I’m supposed to be in Florida right now. Today, I believe, is the beach excursion—and I am at home, making and freezing baby food. I was supposed to fly out at 6:20 on Wednesday morning, which meant leaving our apartment with my suitcase and the baby at 3:30; I got out on time, the cab came on time (almost), I caught the train, I got to the airport, and I boarded the plane. And then we sat on the runway for two and a half hours before being deplaned. And then I waited around for another couple of hours, until there was no chance of my getting to Ft. Myers that day, before asking for my suitcase back so that I could go home.
It’s a longer story than that, full of warning lights and icy plane wings and a blown-out diaper, but I suspect that I am the only one interested in the details. At any rate, I got home and contacted my family, apologizing and letting them know not to expect me. My sister Tammy is some kind of professional phone user, and got the airline to send me an apology voucher and put me on the same flight the next day. Funnily enough, when I tried to check in at 5 a.m. on Thursday, I found that the flight had been delayed until 2:15; I had been bumped to the only other Delta flight at 10:22, which wouldn’t arrive until after 11 p.m. I talked to a Delta representative, I tried to get transferred to another airline, and I noticed a number of familiar faces—other people from the Wednesday flight getting a little more bad news. I started to cry, sent my family an email telling them that I couldn’t manage a twenty-hour travel day with a tired infant, and I went home.
Perhaps obviously, I’m feeling rather sorry for myself, but sorrier that I won’t get to see my sisters. We’re trying to make new plans to see each other (a wedding in June will certainly bring us together), but I have the feeling that Joey was going to be a guest of honor on this trip—instead, he is sleeping with his dad at the moment, unable to make use of his tiny swim trunks.