We survived Thanksgiving air travel without incident, except I think my brain short-circuited under all my self-imposed pressure to prepare properly. Decades spent following the rules ill-equip one to travel with a baby. The questions of whether pre-moistened wipes counted as a liquid and whether I could carry on more than three ounces of diaper cream paralyzed me.
We arrived at the airport two hours early, fully expecting lines out the door and surly security people. We found... nothing. No lines. Anywhere. I tersely declared the baby wipes, vitamin drops and diaper cream, ready to whip out my copy of the FAA regulations and argue my right to carry them on, but Homeland Security simply congratulated us on our beautiful daughter. The flights before and after ours were both delayed, but ours was scheduled to depart on time. Greg looked at me and whispered "It's almost comical how easy this is." Then we both looked outside and waited for the sky to fall. It didn't.
Pre-boarding meant that we witnessed our fellow passengers' faces fall as they walked by our seats and realized they were sharing the journey with a baby. But she was a champ. Happily oblivious to ear pressure and the gazillions of infectious diseases that cavorted through the recirculated air, Baby C slept the whole way. She slept the whole journey back, too. Greg and I, however, are still recovering.