I am never getting on another airplane with my children. I may reconsider this when they are old enough to put on headsets and plug themselves into some Idiot Box Device for the entire flight, wanting nothing to do me. But until that time comes, airplanes are now off limits. Babies really have no business being on planes anyway, at least the kind of babies that that my husband and I make. Our babies don’t immediately sleep though the night or hang out endlessly on their backs gazing at a mobile. Shane required nearly an hour of bouncing, after an hour of breastfeeding, while being double-swaddled to get to sleep. With Kiana, I refused to go down that path again, so I did the nursing and paid someone else to do the bouncing. When a new mom calls me and says, “Spencer is such a mellow guy- all he does is sleep”, I wonder if their baby is even of the same species as mine.

Thankfully, my babies quickly evolve into energetic and high-spirited children. They tend to always be in motion, and require hours of running, climbing, and park- time every day. Being stuck on a plane for even a short flight with them quickly feels like you are trapped in hell for an eternity. But as my Mom Brain forgot the pain of childbirth when I willingly became pregnant again two years ago, it also forgets the horror of being on an airplane with my children when I begin to plan a vacation.

Every few months or so, I surf the web and come across some beautiful vacation resort. It usually has ten pools, a spa, seventeen restaurants, a Kid’s club, a circus, a private beach, and a nightclub for the parents to “Do the Macherena” at after their munchkins are asleep! It is Family Friendly, i.e., it is acceptable for your child to throw his half eaten chicken-taco on the floor of the restaurant. The only problem is it is on a small island off Indonesia, or in the rain-forests of Brazil.

When I recently found such a resort in Mexico, I thought I had hit the jackpot. After a quick three hour flight, we would be lounging on a private beach playing gin-rummy after dumping our kids off at their respective clubs.

I came on the flight prepared. I had real cheerios, goldfish crackers, potato chips, a seven-pack series of SpongeBob, and a bunch of other treats and goodies that are contraband at home. I had diapers, wipes, and of course a change of clothes for my baby. I knew she was going to be my wild card. There was a good chance Shane would be delirious, watching Spongebob and eating chips out of the bag, since he is never allowed to partake in these activities at home, at least simultaneously. But my darling Kiki, at one and a half, was going to be tough to contain.

I also have to take care of my own needs on flights. In addition to my desire to read the entire issues of People, Star, and Us Weekly, as well as do all their respective crossword puzzles, I have appointed myself the position of Undercover Vigilante Air Marshal on all my flights since 9/11. This requires me to casually and continuously walk up and down the aisles of the plane, spying on passengers for any suspicious activity. I occasionally take breaks to read about J.Lo or Britney, but then it’s back to work, keeping everyone safe and protected. It is definitely a balancing act, but I try to make it work.

As we settled in our seats, I noticed that the woman sitting next to me was pregnant. After learning that she was pregnant with her first child, I knew this experience could potentially traumatize her. I was determined to make the flight as pleasant as possible, and maybe even teach her a few things while I was at it.

“Your baby is so cute!” she gave Kiana a warm smile.

Kiana eyed her suspiciously and said, “Bye bye”  as she spit a regurgitated goldfish cracker into my hand.

As the flight progressed, Kiana got exponentially more agitated as the minutes passed. I know how awful it is to be on a flight with a Screaming Baby. But, I promise you, when you are the mom of the Screaming Baby on an Airplane, the pain and suffering you withstand is much, much worse for you than for anyone else. Not only do you need to endure the fingernails-down-a-chalkboard screeches of your own child, you have to tolerate all of the other passenger’s frustration and judgments. Being the mom of the Screaming Baby on an Airplane is a rite of passage. Along with birth and death, once you experience it, you will forever be a changed person.

After trying everything to pacify her, including putting down my copy of Us Magazine in the middle of “Will Britney and K-Fed Reunite?”, I gave my husband a death glare, “Your turn!” I thrust my writhing, screaming, little red beast at him, put in my earplugs, and returned to my article.

There was an hour left on the flight. Kiana was screaming her ass off and there was nothing to do. A woman behind me tapped me on the shoulder in a  not- so- gentle way. “It’s her ears,” she told me, as if she discovered the cure for cancer, “You need to give her something to drink now!”

“Do you think I have not thought of this, you dumb bitch?” I almost said. I wanted to choke her. So far, I had given Kiana regular milk, chocolate milk, orange juice, apple juice, flat water, sparkling water, and any other beverage I could swipe from the cart. I attempted to breastfeed her, even though she had been weaned five months ago. I would have given her vodka if I thought she would drink it. If you are a passenger on a flight with a Screaming Baby, please leave your opinions, suggestions, and solutions to yourself. The only thing to say to a mother in such a situation is “How can I help you?”

My son walked over to me. He had been relatively quiet for the whole flight, which was odd because he and his sister generally like to flip out at the same time. He didn’t look so hot. “Mommy, can I sleep on you?” he crawled in my lap and closed his eyes. Shane hadn’t taken a nap in a year. Why was he sleeping at 10am?

I suddenly felt a warm liquid spread all over my body. “What’s the smell? the pregnant woman asked. It was pee, Shane’s pee, all over my cute cargo pants and dripping onto my Haviana flip-flops. There were droplets on my toes, freshly pedicured in Lincoln Park After Dark. My child had actually passed out on top of me and peed. And the “Fasten Seat Belt” sign was on.

Worse yet, I didn’t even think to bring a change of clothes for him. Shane hadn’t had an “accident” in many months. I stripped him naked and put him in his 18 month old sister’s pink leggings.

We got off the plane. I was carrying my half-naked son in pink leggings and three carry on bags, and my husband was schlepping the rest of the crap and our still- screeching daughter. We had to get through customs.

The only thing to do at these moments is blame your husband. “This has been the most horrible experience in my life! I am never getting on a plane again! Why did you drag me on this goddamned trip anyway?”

My husband often tries to mitigate my pessimistic angst with a patronizing, PollyAnna-like attitude. “It could of been much worse, Jen. It wasn’t that bad.”  That is when Shane began to profusely vomit. All over me, all over himself, all over our luggage. We were in the passport line.

The line dispersed and I looked at my husband and screamed, “Do something!” He grabbed a couple of tissues out of his pocket and began to wipe his computer case.

The customs agents quickly let us through. I don’t think they even checked our passports. As we were were waiting for our luggage, Shane said “Mommy, I need to throw up again.” I couldn’t get to a bathroom or even a trash bin. I ran to a corner of the airport where I held him while he continued to vomit.

As I stood over my retching son, I noticed a man watching the whole scene a few feet a way. I began to rant, figuring this stranger was a good target. “Why is it that people just watch and judge? Do you think I planned this? What the hell am I supposed to do?”

He had long silver hair in a braid and a gentle face. “Sometimes there is nothing to do but stand in a corner and let your kid puke.”

He saved my life that day.

This entry was posted on Saturday, January 24th, 2009 at 6:16 pm and is filed under 1. Angst Mom Essays. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.