Several months ago, buoyed by my successful weaning of Lucia and our return to NYC, Andrew and I decided we’d go to Paris for a long weekend and leave Lucia with our mothers, who expressed eagerness to spend a few days with the baby in Brooklyn. As we talked more about it, however, we both felt a bit uneasy about being so far away; so we revised our getaway plan and set our sights on Montreal. We bought a guidebook, found frequent flier tickets, and began planning our trip. Then Andrew’s dad had surgery and my dad broke his foot, which meant the grandmas were no longer available.
We then decided to come to Connellsville for President’s Day weekend—and we planned to escape overnight to a nice hotel in Pittsburgh and at least have one night away. Then Lucia threw up on the flight from Laguardia to Pittsburgh (Andrew caught the vomit in his hands! He’s passed some sort of parenthood trial!), and the next day she had a fever of 103, and then her two hinted-at molars came through in force, and then a THIRD molar appeared, turning her into—by turns—a lethargic and monstrous baby. We managed to get pizza and beer by ourselves at Bud Murphy’s on Saturday night. So much for Paris.
And now we are in Connellsville unexpectedly for an extra night because of an unexpected snowstorm. We were already dreading our flight back today—Lucia is just not herself, going on two days of food refusal; and we weren’t booked on the same flight, upping the stress quotient. And though I have traveled alone to far-flung places—Poland! Iceland!—I was filled with abject terror at the idea of a solo, 1.5-hour flight with my sixteen-month-old. Stories of sitting, trapped, on a plane for hours at a perpetually clogged Laguardia were all I could think about. So this morning we decided to just ditch the flight and drive back. The thought of getting on a plane was just too much. And we need to get our car back at some point anyway.
So tonight we set out—only to find ourselves in an intense snowstorm before we even got on the turnpike. Wheels slipping every which way, even 40 mph a stretch, we turned back. And now here we are, still in Connellsville, a good five inches already on the ground outside. We’ll set out again tomorrow.
Overall we’re glad we came, because Lucia was such a mess it was good to have some backup. But we’ve learned something this weekend: that our days of flying from NYC to Pittsburgh are over. It’s just so much easier to drive, and it takes almost the exact same amount of time door to door. (And driving allows us to stock up on cheap pantry staples from Pechin’s.)
Oh, and our flights turned out to be cancelled anyway. We are quite happy to have avoided a wasted trip to the airport and hours and hours of pointless waiting. It’s much nicer to be sitting here in Cville, devouring a bag of Pechin’s pepperoni rolls.