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In my last post I stressed the importance of bringing along an Elmo DVD if you intend to take a toddler on a four-hour driving trip without another adult in the car who is willing to spend the entire journey twisted around dispensing handfuls of popcorn.

I would now like to point out that the Elmo DVD will do you very little good when your toddler starts freaking out because you are on an airplane.

The trip had begun swimmingly.  Mike dropped me and Jake off at the Asheville airport and watched with, I’m sure, great relief, as swarms of TSA employees helped us make our way through security.  One woman tried to fold up the folding stroller that I was using for the very first time, rendering me of minimal help in offering instructions.  Another employee pointed out that I needed to remove Jake’s shoes as well as my own; I had, in fact, removed one of them before being distracted by the task of folding up the folding stroller.  Another TSA guy took my forgotten laptop out of the bag in which I had left it.  Sippy cups of apple juice, plastic baggie with bottle of hand sanitizer, two sets of shoes, folding stroller, and toddler I could remember to place in the appropriate places.  Laptop, apparently, fell through the cracks.

Once Jake and I had reassembled ourselves, we made our way to the gate.  Where we found that someone intimately involved with the design of the Asheville airport has traveled with a toddler before.  Plopped in the midst of a colorful throw rug was a giant abacus, acting simultaneously as welcoming beacon to small children and warning signal to any adult who might find the sight of a small child preparing to get on a plane with her more than a little bit disturbing.

Jake and I alternated between manipulating the giant abacus beads and looking out the windows to spot airplanes.

“Ay-uh-plane!” Jake would cry.  “Sky!”  He’d point to the sky while I practically squealed with pleasure over his obvious genius-level IQ.  “Whoosh!”

“Are we going in an airplane?” I asked.  “Are we going in the sky?”

Maybe I should have taken a clue from the fact that Jake didn’t answer these questions.

Instead, I busied myself with the task of early boarding, gate checking the folding stroller (which I was getting pretty handy with at this point), and staggering up the steps of the tiny prop plane loaded down with a diaper bag, a computer bag/toddler entertainment center, and, of course, the toddler, who could not be trusted to employ his own walking skills on an airplane tarmac, no matter how small and unbusy the airport.

Once inside, I found our seats and breathed a big sigh of relief for my decision to buy Jake his own ticket, three and a half months shy of his second birthday, when I would be forced to do so.  Last time I flew with him, seven months ago, he was already too big to find a comfortable position for napping in my lap, a particularly distressing discovery when in the midst of a crowded six-hour flight to Los Angeles.  But even with a mere two hour-and-a-half flights to get to Louisville, I knew a nap would be well worth the $140 it would cost me to purchase that additional seat.

So I set him in his seat next to the window and started stowing our bags.

Jake looked around, wide-eyed, assessing the situation.

Once he had fully considered the circumstances, he expressed his opinion.  “No ay-uh-plane!” he yelled.  “NO!  NO AY-UH-PLANE!”

Elmo could not save me now.

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