We’re in Atlanta. They’re supposed to start boarding in about half an hour.

Where I Should Be: Over the Atlantic, halfway to Amsterdam.

Where I Am: Sitting on a balcony on the eighth floor of the Hyatt at the Orlando airport, eating a tuna fish sandwich.

Martinair had some kind of glitch involving a cancelled flight in Miami, and somehow they decided we should be involved. Rockford and Poppy were watching Baby Einstein, I was reading, and then the Intercom Lady said “Butterscotch Sundae Family, we have a very important message for you. Come on down!” So I did.

“We only have one seat left,” she said, “and you are three people.”

“Yes? And?”

“One of you can fly tonight, in business class, or you can all fly tomorrow. Out of Atlanta.”

“We can’t split up. The baby hates to fly alone.”

“Very good,” she said. “Go talk to Reuben.”

So we talked to Reuben and he gave us our three squares and a cot (it’s a very, very nice cot), and some dough for our trouble. The Lord works in mysterious ways.

We’re in Orlando, and our flight has been delayed. I think. There’s no one at the gate, and the departure screen only says “delayed.” According to Rockford’s very resourceful mom, the flight is now scheduled to take off at 9:30. We were supposed to take off at 7:25. That’s a whole lot of delay. And 9:30 is past Poppy’s bedtime. Oh boy.

The flight from Charlotte to Orlando was uneventful, which was a nice change after Poppy threw up on the way to the airport. We had to stop at a gas station to clean up Poppy and the now-stinky car seat. If she had to throw up, though, I’m glad she did it before we got on the plane.