Ezzo in a Can

I have a plan. Get up at 4:15 am, dressed by 4:45, check email, haul luggage downstairs, be ready for my ride by 5. Leave by 5:15, arrive for airport check-in by 5:45, relaxed and ready for my 7 am flight to Amsterdam, the first of three legs from Bulgaria back to the States.

So much for plans. Afraid of oversleeping, I awaken at 3:30, tossing and turning 'til 3:55 when I admit to myself I'm awake. I arise and ready myself a full half hour ahead of schedule, happy for the extra time to iChat with Dolly, who is undoubtedly still at her computer at 9:30 Monday night. Nope, no Dolly, so I read blogs: Hewitt, Hootsbuddy, Thinkgeek. Google News until 5 o'clock. No driver arrives. 5:15 comes and goes. Still no driver. 5:20.

My insomnia has been prophetic, but not for me: At 5:25 I rouse him by cellphone, and he's loading luggage by 5:50. Now commences one of the fastest rides to an airport I've ever experienced. In fact—I realize as we confront a speed bump at full tilt—I've been on slower flights than this.

Villages and suburbs fly by at triple legal speed; Sofia's red lights grant us amnesty; "Gypsy town" smiles and opens a potholed shortcut to the airport. At 6:16 I am standing at Bulgaria Air's check-in counter, hugging my embarrassed host and promising to return.

Through security, past the green zone, and a final passport check, and we're on the bus to the plane. Bummer: I look at my boarding pass and see the dreaded "E." A middle seat in row ten. We board. Bummer #2: The rows are cramped, mine in particular, which looks as though it has been installed by Soviet mechanics: It's actually bolted in crooked. Bummer #3: The seats don't recline. Oh well, I'll sleep or read. It's only three hours.

Ten minutes into the flight I look up from the airline's inflight magazine (which is imaginatively named "Inflight Magazine") and notice there are no visible hairdos a few rows forward. I look behind me; the plane is jammed as far as I can see. Maybe a short family is up there, or a Hmong tour group. No, wait...it's Break #1: Empty rows! Sixteen beautiful, 80s-blue upholstered, non-reclining empty seats.

There's no rational explanation for cramming all the passengers into the rear of the plane. In fact, unless the flight crew weighs in at three-quarter tons, we're back heavy. So for the safety of my fellow passengers, I nobly nestle into lovely, vacant, odor-free row 6. Break #2: No one follows me. Ah, my limo in the sky!

The pilot greets us, first in Bulgarian, then broken English. Being the single-tongued, mono-cultural, North-Central Floridian American that I happily am, his effort is welcome. But I'm struck by the remarkable resemblance of this captain's voice to Stephen Hawking's voice synthesizer. It's the old Macintosh sore throat monotone, "Izzuntit gray-to have aye compewter that can tawk to-yew?" My goodness. My old Powerbook had a Bulgarian accent all along! Either that or Hawking is flying this plane with one finger and a little wheelchair joystick.

Break #3: There is a recline button after all. It's just hidden where only a person without thighs would find it, a design feature from the pre-cellulite school, no doubt.

Sleep beckons, I recline, and am at peace for an hour, until the toddler behind me finds the tray table. The spirit of Buddy Rich has seized him and for twenty minutes my head bounces to a happy, spastic infant beat. I love babies, of course, but I find myself wanting to give his oblivious mother a gift set of Mr. and Mrs. Ezzo's "Raising Kids God's Way" videos in whatever language she understands.

Suddenly every child under two on the plane is seized by midnight-barking-dog syndrome. They all go berserk at once. A little girl in the aisle has a fit, while her helpless Dad stands behind her not even looking embarrassed. Drummer Baby cries, triggering a diaper-clad chorus from every direction. Dear Lord, the whole plane needs Ezzoing. Forget Estonian seminars, Latvian worship conferences, Bulgarian seminaries; Eastern Europe needs the Ezzos!

Now I wish I had Ezzo videos for the whole planeload of screaming children, unclued parents, unglued attendants, and tortured businessmen. We need some sort of spray, Ezzo in a can: EzZone! Ffffffffttttt! Instant discipline. Oh, wait--We have it already: Benadryl. They need Benadryl and Ezzo videos.

Now I'm fuming. How much longer 'til we land in Amsterdam-it? "Long enough to repent," a little voice whispers, followed by a gentle "while you were out" message: Hey Jim, listen. A calm, as sudden as the previous storm, has filled the cabin. Either God has bought into my EzZone idea and whipped up a batch of His own, or Bulgaria already knows Benadryl.

We land and board another bus. Oblivious Mom sets up her stroller on my left foot. Then Drummer Baby grins at me through an orange pacifier, and I miss my own little Lexi. What a sweet, happy little guy. I am at peace again.

I board Delta 39, seat 29C, bound to Atlanta and Gainesville and Dolly's arms. Potential Drummer Baby 2 is soon deposited in front of me. He smiles and I love him at once. Life's okay. Then again, I'm not the lady in 27C.