On the trip out, we made use of:
- a beachball
- soap bubbles
- friendly stewardesses, and
- many, many, many trips up and down the aisle
However, my guilt didn't last long. It would seem that HB has inherited a hardy liver from his mother. Because although he did settle in for a nap about 45 minutes after his dose, the nap didn't last much longer than his usual one, at which point he awoke, extra rested for his next assault. And then we entered some turbulence. The stewardess, who was either very rules-conscious or just sadistic, insisted that the seatbelt sign applied to HB as well, and he had to be strapped into his carseat.*
And then his DVD player, which apparently was not designed to survive being repeatedly hurled to the floor, broke.
How bad did it get? So bad that we actually had notes passed up the aisle with suggestions from other passengers on how to make him shut up. And I couldn't blame them. I actually hoped someone might have a good idea. But really, all he wanted was Out. Of. This. Frickin. Seat.
There was no evidence that the Benadryl had any lasting effect whatsoever. And when we got home he wouldn't go to sleep until 11:30. I guess next time we slip him some Xanax, or on second thought, take it ourselves and then offer it around the plane.
*This highlights the weird double standard about babies and airplanes. If they're under two, they can sit on your lap. Ah, they'll be fine, just hang on to 'em. We tend to get a seat for HB anyway, since we risk bodily injury if we try to control him within the confines of our two seats. But if we buy him a seat and bring his carseat, then they get all official on our asses. First they have to check if the seat is Approved, and then they make him sit in it. WTF?