Now we're ensconced in our seats on Flight XXXX in Rows 9, 10 and 11. Having mistakenly pegged the flight departure time at 9:01, we rushed the kids out of Grandma and Grandpa's house at 6:35 a.m. to allow us to arrive 1.5 hours before take-off. After passing through security (where, notwithstanding the friendly and helpful staff at Akron-Canton, we were still required to remove our shoes, turn on our laptops, and fess up to carry-on lotion possession), we settled in with coffee and donuts.
"You know, Mom, our flight isn't scheduled to depart until 9:30," said Sam, the son who prides himself on knowing everything about everything while being convinced that everyone else (on Earth) knows nothing about anything.
"No," I replied with confidence, "we land in Chicago at 9:30, after the time change."
"You want to bet $5?" he asked, with a devilish twinkle in his eye. Even as we shook on it, a little voice inside my head reminded me that the kid was usually right, and I was betting the proverbial farm (or at least the little shed on the farm) that he was wrong. Sam sent his little brother over to check the monitor. The brother returned just seconds later, trying (unsuccessfully) to suppress a smile.
"Boarding at 9:05," he said, "Take-off at 9:30."
"Dammit!" I said.
"Pay up," Sam answered.
I forked over the loot on the spot so he wouldn't harass me about it for the duration of the trip.
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