Transatlantic Two Year Old

I'm a good long haul flyer.  I can fall asleep before take off, stay hydrated and turn up feeling ready for anything.  Now that I am a mommy, everything is naturally more complicated.  And it is not a question of whether I'm good at it, but how well I can manage the embodiment of hurricane force tantrums at 30,000 feet.

 

 

Ethan and I are now in the states, visiting my parents and I am amazed to say that I have survived a solo transatlantic flight with a two year old.  My husband couldn't make it with us, but we decided it would still be a good time for Ethan to see his grandparents.

In the days leading up to the flight, I panicked a little.  On an everyday shopping trip on a hot day before the flight, I gave Ethan an ice cream.  He didn't eat it, just held it, until it melted all over his hands and dripped down his legs.  I took it away, and he threw a massive tantrum complete with flailing arms smacking my face and full body convulsions.  He seemed to want to chuck himself headfirst onto the ground.  As people stared, I held back my impulse to blurt out, 'Just eat the damn ice cream!'

Ethan was deaf to anything I had to say, anyways.  Many tears later and covered in sticky melted ice cream juice, I thought, 'how am I ever going to manage this flight alone?'

That evening, I told Thom that I was worried.  His advice -Man up.  And after being a bit miffed about it, I decided he was right.  I am the mom. I'm not going to be pushed around by the two year old in tantrum mode.   In fact, if I wanted to make sure he didn't actually crack his head open mid-tantrum, I needed to wo-Man up!

I had many more carry on's than I would in the old days - filled  with snacks, toys, extra clothes and kilos of nappies and baby wipes.  I felt like a commando approaching a potentially deadly mission.  The day started before the sun came up and tiredness alone could have turned my little cherub into a screaming banshee in a moment.  I had to be sharp and ready to improvise.  Being soft would not do.

As soon as we waved goodbye to dad, I took a deep breath, got down to look Ethan in the eyes and said, 'Now, I want you to be good and listen to mama. We are going on the plane.' He nodded, maybe a little surprised, but did exactly that, even to the point of letting the security people frisk him (we set off the metal detector) and holding his baby-chino very carefully with two hands as we waited at Starbucks for our gate to be announced. 

I was impressed by what I could see.  He was a pretty switched on, grown up boy in the seat next to me.  But he is a two year old after all, and probably entitled to his fair share of tantrums.  The funniest ones, in hindsight, were after looking out the window as the plane took off, saying 'done' and that he wanted to go in the car now.  He was not pleased that we had to stay where we were for what is an eternity in two year old time.  And also in those seemingly endless minutes when the pilot demands everyone stay seated with seatbelts on after landing, Ethan yelled 'Go? 1, 2, 3...Go!'  And then when it was time to leave the plane, he decided he wanted to stay and fell to the floor at the exit screaming that he wanted to stay on the plane, as all the other weary passengers were piling up behind us. 

It wasn't all about being tough, though I learned.  It is also about a good dose of keeping him engaged when he's bored and relaxed when he's upset.  Finding ways to have fun when you're cramped into two small seats for 9 hours takes creativity and lots of energy.  So different from my long haul sleeps of my pre-child life.   Finding  and enjoying the sweetness in him was essential. Things like when he yelled, 'Weeee!' after some bumpy turbulence and yelling 'Crash!' just before the landing.  Gotta love that funny child outlook!

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Babies on a plane

Now I've survived it, I feel quite proud.  Travel with babies is one of those things that you hear can happen, and people assure you it does happen, but you can't believe it possible until it's done.  As a survivor, I can now assure you that it can happen.  It just won't happen in the way you're used to. 

I used to spend a day packing for myself before a trip.  Getting all the clothes out on the and undergoing a narrowing-down process always seemed better than choosing outright.  It also gave the opportunity to drag out old favourites that I'd never wear at home, but somehow would pass for holiday wear.  Kinda crazy, yes, but mostly really time-consuming. 

Then I'd hop on a train to the airport, pausing for a cappuccino at Liverpool Street, before heading to the tube and eventually the terminal.  Check-in, dump bags, browse duty-free perfumes before settling on a giant Toblerone, drink a glass of bubbly and sleep the whole way after take-off.

I was a good traveller.  But baby-on-board is a whole 'nother world.  The airport is no longer just a high-security shopping mall, but an obstacle course of temptations, unpleasant changing facilities and people for me to avoid with my huge pack of baby-supplies.  Even with my new improved packing technique, which is basically forgetting to pack my stuff and employing the narrow-down strategy to Ethan's clothes, we had tons to carry.  Milk, bottles, diapers  wipes, toys, snacks, blanket, change of clothes, extra change of clothes - well that was the small bag, anyways.  We packed whatever we imagined would save us from a horrid transatlantic adventure   

                                   'This toy?'  'Yes, one time it kept him occupied for 5 whole minutes.' 

                                   'How many wipes?'  'A pack?'  'We'll bring 2!

