We made it back safely, but Z landed in Chicago without pants. How? About 30 minutes into our flight, she threw up all over herself. A rather unsympathetic American Airlines flight attendant finally came over after I'd rang the call button a few times and gave us a fist full of napkins--not exactly the hazmat equipment necessary to mop up a quart of milk, fast food pizza, fruit snacks and orange juice.
After I'd stripped her down to a diaper and stuffed the offending clothes into vomit bags (graciously provided to us by the grandmother behind us), the flight attendant volunteers to bring us a blanket so that our darling daughter wouldn't have to sit directly back down onto her soggy, disgusting-smelling seat. Gosh, thanks miss, but since the flight was no where near full it might have been even nicer for you to find us a new seat!
Fortunately two-year-olds aren't as squeamish as their pregnant 30-year-old mothers, and Z was happy to watch Cinderella for the 9000th time while clad in just a diaper and perched atop a none-too-fresh-smelling airline blanket.
