Dear Laney,
It stands to reason that you're going to be unpleasant from time to time, and your dad and I are pretty good at realizing that when you're throwing a tantrum, it's typically because you're tired or hungry and not because you're an awful person. In general, I pride myself on being extremely patient with you. Once, about three months ago, you hit me, and I reflexively popped you on the hand. At the time, you gasped and rubbed your hands together and moaned, "BE NICE UH ME!" That moment has seared itself into my brain, and I try whenever possible to be nice uh you.
I say all that to lay the foundation for the story of our trip home from Atlanta.
We woke up at 4am Montana time to take the shuttle to the airport. We made it through security together with a minimum of fuss, and our flight to Salt Lake City was pretty uneventful. You did not, however, want to take a nap. When we landed in Salt Lake, we learned that our next flight to Spokane had been delayed by three hours, giving us a 4.5 hour layover. I invented games. I taught you how to jump on and off an escalator. I took totally unnecessary elevator rides just so you could press the buttons. I took you to eat pizza at Wolfgang Puck's. All this time, I was wearing a 30+ pound backpack and carrying you when you got tired while also carrying your brother because I sorta have to.
It was finally time to start heading to our gate, and you got to ride the automated walkway. I was carrying the backpack, the pizza you didn't finish, and your juice, and only had one free hand. When I reached down to take your hand to help you jump off the end of the walkway, you yelled, "NO! LET GO MY ARM!!" Well, no, I wasn't going to let go you arm, because I didn't want to see you take a header at the end of the walkway. So you screamed and wrestled, and because I was carrying all that other stuff, I couldn't just pick you up. When we got off the walkway, you threw yourself down in the middle of the airport and started sobbing. I did the only thing I could: I dragged you across the floor by the arm and deposited you behind a potted plant. I had a talk with God and said, "Lord, if she's going to pitch a hissy, let her do it behind this-here ficus." And I waited for you to quit crying.
Before we even managed to take off, you fell asleep in your seat. I closed your shade and made a pillow out of my jacket and sang a hallelujah chorus inside my head.
This is when the unpleasant old woman in the row across from us asked me, "Excuse me, do you think you could lift that shade so I could see out that window?" I looked at her, said, "I don't believe so, no," and went back to reading my magazine after briefly entertaining a fantasy of rolling it up so I could beat her about the head with the latest issue of Skymall.
In Spokane, we made it to long-term parking, picked up our car, and started the 3-hour drive to Missoula. At this point, we were 13 hours into our travel day, and I hadn't been more than 18 inches from you in all that time. I was sick of you. You were sick of me. You dropped your toy and asked me, "Where my toy go?" I said, "I don't know, Laney - maybe it's on the floor." You looked at me through the rearview mirror, narrowed your eyes and demanded, "GET IT."
And so help me Jesus, I thought: This is it. THIS is the moment when I pull the car into the emergency lane so I can turn around and beat the ever-loving tar out of this young'un.
But I didn't.
Instead, I called your dad and said, "On my Mother's Day card from Laney next year, please remind her to write, "Thank you for not killing me on October 22nd of 2011."
Love (no, really),
Mom
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