tables-in-upright-position for landing. I lurched back to Karis, then Danny, to secure their tray tables and put away their crayons, firmly instructing each of them to stay in their seats and not move while the other passengers deplaned. Stumbling back down the aisle, I pulled the seatbelt once again around myself and my toddler. She leaned over and dropped two fistfuls of fat crayons, clapping and giggling as red yellow orange green rolled away beneath the seats in front of us.

Safely landed, I stood up with Rachel and stepped out of the way so our traumatized seatmate could slide past us.

“I’m so sorry!! I hope the rest of your day is better!”

She rolled her eyes and hurried away.

Sigh. Deep breath.

I buckled my protesting toddler back into our seat, stretched, patted the child kicking me inside, and considered. No. I will not look under the seats for those crayons, even though they were new. While my older children waited patiently and the flight attendant at the exit tapped her foot impatiently, I collected our belongings from the overhead racks of the now-empty plane and reconstructed bag/backpack/stroller/suitcases, now mercifully minus three Squashy Meals.

I had just managed to strap Rachel into the stroller when the pilot’s voice came over the loudspeaker: “Isn’t anyone going to help that fat lady with her nursery school?”

And that’s why I call this story, “Too Little, Too Late.”