"Airplane not fall down"

We gathered our suitcases and drove to Louisville Thursday morning, arriving, surprisingly, with ample time to spare. On the trip there, Turner announces: "Going on airplane [with the emphasis on second syllable]. It go up in the air." He shakes his head in complete seriousness, "Airplane not fall down." Andy and I exchange a glance and both assure the other that neither one of us has said that to him. It is weird. We forge ahead.

Cheryl graciously takes us to the airport and runs length to length of the airport chasing Turner while Andy parks the car and I park our luggage at the check-in desk. For weeks we've heard about the airplane. I worried that the reality of the big hunk of steel, something which Turner wouldn't really even see as we were boarding, would not live up to his high expectations. Somewhere, in the many, many conversations we have shared with Turner about airplanes, we failed to mention that we must wait for the airplane to arrive at the airport. The terrible part of flying is the waiting at the airport. How could we forget that?

So we arrive at the airport. Turner sees many airplanes out the big glass windows lining each wall, and he becomes impatient to get on one. We have a little lunch. He is incessant. Our time arrives, we walk down the carpet to the last gate (of course) and discover that flying to Orlando in the summer holds an obvious displeasure we did not contemplate: Disney world travelers. Children so excited for Mickey and Minny and the goofster; parents already fatigued with overburdened expenses and short fuses; there is more wailing than I like from both parents and kids. The flight crew has everyone lined up and we stand and wait for fifteen minutes. It is a long wait, but Turner patiently sits in his umbrella stroller periodically checking in that we are finally getting closer to the famous airplane.

We board. Turner sits by the window, and we fasten his seatbelt. It is almost as though he disappears for the fifteen to twenty minutes it takes for the rest of the plane to board and the attendants to lock the doors. He says very little . . . at first. His eyes are transfixed on the few planes swishing around outside his window, backing up and trying to navigate the close turn of the terminal. Then the chattiness begins. He is pointing out everything: "Look Mommy, airplane." "Look Mommy going fast." "Look Mommy, schoolbus." We discuss the baggage handlers. I explain the fuel and the colors on the planes and the people with the orange vests. We start moving. "We going back." He gets even more excited, the smile overwhelming his face, pulling his lashes closer together in laughter. "We moving Mommy."

We rush down the runway toward Orlando and Disney and lots of craziness that seems to have begun for many children on board this flight (the flight attendant does a strip tease with the safety information and throws our snacks at us . . . literally she threw them at the entire plane of passengers). Turner grips the hand rest and then realizes it goes up and down. He becomes enthralled in that until I redirect his attention out the window where the ground is fading away. I tell him the ground is going away, soon we'll be in the clouds. He looks at our feet in puzzlement. I explain, in a different way, that the land is going farther away but the ground on which we stand in the plane will remain near and dear.

We eat snacks. We drink milk. We draw on the white write board. We talk. We look out the window. We are about fifteen minutes into a two hour flight. He is bored, antsy, and in need of a quick nap. He behaves admirably, as Turner normally does. He is excited to look out the window occasionally, to discuss the clouds, to eat a Ritz here and there. The seatbelt sign comes and goes and Turner resists wearing it. He starts to stand in front of our seats (we were the first row). He squeals a few times to remind us who is in charge. We threaten things that he knows we can't carry out on the airplane. We are all captive and irritating the woman across the aisle who is writing a series of medications on a piece of paper after reading an article from some lone soul wanting to be published in the journal for which she is a reader. I want to apologize to her. I don't. She seems irritable and Turner is really being very good . . . just antsy. He is two years old for goodness sake . . . this is what I want to tell her when she heaves a sigh as Andy takes Turner to the bathroom for a pee.

We have to get off of the plane and Turner is terribly disappointed. On the next flight to Ft. Myers he sits with La La and tells her everything he can think of. She retorts with her wealth of knowledge. Together they are pefectly well-behaved and learning.

This morning (Sunday) Turner is sitting on the potty asking to get back on the airplane. He doesn't realize it will take us back home, away from the beach and the pool and the fun and the relaxed parents and the aunt he so desperately loves. I know he doesn't feel the emptiness Andy and I scarf down each time we tell another figure in our lives good bye. So, I'm not ready to get on that plane because I know at the other end of the plane ride sits a best friend that I must leave behind, a family that will surely survive without us, and a home that is ours only in memories now.