3/27/2012

The Day This Blog Saved the World

I was a big ball of nerves.  I always get nervous before a trip, dreading the inevitable moment when I realize that I have left some crucial toiletry behind.  Once before going to Church Camp I forgot all of my clothes.  Yup.  Seriously.  All my clothes.  "How does one do that?"  You ask.  By being in college and using a laundry basket as a piece of luggage, then leaving said laundry basket in one's college apartment that was above a little music shop and across from campus.

But I digress.

So...  Nervous about traveling.  Nervous about traveling with Harry.  Because he's loud.  Happy?  Screams.  Sad?  Screams.  Angry?  Oh, a whole lotta screams.  My diaper bag was packed with a plethora of snacks.  Stickers.  Brightly colored fuzzy pipe cleaners.  (If you don't have a stash of those bad boys in your diaper bag, you should.  Provides literally minutes of fun for your eighteen month old.  Awesome.)  

Chris drops us off.  I go to the counter.  Hey!  Look at that.  I didn't even forget my ID.  Then the nice lady says, "Great.  Now I just need proof of the baby's age."  

Ummm....  What?

That is a little detail that I failed to be prepared for.  I am sure, absolutely sure that somewhere on the airline's website, it tells in detail that I need to provide proof of my baby's age so that the nice people know that I am not a big fat liar.  But I didn't have my baby's birth certificate on me.  I know.  Crazy.

Birth Certificate?  Nope.  Shot records?  Nope.  Doctor's note verifying H-Babe's tender eighteen months of life, proving beyond all dispute that I am not a big fat liar? 
 Nope.  

Nope.

Nope.

The nice lady behind the desk was racking her brain, trying to come up with every possible age verification known to mankind.  And I was tenaciously shooting her down.  I was then told by her supervisor, as the line of fellow passengers behind me was growing ever longer and disgruntled, that because I could offer no proof that my baby and I were not big fat liars, I would need to buy Harry his own seat.  Oh.  I do not think so.  I do not think so, ladies.  I already overpaid for one last minute seat on this plane.  I will not pay for two.  I started frantically scrolling through the photos on my phone.  Maybe there was a dated photo somewhere?  Somehow proving that I am not a big fat liar?  (Can you tell that I was a little offended that the airline was calling me a big fat liar?)

Then it hit me.  Oh, glory glory hallelujah for the iPhone.  I brought up the blog post of Harrison's first birthday party.  (remember that?  oh...  such a cute little babe.  You can see it here if you wanna.)

"Look!  Here's his first birthday party.  See the date?  See the fruit kabobs?  I am not a big fat liar."

They let us on the plane.

And my armpits were sweaty.

I needed a drink.  That'll do, Barista.
Three cheers for So Many Joyful Noises.  Without which, I would have paid an obscene amount of money to be cramped and sweaty.  On a plane full of strangers who hated me.  Because my eighteen month old blog verified baby screams.  A lot.  Bottoms up.

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