I joined a very different kind of Mile High Club in August, 2007, on a little American Eagle propeller plane traveling from New York to Bangor, Maine. Our first flight of the morning (from Chicago to New York) was delayed, so we tore through LaGuardia Airport at light speed (only slowing down when we realized we had to go through security AGAIN), to get to our next flight. No time for a bathroom break in the airport - but so what, Travelin' Junior (TJ) still smelled fresh as a daisy! We raced up the steps to our tiny plane, ducked our heads going down the aisle, and strapped TJ's car seat in position. With five minutes to spare, I relaxed and enjoyed the take off.
That's when I smelled it. TJ had definitely stunk it up. On a plane that little, even I couldn't deny the stench radiating from my child. So, TJ and I headed to the lavatory. At first it all seemed sort of funny as I negotiated through the flimsy, narrow door frame with a 16-month old baby on my hip, diaper bag slung over my shoulder. Then, not so much. We were so tightly packed in there that I could hardly close the door. I searched for a changing station (button to flush toilet, check; sink, check; kleenex dispenser, check; toilet paper, check) - NO PLACE TO CHANGE TJ?! The counter was out of the question - it consisted only of a dollhouse-sized sink. The floor space was taken up by my feet. Hmmm . . . must get creative here.
The only possible flat-sized surface was the toilet seat. I put the lid down, and pulled out my ever-handy plastic travel changing pad (thank goodness I packed it!) I spread the pad on the toilet seat, and laid TJ down. He gave me an inquiring look - the top of his head was jammed against the wall, and his legs dangled into oblivion, but his butt was definitely on solid ground. Crouching to be at his level, I pulled off his shoes, pants (all while singing Old MacDonald so TJ wouldn’t be more freaked out than he already was - could the other passengers hear this?) - took off the Big Bird diaper, and gasped. What had this kid eaten? Ten wipes later, TJ’s bottom was clean, and I reversed the process - slapped on a fresh diaper and replaced the clothing and shoes. I jammed the loaded diaper and used wipes down the tiny trash chute (what else was I supposed to do with it?), rubbed on some hand sanitizer, and threw open the door with an enormous grin on my face. We did it! TJ and I had just become members of the diaper-change mile high club ("DCMHC"). Unfortunately, I don't think the next person to use that lavatory shared in our enthusiasm. . . .