My granddaughter Mookie experienced her first-ever flight. And it was a doozy. (photo courtesy of Chris Erskine)

My daughter Rapunzel is stuck at the airport in Chicago, trying to get home, a 5-month-old in her lap.

Their return flight to L.A. was canceled for mechanical reasons. Now snow and ice are delaying alternative flights. This is what’s known as “The O’Hare Triple Play: Snow, ice, technical difficulties.”

I assure Rapunzel and her husband that I’ll be waiting at the curb at LAX whenever they arrive. Next Tuesday, for instance. Or next year.

This is the holidays, 2025. For the first time in years, the rest of the country is enduring a slap of real winter – epic cold, a snort of snow. That can be elegant and beautiful, till it gobbles up your kids on their way home from a weekend trip to Chicago.

I love the heartland. I even like the lousy prairie weather. But being stuck at ORD is a special kind of purgatory. Prayers no longer work. Vodka either (it just shuts you down). You begin to question the existence of a benevolent creator.

Anyway, get your diapered butt back here, little Mookie, my tiniest grandchild. Bring your tired parents back to this land of tan and sweaty Santas. Papa will be waiting at the curb.

Remember when air travel didn’t hurt so much? That was before airline apps and electronic boarding passes. Now it seems a crapshoot. Or at least crappy. Why, with all these efficiencies, does air travel seem to be getting worse?

More and more, travel is an act of love. We jump on airplanes to see our parents, our lovers, our oldest, dearest friends, never mind the hassle.

Now that I’m super rich (aka retired), I don’t mind flying. I never have anyplace I really need to be first thing Monday (the greatest wealth of all).

Besides, I enjoy the existential ethos of an airport bar. Ten strangers drinking bloody Marys, all rooting for (or against) the Cowboys. Ten random souls suddenly a choir.

FYI, I have spent half my life trying to get printers to work, the other half in airports waiting to come home. Paris, London. Zurich. Des Moines.

I think air travel itself is a Christmas miracle – if you make your flight. And if you don’t? You’re suddenly at the mercy of algorithms and that cold front roaring down from Duluth.

Hot toddy, anyone?

Here’s where my head goes during difficult airport delays: To the fireplace, a dog at my knee, a soulful Sinatra with a little whisky in his throat.

Or, to that moment when Rapunzel’s husband (Uncle Truck) stomps through the front door on Christmas Eve in that borrowed Santa suit (thanks, Rita!).  Some of the toddlers rejoice at that. Others sob and run to their mamas.

That’s the beloved video clip that loops in my head when I’m snowed in at O’Hare.

“Why is that lunatic in the Ditka vest smiling?” other travelers must think.

For short trips, I’d rather drive, though that can have its perils too.

I have this recurring dream about being trapped on the 405, insanity setting in. It has now replaced my college nightmares. The one about the pregnancy test.

Speaking of college, a little update on Smartacus: He has taken his last final for the term, and he stopped on the way back to his apartment to buy a six-pack.

It was his birthday, and instead of candles, he blew out a quick six-pack with his roomies. Veteran move, right? Sounds like a moody Dan Fogelberg track.

Smartacus is coming home soon too, with clean thoughts and a bag of dirty Oregon t-shirts. He’s such a lug now. Smirky. Confident. Big shouldered. Wait till he flies through O’Hare some winter. That’ll take care of all that.

Nothing humbles you like holiday travel. Been that way since Kublai Kahn. You double-check your itinerary, your Apple Wallet, make sure you packed some Kleenex.

Then you wait at the airport to be rebuffed, re-booked, regurgitated, re-born.

My sis visited recently, and when American canceled her direct flight back to Chicago, it booked her through Charlotte with a five-hour layover.

That’s how airlines treat their customers these days. When things go bad, all you want to do is talk to a ticket agent, that poor gal with 500 tired passengers waiting to yell at her.

You’d have better luck dating the Pope.

What about Santa? Now there’s a travel hack. Maybe he has room in his sleigh for Rapunzel and her tiny entourage? Maybe he’ll drop them in Denver, where they can catch the red-eye back to LAX?

Papa will be waiting at the curb.