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.
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