You know that split second when you just know your partner is about to do something outrageous, but your brain refuses to process it? That was me at Terminal C: baby wipes sticking out of my pocket, one twin strapped to my chest, the other chewing on my sunglasses like they were ribs at a barbecue.
It was our first big family trip: me, my husband Eric, and our 18-month-old twins, Ava and Mason, flying to Florida to visit his parents in their pastel golf-cart kingdom.
At the gate, Eric “just checked something real quick.” Moments later, boarding began—and with a smug little grin he announced:
“Babe, I snagged an upgrade. You’ll be fine with the kids, right?”
He kissed my cheek and vanished behind the Business Class curtain like a villain in a soap opera. I trudged to row 32 with two toddlers, three bags, and a stroller that folded like origami designed by Satan.
By the time I buckled in, Ava was pounding her tray table like a nightclub DJ and Mason was stress-testing his stuffed giraffe. Apple juice baptized my lap. Eric texted me a selfie:
“Food is amazing up here. They gave me a warm towel 😍.”
A warm towel. While I was mopping spit-up with a napkin from the floor.
When we landed, Eric emerged yawning like he’d been at a spa. His dad scooped up Ava, called me “champion of the skies,” then turned to Eric with a glare that could freeze lava.
Later that night, I overheard the lecture:
“You left your wife with two toddlers… in economy?”
The next evening at dinner, when the waiter asked for drinks, my father-in-law didn’t miss a beat:
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Him: “Bourbon, neat.”
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My MIL: “Iced tea.”
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Me: “Sparkling water.”
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Eric: (hopeful look)
FIL: “And for him… a glass of milk. Since he clearly can’t handle being an adult.”
The whole table erupted. Eric stared at the bread basket like it might save him.
Days later, his dad leaned over to me and said:
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I updated the will. The twins are taken care of. You are too. Eric’s share shrinks a little every time he forgets what comes first.”
Reader… a man’s priorities can sharpen very quickly.
On the flight home, Eric became a human pack mule—car seats, diaper bags, coffee runs. But karma wasn’t done yet. At check-in, the agent smiled:
“Sir, you’ve been upgraded again. Business class.”
The boarding pass sleeve had a handwritten note:
“Enjoy your upgrade. One-way. Hotel check-in required. Think about priorities.”
I recognized the handwriting instantly. Eric’s dad strikes again.
I laughed so hard I nearly dropped a baby. Eric groaned:
“So… any chance I can earn my way back to economy?”
I handed him the diaper bag.
“Step one: never mention warm towels again—for the rest of your life.”
And reader, the man obeyed.
