Viva Las Vegas And Goodbye Sanity

© 2025 by Jeff Lutes

 

     One New Year’s Eve long ago, my family set out for what we naïvely believed would be a festive vacation to visit relatives in Las Vegas. We imagined champagne toasts, blinking neon lights, and at least one triumphant moment at a slot machine. What we got instead was a wild ride through travel hell - with detours through family dysfunction, gastrointestinal ruin, and airborne bodily fluids.

 

     We were quite the traveling crew: me, my husband, our kids, one of our dogs, and a chubby-cheeked 10-month-old baby boy we were fostering at the time. Because my husband and two of our kids are deaf, Southwest Airlines allowed us to bring our service dog aboard, which we thought was a small victory. Spoiler alert: it would not feel like a victory for long.

 

     Upon landing in Las Vegas, we made our way to baggage claim. The carousel spun like a slow roulette wheel as we waited … and waited … for the luggage that never came. Not a single suitcase belonging to our children showed up. Gone. Vanished. Like Elvis, they had apparently left the building. We were told to file a report and assured that their bags would probably be found. They never were. But this, we would soon discover, was merely the overture to our vacation symphony of chaos.

 

     Our relatives, also deaf, welcomed us with plastered on smiles and arms just stiff enough to signal tension thicker than a Vegas buffet cheesecake. Turns out, they were in the middle of a domestic cold war. It felt like the pin had been pulled from a grenade and it was only a matter of time before the house would explode. Every conversation was like walking through a minefield blindfolded, carrying a baby, a dog, and everyone’s emotional baggage - except, of course, our actual baggage.

 

     Things hit their crescendo at the New Year’s Eve party, where I made the very unfortunate decision to try the shrimp cocktail. It was warm and I should have known better. But I was distracted by the multiple conversations in American Sign Language and tending to a baby who was teething like a beaver on espresso. By midnight, the fireworks were exploding outside, and inside I was doubled over in a bathroom, having a long, loud chat with my old friend, the porcelain throne. For the next 36 hours, I ping-ponged between the guest bed and the bathroom floor, pale, sweaty, and cursing crustaceans. I rang in the new year with crackers, Gatorade, and a fever dream where Ryan Seacrest turned into a shrimp and mocked me.

 

     Finally, mercifully, it was time to return home to Austin. We dragged ourselves to the airport - hollow-eyed, overcaffeinated, and reeking of vacation defeat. The baby, who had been surprisingly mellow through all of this, was swaddled like a burrito and snoozing in my husband’s lap. As the plane began to taxi, we remembered some stupid parenting magazine article that suggested feeding a bottle during takeoff to help prevent ear pressure pain in infants. So, we tipped the bottle into his tiny mouth and smiled as he suckled peacefully, drifting back into slumber. Finally, something was going well! Or so we thought.

 

     Ten minutes after takeoff, as the plane reached cruising altitude, our sweet foster son stirred. Suddenly, his back arched like a possessed yoga instructor. His eyes bulged, his little lips puckered into a perfect “O,” and without warning, he unleashed a geyser of curdled, sour milk. It flew in an arc over the seat in front of us, dousing the hair, headrests, and carry-ons of two very startled passengers. It looked like a deleted scene from The Exorcist: Baby Edition.

 

     The cabin erupted into chaos. One flight attendant dashed over with what was probably the entire plane’s supply of paper towels, furiously blotting seats, tray tables, and a woman’s suede jacket that would never again know dignity. Another attendant, with a dazzling smile likely attained through years of customer service trauma, strolled down the aisle spraying disinfectant with the charm of Miss Universe. The scent was a confusing mix of citrus, antiseptic, and shame.

 

     Just as the tension began to ebb and the murmurs of disgust faded, our dog decided it was her turn to contribute. Without a sound, she squatted in the aisle, locked eyes with a horrified businessman across from us, and dropped a steaming pile of you-know-what right on the carpet floor.

 

     Cue more gasps. A baby began to cry. Someone gagged. If the pilot had come on the intercom and asked the passengers to vote whether to jettison us from the plane, I'm quite certain the queer-deaf-viral family would have been flung out the emergency exit somewhere over the Grand Canyon.

 

     Once again, the same heroic flight attendant approached, this time with rubber gloves, wet wipes, and a can of Lysol held like a crucifix warding off evil. The other attendant was nowhere to be seen, presumably hiding in the lavatory, praying to the aviation gods or donning a hazmat suit.

 

     The final hour of the flight felt like a silent agreement among the passengers to pretend we didn’t exist. We sat motionless, clutching the baby, clutching the dog, clutching whatever fragments of our dignity remained. When the wheels finally touched down in Austin, there was an audible sigh of relief from all on board - not for the safe landing, but for the end of their shared trauma.

 

     As we disembarked in embarrassment, the flight attendant, who deserved a medal and a raise, grinned and said, deadpan: “Thanks for flying, pooping, and barfing with Southwest.”

 

     We nodded in shameful solidarity and made a solemn vow. On the next family vacation, we would label every piece of luggage like it’s the Ark of the Covenant, get the triple pack of Pepto from Costo, and put a diaper on the dog.