That's what we call a "WHOA, big fella!" landing

"I'm really glad I'm still alive!"

Not the words you want to hear when you're on an airplane, and certainly not from your own child.

As Henry and I wrapped up our trip to Ohio visiting my family, we boarded the 9 AM flight to MSP. It was a little chilly on board, so I covered Henry with my jacket while we taxied. Once we were in the air, the cabin suddenly felt like an oven. Not a gradual rise in temperature, but a sudden skyrocketing up to intense heat. All of the passengers were fiddling with the dials that control the air flow, looking around the cabin to see if we were all feeling the heat. I started to fan Henry's face and he said, why are you pushing hot air on me? Excellent point!

Soon, the announcements began: "We know that there's a problem" and "Folks, we're looking into this, please bear with us." Then the alarms went off. That's when I reached over and tightened Henry's seat belt. He asked why I was doing this, and I told him we'd be returning to the airport soon. Sure enough, the captain came on the loudspeaker and told us we would indeed be returning to Columbus airport. When we descended to the runway, the captain stopped the plane IMMEDIATELY. There was no slow deceleration, no gradual decline in speed. We stopped. (And we applauded.) So hard and abrupt was our landing, that we had to deplane on the runway, and get back to the terminal in shuttles. According to the captain, the brakes melted. I was never so happy to step onto a runway and get some fresh air. That's when Henry made his "I'm so happy I'm alive" statement, which everyone laughed at, but I think we were all thinking, "So am I, kid!"

I knew right then we would be a day late getting home.

After a lovely night at the airport Holiday Inn, Henry and I arrived home to Daddy and our own beds. It will be a long time before we fly again. Later this year, we're heading up north and we'll be driving for about four hours. I can't wait. 

Props

Catherine Newman is one of my favorite writers. I've been reading her online columns since I was pregnant and her little boy was two. Now her son is 8 and her daughter is 5, and every Tuesday I go to her column and share a little piece of her world. She has such a way with words, that I envy. So, take my word for it, check out her column (and her blog) for a great read. Cheers!

Other kids' parents...

Last weekend, we went downtown St. Paul to check out the Flint Hills International Children's Festival. The weather was perfect—sunny and not too hot—and we all had a glorious time, listening to music, dancing, and playing with flags, balancing sticks, juggling apparatus and more neat (and free!) stuff. Cyril Paul played with his band, and Henry was delighted to see him, the same musician that had visited his school for a week as an artist in residence. I discovered that I still love to dance, to live music, in public. Bless my husband's heart, he semi-danced with me while I twirled around to the caribbean tunes. I felt like a kid again, and it was wonderful.

Later, while we stood in a very long line for a balloon creation, my day darkened a bit. The woman standing behind me had a very little boy with her. This poor child was clearly tired,  and he kept sitting down on the grass. The woman with him—good lord, I hope she wasn't his mother—continually barked "Stand up!" at him. Over and over again. She didn't offer to hold him, she didn't acknowledge that he might be exhausted, all she could muster was snapping angrily at him to get off of the damp grass. After about ten minutes, I couldn't take it any more, imagine what that little boy felt like. His face was full of pain. I wanted to pick him up myself...and carry him away from that mean old bag. I desperately wanted to turn around and give her a piece of my mind. I desperately wanted to yell at her, to tell her that this tiny boy (he truly looked like an elf) deserved a little compassion. Was she standing in this line for his benefit or for hers? Isn't it time to call it a day when a child cannot stand up any longer? Why was she caring for a child when she seemed to lack any semblance of a care-taking gene? Was she really more concerned about a grass stain, or damp shorts than she was about his well-being? 

It took me a little while to calm down once we left that line and moved on to the butterfly tent. Henry loved the tickling feet  of the butterflies as they crawled on  his arms. We really had a wonderful day (so wonderful that we went back the next day). But I am still worried about that tiny child. Does he have any joy in his life? Is his entire day filled with barking commands? I certainly have my moments of hideous motherhood: I'm impatient, I lose my temper, I forget sometimes that whatever activity we're doing was supposed to be FUN. But I hope above anything else that I will always think about Henry's best interests. And I hope I'll let him sit down if he's tired.