The drive down to Invercargill was about seven hours.
I tried to keep Alex occupied by singing with him and feeding him lots of little snacks.
When we got to town I took him into a toy store where he promptly pooped his pants.
Luckily they had a changing station and I was able to take care of the situation.
As soon as we got to the airport and checked our baggage with the airline Alex pooped himself again.
I asked for our bags back so I could fish out another diaper and I hauled a wild toddler into the family room for a change.
As soon as he was released into the waiting area of the airport he began to get out seven hours of pent up energy.
And it was not pretty.
He scooted across the floor so many times he actually buffed a sheen in his path.
He instinctively sought out the areas of the airport where the public is not meant to go and trespassed.
He ran behind the food counter and startled the barista and he squeeled like a wild piglet when I caught him and attempted to remove him from her work area.
He's normally such a good child but after being confined in his carseat he went into terrible two overdrive.
I tried to get him to look at the tiny airplane which would carry us to Stewart Island but he quickly grew bored with this.
Finally it was time to go and we were allowed out onto the tarmac.
The plane we were actually flying down in was an even smaller one tucked behind the one I had been looking at.
It was a Piper Cherokee and the moment I took my seat in the back of it I started to have fond memories of my grandfather and grandmother flying me around in their Cessna,
The flight was only 15 minutes long and Alex dropped off to sleep five minutes in.
We flew low enough to make out the island's rugged coastline and the white caps on the Foveaux Strait.
I have always disliked flying and dreaded the airline experience but I adored the quick flight in the small plane.
How strange.
Alex woke with a start as we touched down on the grass runway and looked around with bewildered eyes.
He wasn't done getting his friskies out and had a series of shrieking melt downs on the hotel steps, in the hotel hallway and, for the grand finale, in the hotel bar where we were having dinner.
This bar is the place where a dedicated group of fisherman gather to swap stories in the most colorful language possible.
Favorite topics include people who have died and "The Japs."*
These poor souls had worked hard all day and all they wanted was the comfort of their foul-mouthed camaraderie.
But it was not to be.
Alex tore ass around the corners in the bar's two main rooms.
He pulled bar stools out of their places and put them into the path of wandering patrons.
He screamed, whined and threw himself on the floor.
Any attempt to reign him in and corral him into a quiet corner were met with a scream and a defiant cry of "Noooooo!"
With each high octave exclamation the fishermen would snap briefly out of their beer-induced stupor and look around to see what unearthly specter had let out such a howl.
After the tiny terror crashed into a small table and baptized me in my own Coke I decided it was time for bed.
So far my plan to avoid melt downs whilst traveling with a two-year old had failed miserably.
*The NPR was appalled that anyone not reciting lines from a WWII play would use this term. I'm inclined to feel the same way.
I tried to keep Alex occupied by singing with him and feeding him lots of little snacks.
When we got to town I took him into a toy store where he promptly pooped his pants.
Luckily they had a changing station and I was able to take care of the situation.
As soon as we got to the airport and checked our baggage with the airline Alex pooped himself again.
I asked for our bags back so I could fish out another diaper and I hauled a wild toddler into the family room for a change.
As soon as he was released into the waiting area of the airport he began to get out seven hours of pent up energy.
And it was not pretty.
He scooted across the floor so many times he actually buffed a sheen in his path.
He instinctively sought out the areas of the airport where the public is not meant to go and trespassed.
He ran behind the food counter and startled the barista and he squeeled like a wild piglet when I caught him and attempted to remove him from her work area.
He's normally such a good child but after being confined in his carseat he went into terrible two overdrive.
I tried to get him to look at the tiny airplane which would carry us to Stewart Island but he quickly grew bored with this.
Finally it was time to go and we were allowed out onto the tarmac.
The plane we were actually flying down in was an even smaller one tucked behind the one I had been looking at.
It was a Piper Cherokee and the moment I took my seat in the back of it I started to have fond memories of my grandfather and grandmother flying me around in their Cessna,
The flight was only 15 minutes long and Alex dropped off to sleep five minutes in.
We flew low enough to make out the island's rugged coastline and the white caps on the Foveaux Strait.
I have always disliked flying and dreaded the airline experience but I adored the quick flight in the small plane.
How strange.
Alex woke with a start as we touched down on the grass runway and looked around with bewildered eyes.
He wasn't done getting his friskies out and had a series of shrieking melt downs on the hotel steps, in the hotel hallway and, for the grand finale, in the hotel bar where we were having dinner.
This bar is the place where a dedicated group of fisherman gather to swap stories in the most colorful language possible.
Favorite topics include people who have died and "The Japs."*
These poor souls had worked hard all day and all they wanted was the comfort of their foul-mouthed camaraderie.
But it was not to be.
Alex tore ass around the corners in the bar's two main rooms.
He pulled bar stools out of their places and put them into the path of wandering patrons.
He screamed, whined and threw himself on the floor.
Any attempt to reign him in and corral him into a quiet corner were met with a scream and a defiant cry of "Noooooo!"
With each high octave exclamation the fishermen would snap briefly out of their beer-induced stupor and look around to see what unearthly specter had let out such a howl.
After the tiny terror crashed into a small table and baptized me in my own Coke I decided it was time for bed.
So far my plan to avoid melt downs whilst traveling with a two-year old had failed miserably.
*The NPR was appalled that anyone not reciting lines from a WWII play would use this term. I'm inclined to feel the same way.
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