Airplane schedules and I do not get along.
First, and most horribly, I scheduled our family to arrive in Florida at 11 PM instead of 11 AM last Tuesday.
Yes, I was in Florida. Yes, I took my family. Yes, I love my readers. No, I didn't post it on here...or Facebook...or Twitter. Yes, I'm paranoid that someone would have come and rifled through my underwear drawer.
Anywho... Luckily, my 12 hour mis-hap was discovered by a coworker organizing flight schedules so our family's collective ass wasn't stuck shopping for overpriced Colts gear all day.
Our departure flight from Indy was delayed by 30 minutes because of nuts-o weather down south. No biggie, that's why our lay-over was 90 minutes - just for such occasions. Then our plane had to be de-iced (=45 minute wait) and THEN we had to park on the runway because of a backup in Atlanta (=45 minutes).
You all know how I took this. Cold sweat mixed with twitchy minute-counting anxiety. Maybe the pilot will take the express route. Maybe we'll get a tailwind. Maybe the connecting flight will be delayed....
I called my airline from the runway - yes, we were parked long enough that we were given permission to use our phones... I asked what we do if we miss a flight. I've NEVER in all my travels EVER EVER EVER missed a flight.
Ma'am you'll just have to take the next flight out of Atlanta to your destination...which will be at 8:45 tomorrow morning.
WHAT!!?!?! What will I do until then? Where will I sleep? I can't sleep in an airport holding on to my bags AND my kid. My husband could sleep through a tornado ripping the roof of our house off - I must find a way to loop my arms around each and every bag and hold on to the kid that thinks pushing the stroller away from Momma is the funnest fucking game ever. What the hell am I going to do??
Ma'am, they'll probably set you up with a hotel room.
Oh. It probably has bedbugs, but ok.
The flight took off. We were landing 45 minutes after the connecting flight was scheduled to leave. We had some hope that the connecting flight was delayed a bit.
I hate hoping for other's misfortune.
I do it anyway.
We arrive in Atlanta. I sent Hubs out ahead while I got the stroller from the gate check. I wanted him to figure out where we had to go. He heard "go see if you can catch the plane."
Off he went - with most of the bags. I had the baby and our shitty little umbrella stroller and made it up the ramp.
I got to the gate and they told me that I had to go to C22 - we were in terminal D (a train, ferry ride, and whip cream filled swimming pool away). And now, I have no husband. He's gone.
Probably covered in whipped cream already.
So I prayed that the wobbly wheel of our stroller wouldn't wobble us into a crumpled pile of tears in the terminal and RAN.
I hesitated momentarily at the thought of putting the stroller on the escalator...but then grabbed a less-than-threatening, probably English speaking man out of the the hoard to stand on the stair in front of my kid. I held on for dear, dear life.
Ran down along the train up the other ramp....leaned Babygirl back in the stroller and rode the escalator up to the C terminal. Approached Gate C22, drenched with sweat and possibly crying.
Hubs is standing there waiting. [insert minor tongue lashing for the misunderstanding] To find that we now have to run the length of the terminal to C1 to where our flight has been moved.
Are you fucking kidding me? I will slash throats if we've run all this way and we just miss the fucking flight!
Off we go...wobbly wheel holding strong.
We make it to Gate C1 where people are waiting, obviously pissed, bags as far as the eye can see. I am now covered in a marathon's worth of sweat. I asked if that was our flight - trying to hide UTTER JUBILIATION. Flight number confirmed. Turns out they had boarded on time, but a mechanical issue required them to get back off the plane and wait for a new one to arrive.
Sorry folks, that was my little prayer that I called in...my bad.
Breathe....breathe... Breathe. breathe. breathe. little bit of math. check watch. check departure time...check ticket for flight length...more math... OH FUCK! We were arriving in Florida 15 minutes AFTER our rental car place closed.
YOU'VE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME!
They start churning at the gate preparing to board as I call up the rental car booth in Florida. The guy was beyond understanding and said that the other car places would be open and would honor our reservation (and rate).
We boarded, flew, arrived, got all of our bags, and the rental car. Babygirl was SUCH A SPORT through it all. We arrived at our room, no worse for the wear.