FWB (Flying With Baby) Part II

I would like to revise my previous statements about FWB (flying with baby). My last post was written from the perspective of having only ever flown with Baby by myself. However, more recently, I had the pleasure of flying with my baby and my husband, which was a completely different experience.

To use a real estate analogy (just because I like real estate), FWB alone is a musty bachelor apartment on the wrong side of the tracks, while FWBWH (Flying With Baby With Husband) is a freaking gold plated palace in Beverly Hills.

In addition to having the help of my husband, a glorious constellation of additional factors came together to produce a magical FWB experience. 

For one, our flight was nowhere near full, and the flight attendants were kind enough to allow us to bring the car seat on board so that our daughter could occupy an empty seat beside us.  I normally ask if I can do this, but I am always denied, even when there are plenty of seats available. We realized, however that even if the worker at the gate says no, the trick is to ask the flight attendant once you get on the plane. FWB with a nice flight attendant is like getting a root canal with a really nice sedative.

Because, Baby was able to relax comfortably in her own seat, she fell asleep almost immediately. “Who is this peaceful child sleeping beside me?”, I wondered. This was certainly not the squirmy seagull-screeching irritable traveler I'm used to. I kind of wished there were some loud, annoying babies on the flight with us so I could finally be the one to give their parents that patronizing, smug So-sorry-you-have-such-an-obnoxious-child look. The tables have turned, suckas!

The flight was so relaxing and brief (we were just going from Toronto to Montreal), that I almost didn’t want it to end.  Then, to top it all off, when we checked into our hotel, they informed us that we had been upgraded to the presidential suite!  Of course, it immediately became a little less presidential once we threw all our crap everywhere, and turned the dining room table into a change table, but that’s just the way we roll.  Our suite (luxury apartment, really) was outfitted with three huge TVs, a full kitchen, a Jacuzzi tub, granite countertops, a dishwasher, and a phone in the bathroom (because presidents make all their important calls from the toilet, obviously).   So what did we do with our one night in this awesome place? We did what anyone else would do- put the baby to bed, loaded a day’s worth of bottles and pumping supplies into the dishwasher, and crashed by 11:00.

The return flight was equally uneventful, and when it comes to FWB, uneventful is divine. It figures that the one time I had my husband's help while traveling was the one time the stars aligned such that I didn't need it.  Not that I’m complaining.  In fact I am celebrating the fact that I didn’t get pooed on, my daughter is happy, and I didn’t even need to eat my emergency crackers.

PS. If this post kind of sucks, I blame my husband, who was constantly trying to talk to me about random things as I typed. Then, when I asked him to stop distracting me, he placed this sign on the table beside me: