Remember when one Xanax, two glasses of wine and a martini still weren’t enough to squelch the burning rage you had towards the baby that was screaming three rows back on the plane?  And that dirty look that you shot at its stupid parents who dared bring their devil spawn on the plane without offering you candy before you passed out in a drug and alcohol induced stupor in the middle of selecting the next terrible rerun of “Friends?”

I really don’t, but that’s only because that last glass of wine usually did the trick.  Of course, I do have occasional flashes of me pointing out a baby to my traveling companions, dramatically rolling my eyes, and then popping another Xanax in protest of the possibility of having to sit next to the little asshole.  Those were the days.

I flew with RJ, who is now eleven months,  without my boyfriend for the first time ever last weekend. I was, shall we say, “unprepared.”  I was, shall we say, in complete “hell.”

I was so very pleased with myself at first.  I was a supermom, I told myself.  Getting to the airport all by myself with my sleeping baby, the stroller, AND my luggage!  What other mom can do that?  A SORCERER MOM?!  No, I had cracked the parenting code, and I had done it sober.

Foolish, I was back then.  So young.  So naive.  Little did I know what awaited me past the first security checkpoint.

I had flown once before with RJ, but I had my slave boyfriend with me who took care of all of the heavy lifting logistics.  I basically had to breeze through the gates, basking in the glow of compliments that were being bestowed upon my then six-month old, who was sleeping soundly like a tiny angel.

Not this time.  Here is a breakdown of what happened:

1. Took off my shoes and placed them on the conveyer belt.
2. Lifted my suitcase and placed it on the conveyer belt.
3. Smiled pleasantly at fellow travelers as I waited in line with stroller still fully in tact.
4. Baby started to stir.
5. TSA agent pointed to me.  I waved.
6. TSA agent shook head and pointed to stroller. Me:
7. TSA agent sighed.  Explained I needed to breakdown stroller, and put it on the belt.
8. Baby started crying.
9. Realized I hadn’t broken down the stroller since March, 2015.
10. Noticed line behind me was getting longer. Me:
11. Impatient business man behind me made 13 year-old girl noise.
12. Started to sweat.
13. Baby now at full blown wail.
14. Closed eyes and wished for death.
15. Death did not come.
16. Lifted screaming baby out of stroller.
17. Eye-darted desperately looking for a place to put baby.
18. Shoved shrieking baby into arms of disgruntled businessman.
19. Took out phone to look for directions on how to break down stroller.
20. *no internet*
21. Woman in line next to me saved day by knowing how to fold up my stroller.
22. Forgot about milk in diaper bag.
23. Tried to jump into scanner to retrieve diaper bag.
24. Was grabbed by TSA agent and publicly shamed.
25. Realized hysterical baby was still with businessman.
26. Thanked businessman profusely and offered to buy him a drink.
27. Business man thought I was hitting on him. Enthusiastically declined drink offer.

We eventually made it to the other side, where the milk was then tested for explosives, because at that point it was very clear that i was a terrorist.

Of course, finally making it through security did not change the fact that I was about to board a deathtrap plane with an insane 11-month old.  Look, I used to actually enjoy flying.  But much like I used to “enjoy” jam bands, I’m pretty sure it was because it was just an excuse to drink and do drugs.  And now, I actually have something to lose, which makes climbing up to 22,000 feet in a tin can seem incredibly stupid.

I found myself sitting on the plane, RJ still practicing her Slayer scream, next to my sister who had met me at the gate.  I originally was sitting next to a nice looking young man who took one look at me and my exorcist baby and practically did a front flip into the seat my sister offered him as a switch so that she and I could sit together.

As we took off, my mind went to the dark place.  I all of a sudden became an expert airplane mechanic. “Hmmm.  That change in sound can’t be good” and “that noise was probably the landing gear getting stuck” and “pretty sure the right wing just broke off.” Then we hit some turbulence.

I grabbed my sister’s hand and clutched a still keening RJ close to my chest.  My sister is like “Jesus, it’s just a little turbulence!”  I’m like:

And then the Flight Attendants came over the intercom and were all “we are going to discontinue our in-flight service due to the  turbulence that will likely cause the fucking plane to come apart  mid-air, and we’d like to be sitting down comfortably as we plunge to our watery graves” and RJ was still yowling at the top of her lungs, and I thought back to my time in the security line when I wished for death and decided that I was now getting my wish.

Clearly, because I am now writing this, everything turned out fine, we landed at our destination safely, and RJ eventually passed out.  I guess demon babies need rest too.

Of course, I’d be lying if I said that later that evening I didn’t polish off an entire bottle of Pinot Grigio by myself, because I did.  And even that bottle, pounded in a ninety minute time span, was not enough to drown out the cacophony of sighs and and dirty looks that went on to haunt my dreams for the rest of the weekend.