Exactly how our flights looked. For exactly five minutes.
There are some lifey-type things I just kind of hate: packing to move, waiting in lines, and as I learned this week, flying with a one-and-a-half-year-old. Oh, heavens. Flying with a one-and-a-half-year-old.
You’d think that after seven days on the shores of Hawaii, I’d have at least a hint of some mystic aloha aura to ward against stress for a bit. Preferably smelling of Kona Coffee, sunscreen and coconut.
Not even sort of close.
Our flight from Los Angeles to Maui was rough, but in a normal way. Emerson freaked out twice but it was nothing I couldn’t handle. Unfortunately, all my handling suffered a cold, blunt death on our flight back from Maui to home.
I was SO prepared, you guys. Like, the “Most-Prepared-for-a-Flight Mom Ever” award would certainly go to me. I googled and surveyed for weeks and did each of the following:
- Raided the $1 bin at Target for only the coolest, brightest, most novel, great toys of all time for maximum in-flight trickery
- Loaded up the iPad with the best Disney and Barney have to offer, and thankfully remembered to charge it
- Stashed endless varieties of top-notch kid snacks, ranging from healthy and fresh (rice cakes, fruit) to delicious and desperate (fruit snacks, chocolate Teddy Grahams)
- Scored Emerson an extra open seat even though we didn’t have to pay for a ticket
- Let my child run wild in the airport right beforehand, encouraging her to expend lots of energy
But sadly, much like my experience with the 15-month-old flower girl, I learned that sometimes preparation is moot. I’m actually becoming convinced that, in mom life, it might even jinx you. I should try being more “shaka” and/or someone should bottle and sell it.
In so many words, the flight was hell. Not even hell-ish. Straight-up despair and wailing, in the utmost literal sense. It didn’t help that our flight was right at 1:20 p.m., smack dab at Emerson’s nap time. We hardly got an hour under our seatbelts before the writhing and screaming began. It also didn’t help that Emerson was the single child aboard our flight. This meant no sympathies from fellow despondent moms throwing that look you need: “Sister, I know!!!” It also meant much less patience from the childless, posh-looking passengers. We stood out like a screaming baby in a dead-silent airplane. Oh, wait.
I was definitely not without sympathy for the childless, posh-looking passengers. In fact, I wanted to hug them and give them my money, even when (or because) they glowered at me for five hours like I was unfit for mom-hood and life.
Lunch. Snacks. Barney. Second lunch. Better snacks. Frozen, for goodness’ sakes. Frozen books and bracelets for goodness’ sakes!!! Many, many trips to the back of the airplane for some bouncing and rocking and walking, then shamefully back to our seats again. There was even an impressive dry ice performance from a lovely, well-meaning flight attendant who didn’t mean to make it worse but she did.
Absolutely nothing would help. Doug is a very strong man and he could hardly contain our child. Hysterical and exhausted, fighting off sleep with a fury, Emerson wailed and wailed. She’s my daughter and I love her forever, but she was a terror and fright on this flight.
Finally, holding Emerson at the back of the plane once again, feeling relegated to time out while wearing the scarlet letter and tortured by animal screams all at once, I looked out the nearest porthole at the peaceful clouds floating below me. And I thought, “Stupid clouds!!! How can you be so peaceful?! How hostile and inconsiderate can you BE while I’m DYING here, you stupid piece-of-junk pretty sky!!!!”
But then I decided to pray. Just days before by the pool drinking out of a pineapple (to think!) I had read this by Anne Lamott:
“Help” is a prayer that is always answered. It doesn’t matter how you pray—with your head bowed in silence, or crying out in grief, or dancing. Churches are good for prayer, but so are garages and cars and mountains and showers and dance floors. Years ago, I wrote an essay that began, “Some people think that God is in the details, but I have come to believe that God is in the bathroom.” Prayer usually means praise, or surrender, acknowledging that you have run out of bullets.
God is definitely also in airplanes, and I had definitely run out of bullets.
“God, I need help. Please help me! This is very bad and I don’t feel like I can handle this alone right now. Being a mom is so hard. Sometimes it’s so much harder than I ever thought it would be.”
More screams from her. More sighs from me. Back to our seats, I supposed.
As I turned into the aisle, though, just a few rows from the back, I slowed at the sight of a man and his wife standing up, looking my way. Oh, great. Passive aggressive glares aren’t enough on this flight. Now people want to give me their words.
But then I noticed the man’s eyes: Comforting, sparkling, kind. Jesus eyes, I thought. That’s my term for eyes that glitter and pierce in a way that reveals something shining through from behind them: love, compassion, and light.
“Would she like a piece of sweet Hawaiian bread?” he asked gently. He looked early-forties, shaved head, eerily like Matt Lauer with a tropical tan. “We have a whole loaf of these delicious rolls, and they’re purple, just like her dress!”
I smiled weakly. I knew it wouldn’t help, and I knew she wasn’t hungry, but heck, bring on the sweet Hawaiian rolls. Plus, I was startled and touched. Being nice to me was certainly not the cool thing to do on this flight.
“We’ll take one, sure!” I offered. “We love purple. Her middle name is Violet, so we dress her in this color a lot.” I overshare when I’m under stress.
His cute brunette wife chimed in. “Our girls are 15 and 17 now. When they flew at this age? They’d screeaaaaaam! But you want to know the good news? The flight always ends!!!”
I loved her immensely; it was the best news I’d ever heard.
Matt Lauer with Jesus Eyes handed my daughter the bread. Her screams fell suddenly silent. She nibbled. She sniffled. She smiled.
I felt my throat start to close with emotion. Could it be? A mid-flight miracle? “Thank you,” I croaked, so thankful.
I learned they were from Orange County, too. “Where do your girls go to school?” I asked.
“Capo Valley Christian. It’s wonderful!”
BOOM. Jesus eyes. I knew it.
I said my good-byes and profound thanks. Scared to move, scared to breathe, I carried my unrecognizable dream baby back to our row, while she chomped on her magical violet roll. That man will never know what he did for me.
I nervously turned on the iPad as we cuddled into my seat. Emerson watched The Little Mermaid in total silence on my lap for the remaining two hours of the flight. I even managed to finish my novel, The Hypnotist’s Love Story (awesome!) and munched on my favorite trail mix from Target, the kind with all the chocolate-covered caramel pieces. The end of the flight was, DARE I SAY, relaxing.
Sometimes in life, there are things you must do, even though they’re not your favorite things. Just smile, and who knows? If you see things through, you can have some fun with them, too! — Barney
Okay, “fun” might be pushing it, but Barney’s got the right idea.
I survived a really difficult moment.
Thanks to that wonderful bread of life.
Thanks to God, who heard my prayer whispered out to the sky.
And thanks to that very kind man, who was willing to be Jesus’ hands to a desperate mama in need.
