Well, we're here. A long 19 hours from door to door, but we've made it, and mostly unscathed. Those of you who read my blog often will have noticed the red flag waving wildly at my use of the term mostly unscathed. You'll be be nodding sagely, 'There's a story coming....'
So there we were about thirty minutes after take off on our Frankfurt to Boston flight. It was the biggest plane I've ever be on, and totally packed. Jamie and Steven were in the double seats in front of us, Maia and I together one row back. She was lying down with her head on my lap, looking up at me. I was stroking her forehead, she was reaching up and stroking my cheek, and I had a momentary thought 'This is one of those perfect motherhood moments. She's so sweet. I love her so much'. Her mouth opened... 'Is she going to say I love you too, mum?' I wondered.... No, she's going to projectile vomit, vertically, back on to her own head. I did what any mother would, I tried to catch it in my hands. In my panic to sit her up so she wouldn't choke, I hauled her into my lap, inviting her to throw up all over my torso. She heaved several more times and then stopped.
We looked at each other. We surveyed the damage. I tapped dad on the shoulder to interrupt him from his movie. He turned around. He eyes widened as he saw me covered in sick from shoulders to waist. Like a Wet T-shirt Contest that had gone badly, badly wrong. He looked at his daughter with every square inch of her body drenched, her hair saturated. He looked across the aisle at the woman who had turned her travel blanket into a burqa, shooting daggers in our direction. At the tourists behind us jabbering excitedly in Japanese, proffering tissues. The steward and stewardesses running full pelt down the aisle brandishing towels. We did the walk of shame to the bathroom with 200 pairs of eyes surveying our drenched and smelly fate.
We spent the next twenty minutes in the lilliputian toilets, using small moist towellettes to mop up our bodies and the tiny sink to wash our hair repeatedly. Of course I hadn't packed any spare clothes for me (I'm generally of the opinion that as I'm toilet trained I don't need to) so my only option was to wear Steven's zip up hoody. With no shirt. Just so you know, he is 6'1" and I am 5'4". The dread of not wearing a bra slightly outweighed wearing a sick-soaked one.
I don't know about anyone else, but when I travel I like to make a tiny bit of effort not to look my worst. Especially if I'm meeting relatives at the airport. Maybe I put a new t-shirt on, or jeans that I have to zip / unzip to get on, or I comb my hair. I might put on a little bit of makeup. So it was with some distress that I rocked my new look last night: a 'little bit of makeup', an XL hoody down to my knees, well fitted jeans, and wet hair. Nice décolletage though.