No Naked Flying

No one can say I ever let America down. I've always represented my country well. I’m not talking about participation in the Olympics or leading Middle East peace talks or even organizing aid for people in far flung places. I’m talking about how I clean a house when I am returning from a house swap.

While in somone else's house on an exchange, the kids have put their fingers all over the windows. As a family, we've certainly been guilty of mixing up the convoluted trash and recycling systems we've encountered. My husband has even walked inside with mud (sand or snow, depending on the locale) all over his boots. But I, personally, have never, ever, left a house anything less than perfect.

My obsession with a clean house is precisely what led to my downfall one July morning when I found myself cleaning our Ireland exchange home at 5 am. It’s not the hour, but the fact I had decided to let the children sleep until the last minute, that was my undoing. Working side by side with my girlfriend who had come for a few weeks, we carefully backed out of the house. We dusted and mopped the whole way as quietly as possible so as not to wake the darlings until the last possible moment. Finally, we stopped to admire the sparkling foyer with our bags neatly stacked in the corner.

The joy in that quiet moment was rudely interrupted by Little Lord Fauntleroy, otherwise known as my younger son Johnny, who appeared naked and furious in the front hall. Looking around at the suitcases and mopped floor he stepped to the open doorway and bellowed ‘I’m not leaving’ into the quiet dawn of the neighborhood. Then he promptly slammed and locked the door. The reverberations could be heard in the next county.

We immediately sprinted to the back door just in time to hear the lock click home and his bare feet stomping away. Grasping onto the kitchen window sill (they don’t need screens in Ireland) I hoisted my way inside and ran after the naked boy who then slammed and locked the bedroom door.

It was now 7 am and I was digging around the tool box for a jimmy to open the door. ‘Get the bags, corral the other kids and meet you in the car’ I yelled over my shoulder at my friend while I wiggled different instruments into the keyhole. Our international flight left in 3 hours and we had a 20 minute drive to the airport. I started to sweat profusely. She and the other kids scurried outside and left the two of us alone in the house with the door dividing us. That’s when the negotiations began.

My lesson is to never negotiate from a point of such obvious disparity. I am embarrassed to say I gave everything away: the car, the house, pony rides, candy for breakfast, unlimited visits to Toys R Us, Chuck E Cheese birthday parties through age 45, a family holiday at Disney, a room of his own, lower oil prices – oops. Henry Kissinger could have learned a thing or two from this kid.

Johnny finally cracked the door and agreed to a temporary cease fire if I got him Chocolate milk. We quickly scooted downstairs where I made the naked boy chocolate milk and asked if we could please retire to the car because mommy and daddy paid over four thousand dollars for our tickets and if Daddy drove to the airport expecting to pick us up he’d be very sad if we weren’t there. I didn’t mention how sad Daddy would be if he found out we defaulted on our tickets.

The dawdling continued until I took the bull by the horns so to speak. I picked him up, carried him to the car, locking the front door while holding him sidewise. I locked him in the car seat and quickly tossed his pants, shirt, shoes, socks and underwear pell-mell into the back seat. We sped away.

My girlfriend’s eyes were huge. She had only one daughter who was still a baby. She had not yet experienced the joys and ah – tribulations – of a three year old who wants to drive his or her own boat no matter the cost. The other kids were stone quiet as well, probably because they could see the steam coming out of my ears. We drove in strained silence until a small voice rose from under the clothes in the back seat and announced, ‘Mommy, I’m cold.’

I'll have you note I did not laugh at this.

When we parked the car in the garage he remained steadfast in his naked revolt. So, we jogged to the gate with Johnny in the stroller, wrapped in a blanket and with a snarl on his face. We made it within minutes of our ‘lock out time’ for our flight. There, the airline attendant neatly explained to him that naked flying was not tolerated under any circumstances and that’s when part two of this saga commenced.

People waiting on line to board our plane had a wonderful view of the wrestling match going on between yours truly and darling son. I put Johnny’s shirt on him while he ripped off his sox. I put one shoe on his bare foot while he ripped off the other shoe. When he threw the blanket at my head I decided to go with the moment and, as dignified as possible, I picked it off my head and wrapped it around my naked son.

Once more wrapped in a blanket, Johnny was carried at top speed toward the closing ramp doors. I threw the agent the tickets and jogged to the end of the ramp with the stroller folded up in one arm and my naked son in the other. At the door a pilot getting on board glanced over and said in his official, calm, ‘you must listen to me because I'm in charge’ pilot voice said, ‘you know, son, there’s no naked flying on Aer Lingus.’

My darling son sagely nodded his head in agreement and said from the sidewise position in which I was holding him, ‘If Mommy puts me down I would like to get dressed.’

Of course once he was on terra firma he proceeded to dress quickly and correctly, imitating an obedient boy. I couldn’t look the pilot in the eye though I definitely heard a chuckle as he got onboard. It is an amazing thing to say at this point, but it is true: we actually walked onto the plane like regular people, said hello to the attendants and were seated politely in our seats before take off. The only think I could mutter before nodding off to sleep was, ‘Irish coffee.’