One of my favorite parts about my life is that I never, ever, ever fly anywhere. The highest I get off the ground is when I have to hop a little bit to reach the smoke alarm that goes off when dinner is ready.
The last time I flew, it was when my husband and I decided to take our New Hampshire-born toddler to meet her California kin. I was, of course, pregnant; there were, of course, major delays. And so our little family enjoyed the rare pleasure of unexpectedly spending Christmas eve sleeping on the floor of an airport while surly Santa-hatted flight attendants took out their job dissatisfaction on us. The baby screamed with an earache the whole time, I got just the teensiest bit...READ MORE