I couldn’t help myself. I walked up to the woman holding a dazed-looking baby and said, “It’s a special kind of Hell, isn’t it?”
We were in LAX, with dozens of travelers streaming by unseeingly and/or madly texting during their rush to baggage claim. I felt compelled to acknowledge our membership in a club nobody really wants to join, but generally does anyway. Sometimes it’s the peer pressure that gets you, or in my case, the urge to be with far-flung family.
I joined the Flying With Babies Society for Christmas — smart, right? And we left town on the busiest travel day of the year — smarter still! And of course Baby Baboo was entering another round of teething. Awesome.
After some debate, our pediatrician’s blessing, and a few trial doses at home, we had decided to give him Benadryl in hopes of guaranteeing him some sleep. On both flights, he slept like an angel for precisely half an hour and then woke up bitching about not being able to sleep longer. He also flung himself about like a possessed rag doll, occasionally pausing to squeal at some new delight, such as the light-up penguin pinned to my mother’s shirt.
Side note: If you can arrange to travel with both your partner and a helper, do. Having a third pair of hands means someone can come help you change the baby while your beloved goes to get all of you a painfully overpriced sandwich/coffee/water for a bottle. Most importantly, non-parents of stressed babies are better positioned to provide comic relief. If you feel you have to travel by yourself with a baby, just… stay home. Or get a scrip for Valium.
But I digress. Once we had successfully negotiated check-in, security and boarding for our outbound flight, I was feeling pretty good about keeping my shit together while the baby slowly fell apart. (Nothing has made me feel as guilty as knowing I am the cause of my baby’s misery.) And then I sat down and thought, “Damn, I forgot how small these seats are.” And then my husband handed me the baby, and my inner dialogue ran to much saltier words.
The next four hours were a blur of trying to get the baby to sleep and trying to keep him happy while he was awake. To his credit, he did his best to get to sleep, but it’s been so long since he slept in my arms that it was really hard for him. Also, there was a baby four rows up who knew exactly when my baby was about to doze off. I know he knew because he started screaming every time my little angel’s eyes were about to droop shut.
For the record: We felt terrible for that baby and his mama, who was traveling alone with him. Also: I feel the need to commend myself for not getting up to offer her some of our Benadryl for him. On the other hand, maybe she had given it to him only to have it cause a paradoxical effect.
My brother and his wife live in LA with their two awesome daughters, and I feel the the hassles were a fair price to pay to see our boy playing with his cousins during his first holiday season. Generally, though, I wouldn’t recommend flying with a baby, and I’d be hard-pressed to do it again while Baboo is pre-verbal and in diapers. Wrassling with wipes, diaper cream and a wriggly, upset baby in an airplane bathroom is truly the seventh circle of Hell. Or the first. Whichever one is worst.
And yes, Virginia, you read that right: There are changing tables in airplane bathrooms.
Mama-Come-Lately 