Three years ago, we decided to fly with the twins to visit Grandma and Grandpa in Florida. The twins were five months old. What we were thinking, I don’t know. Grandma and Grandpa did appreciate seeing the kids, so that made it worth it.
In preparation for our trip, I spent hours combing the airline’s and airports’ websites for regulations on what we could take on the airplane. Could we take our car-seats? Yes, we could check them at the gate. Could we take our stroller? Yes, we could check it at the gate. Thumbs up. Things were looking good. We figured out how to pack a whole day worth of bottles and diapers and carry them through security. Everything was set.
Everything went smoothly until we got on the plane and learned that you can only have one lap baby per row of seats because of the oxygen masks. My husband and I couldn’t sit by each other and the carefully packed carry-on was now a problem. We survived the flight. My daughter screamed a good share of the descent, but we were at the back of the plane and I could barely hear her.
We easily made our way to the next gate in plenty of time. (Having a double stroller to haul our junk was a bonus.) Only then did we learn that our gate had changed. The destination for our original gate: Paris.
We arrived in Florida, tired but happy to see the grandparents. Next stop, the baggage claim. You guessed it. No bags.
So glad we gate-checked the car-seats and carried on every necessity.
Our luggage arrived by courier the next afternoon. I’m convinced my underwear took the flight to Paris without me.