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single person in my wake. “Excuse me, pardon me,” I mumble as a lady with a giant pink hat glowers at me from behind her enormous sunglasses. Does she think we’re going to the Kentucky Derby?
    “You’re going the wrong way,” Pink Hat, aka. Captain Obvious, states.
    “Yes, I know, I have to help my daughter out. Her suitcase is in the overhead compartment,” I explain as sweetly as possible. I also chose to leave out the part where my husband is a jerk who didn’t help her in the first place.
    Despite my dilemma, she scoffs at me and I notice that she has a fake plastic bird nested in the brim of her hat. Evan notices it too, and before I can stop him, he reaches out and plucks it out of the hat. The woman recoils as if he has slapped her across the face.
    “Evan! No!” I admonish, prying his fingers from the plastic bird. He squeezes it... hard. The bird crumples underneath his fist, Styrofoam flying everywhere. He laughs. I want to cry. Pink Hat looks like she wants to punch me in the face.
    “That was my favorite hat!” she gasps, clutching her chest. I notice she is wearing a matching pink skirt suit. Jackie O would be proud.
    “I’m so sorry,” I apologize sheepishly. I glower at Evan, who is now trying to wriggle down the length of my body. “Evan! Stop it,” I growl through gritted teeth. I used to be able to just wrap my arms around him to hold him still, preventing him from grabbing things off the shelf in the supermarket, jumping off the teeter-totter, etc., etc. My upper arms were the most toned they had been since, well... birth .  Sadly now, my four-year-old has proven that he is stronger than me. Because right now, he’s dashing down the airplane aisle. Toward the back of the plane.
    “I’m really sorry,” I shout as I weave through the line of people that are shoving each other to get to the front of the plane and get off.
    It is at that moment that the airplane crew decides to open the door at the back of the plane to alleviate the pressure the line is causing. And guess who is at the front of that line? Yup. Evan.
    “Oh shit,” I curse, nearly knocking down an elderly man who is reaching into the overhead compartment. I feel a slight twinge of guilt when I see that he is trying to get his fold-up walker, but I don’t have time to apologize.
    “Lexie!” I yell, pointing to the now open door at the back of the plane. “Grab your brother!”
    Lexie cocks her head to the side. “What?”
    “Your brother! Your brother!” I am frantically waving my hands in the air and I smack a toddler in the head.
    “Watch what you’re doing!” his mother snaps as she draws him close to her body.
    “Sorry!” I pant. “I gotta get my kid! He’s…” My face falls when I see my youngest child step out onto the movable staircase positioned by the door. I know Evan. He’s fast. He will be on the tarmac before I can even get to the door.
    Desperate, I implore the woman standing closest to the door. “Ma’am! Can you grab my son?” She turns around and I discover that has a toddler under one arm, a baby in a papoose strapped across her chest, and is trying to gather up her diaper bag. The man with her (husband, boyfriend, useless nanny) is staring at his phone, cracking up.
    The woman stares at me incredulously, like I have just asked her to eat her placenta or something.
    “Never mind,” I mumble, finally reaching the door. I get it. She has no free hands. You would think the guy with her would offer to help but...oh wait...he’s a man.
    At this moment, I am feeling very anti-male (mostly because my own live-in male is nowhere in sight to help me out). I pound down the steps onto the tarmac. “Excuse me, pardon me,” I say again. I see Evan’s curls bouncing—he is a few people in front of me on line. His back pack is strapped on his shoulders, and he is carefully holding onto the railings as he proceeds to the ground. I can only be thankful that at least he’s being cautious in