The Banana Incident

Dear Hagen,

To fly from Honolulu to Missoula, Montana with two small children is to take a giant leap of faith. One must basically cross her fingers and make several under-the-table deals with Jesus that nothing will go horribly wrong on the 6-hour Honolulu-to-Seattle leg, or on the tight 40-min layover at Sea-Tac, or on that last puddle-jumper from Seattle to Missoula.

You nailed two out of three.

For six hours from Honolulu to Seattle, you were a peach.

You watched movies and we played travel Bingo and you covered yourself in fire engine stickers and asked the flight attendant, "Am I so beautiful?" She agreed you were. 

The only little hiccup on the flight was that you needed to go potty about five times, which is a little difficult, logistically, on a packed airplane. Side note that's completely inappropriate on a blog for my children, but: I have no idea how people use the airplane bathroom to join the "Mile-High Club," because I could barely squeezeintherelikethis with a 3 year old. After one particular potty trip, we were walking back up the aisle to our seats and you started making this weird crying sound and stopping every few inches. "Let's go!" I begged. Then a helpful man in seat 25C pointed to your ankles, and that's when I discovered that I'd helped you off the potty and helped you wash your hands, but had somehow missed the step where I was supposed to help you pull up your pants. So, you were trudging up the aisle with your pants around your ankles and your pee-pee hanging out under your turtle shirt. It's the stuff of grown-up nightmares, and if it comes back to haunt you in later life, I apologize. Mea culpa, etc. etc.

We landed in Seattle where we had a 40-minute layover to make it all the way across the airport. The stars (and elevators and escalators) aligned, and we actually made it to our next gate with a little time to spare. Laney spotted a deli counter next to our gate, and asked for a ham and cheese sandwich and an apple. Fine. "You want anything, Hagen?" "I WANT NOTHING." "You sure?" "NOTHING." Okay. So I pay for the sandwich and apple and we're on our way, only... "I want a banana." "A banana?" Sigh, okay. 

I should mention that we had been awake since 4:30am Hawaii time, and you hadn't taken a nap on that first flight.

I get back in line at the deli counter, and I buy a banana...

WHICH IS APPARENTLY THE WORST THING I HAD EVER DONE TO YOU. 

You started crying...and not a reasonable kind of crying...I mean great, heaving, loud sobbing. You melted down out of your stroller and collapsed on the terminal floor. Everyone in the gate was looking at us with the same thought: "Lord, I hope that child is not on MY plane." To keep you from getting stepped on, I dragged you over to the seating area and parked you behind a trash can. It reminded me of the time when Laney was 2 and I had to drag HER across an airport floor and deposit her under an artificial plant after yelling, "If you're going to have a fit, do it under this ficus." I thought I had repressed that, but I guess not.  

I held you by the shoulders and calmly said, "Hagen, I need you to use at least SOME words so I can figure out why you're so angry." After a few gulping breaths, you said, "I WANTED THE CHEF TO PICK MY BANANA." This one took me a minute to figure out, I'll confess. It seems you thought the CASHIER at the deli was a CHEF who would have chosen a FAR SUPERIOR banana than the one your own mother had chosen for you. Somewhere in here, you also hollered about how the banana I'd chosen was "not medium enough." "Honey," I said, "I don't know how in the world to make something more 'medium.'"

Look, my level of patience is usually determined by how good you've been in the preceding hours. And like I said, you'd been a peach. You had accumulated some patience equity. (a.k.a. Be a peach, get a banana. Ba-dum-chhh). So I got BACK in the line for the third time in 9 minutes and waited 'til we were once again in front of the nice Middle Eastern man behind the counter who I'm sure was just delighted to see us again, and for whom English is not a first language. I don't say this as a slight to Amal The Cashier. I took 8 years of French and can barely ask for directions to la bibliotheque. I just mention it to say that our request must have been even MORE bizarre than it would have been to a native.

Me, holding Hagen on my hip: We need another banana. 

Amal: One dollar, eight cents. 

Me: Sure, here you go. Look, I know this sounds crazy, but I'm going to need you to HAND me a banana. 

Amal: Fruit bowl is there. (points to the bowl on the counter in front of me). 

Me: Yes, I know. But could you please pick one and hand it to me?
(Amal is very confused at why the crazy lady in front of him with a free hand who is literally inches from the bananas can't just pick up a damn banana). 

Amal: Uh...that's a banana? (he points to one on top).  

Me: Could you hand it to me? (I am actually closer to the bananas than Amal. It's clear he doesn't want to risk touching me because some of my crazy might rub off.) 

Amal: (points) That one. (It's obvious: Amal is NOT going to hand me a banana). 

Me: Hagen! The chef says that one on top is the BEST banana! What do you think? Doesn't it look AWESOME?!? Let's grab it! 

Hagen: (Mercifully picking up the banana) Is so medium. 

You perk up. Order has been restored. You eat the chef-selected, gloriously medium banana. Then, you get in your stroller and as we're making our way down the jetway toward the plane, you ALSO EAT THE ORIGINAL BANANA THAT I PICKED OUT.

We are SO even on that public display of your pee-pee thing.

Love,
Mom