 

And don't other baby-carriers know it!  We would get anything from the sympathetic half smile to the full-out 'save-me!' grimace from other parents.  Babies are instant conversation starters, as always.  So we could even exchange survival techniques with out fellow baby-trekkers in the passport control queue.  Some unpleasantness out there, like giving the baby a dose of anti-histamine before hand.  But also some nice tips, like get them to eat something during take-off to combat the pain of popping ears.   

And then the flight itself.  The poor little fella was so tired with getting up early to get to the airport and disrupted nap schedule  but he was such a sweetie.  Smiling at other babies and the flight attendant.  He managed to sleep briefly, after some crying that I'm sure was more than the other travellers wanted to hear.  I had worried that his crying would be hard on my cabin-fellows.  Those lucky travellers who have had their duty-free and their bubbly and their Toblerone.  I had visions of a kind of airplane disaster film, a kind of Snakes on a Plane, but with babies.  Screaming.  Puking.  Unhappy and just generally causing an international incident.  But it was ok because I - and everyone else in the plane - just cared less than I thought.  No dirty looks over the seat.  So, all in all, tiring but do-able.  

Ethan liked the cartoons.  We made it safe.  Had a great time away.  And although I missed my bubbly, we did manage a celebratory in-flight wine on the way home.

Separation anxiety

The first night sleeping in California, I woke at 5 am and started frantically looking around the hotel bed for Ethan.  I must have searched for 3 minutes before I realised where I was.  It was a difficult to allow my brain to stop being on high alert all the time.

By the time I got on the return flight from LA, I had relaxed.  I allowed myself to stop worrying about how Ethan would be without me and I slept for most the flight, skipping the stinky, plastic air plane food and waking just in time for coffee being served.  I slapped on a generous layer of moisturiser to my odd, seatbelt-shaped sunburn (sunburnt from being turned stupidly happy at the opportunity for uninterrupted sunshine on the drive back to LA in the drop-top) and legged it back home as fast as I could.

By the time I got in, Ethan had been bed-time-routine-ed and was sleeping soundly for about 30 minutes.  I crept up the stairs and cracked the door just a little to have a peek at him.  It was good to see him snoozing away, but I wasn't really happy until he woke at about midnight.  He was hardly awake, just squeaking, and probably would have continued sleeping had I left him alone.  

But I jumped up and picked him out of his crib.  In the dark, I could see the whites of his eyes as he looked up at me with surprise.  I wondered if he would cry.  Or if he would remember me at all.  After what seemed like a long stare-down, he smiled and grabbed for my face, taking hold of my nose with one hand my bottom lip with another.  I breathed a sigh of relief.  He remembers and he missed me.  That felt good.  

The baby milestone chart I've been consulting says to expect separation anxiety around 6 months.  They didn't mention that the anxiety would be mine.  It's been great being at home with him, there for him all the time.  But it has lead me to believe a little that he needs me.  He does, but he is also a big, tough guy now.  Those little irrational voices telling me that he would melt down without me were just that - irrational.  

I'm really proud of him for being such an adaptable and brave little man once again.  He must have been confused when Nana fed him breakfast or dad gave him his bath.  And  he did let them know he wasn't totally okay with these changes being brought in without his consent.  He even has had a slightly mama-clingy day when it just seemed easier to carry him about in the sling.  But he did eat, he did sleep and I've come home to a bigger and more grown up Ethan, all the wiser and better for having the experience.  As am I.  

A study in distance and perspective

I am in heathrow, sans baby, waiting for my gate announcement for a flight to LA. Grandpa is 90 and the family are gathering for much deserved celebrations. This year for me is a year of a new perspective on life and turning 90 seemed like a good reason to jet off and surprise the old, old man...hopefully not too much, though.

Life and death suddenly seem very entwined to me. Having been someone who thought herself to be accepting of the inevitability of death, I was surprised to find that I actually held a more 'them-not-me' attitude.

Since the birth, the trauma, Noah being taken from me too soon, I find that I am actually a terrified wreak of a woman. Since Noah died, my whole life feels divided into before and after. Before, I never considered the worst case scenario could happen. After, I am overly cautious, imagining horrific scenarios at almost every turn. Death seems so near. And it changed me.

At this moment, the nearness of death has inspired me to see my 90 year old grandfather before its too late. It makes me want to say 'blow the expense, I'm going!'. But it also makes me worry about what will happen. Will I return? Will Ethan be ok? Consequently I went a bit mad on the insurance-front with my rental car, now that I anticipate the possibility of the worst being a reality.

But surrounded by strangers, as I observe my fellow travellers, I know I must also acknowledge the best possible realities. Look at all of us, each with a life story, still travelling onwards. I think of sweet, but tough, little Ethan. Life still holds joy, as well as terror and pain.

Months after Noah passed away, I switched on the TV after Ethan had gone to bed. I am often so touched by his soft sweetness as he drifts towards sleepiness that I grieve Noah all the more in the evening.

That evening, I was hurting. I boiled inside with the injustice of it and collapsed onto the sofa under a cloud of grief. There on the TV was a news story about an 11-year-old Congolese boy whose arms were blown off by a bomb while he was tending his family's goats. He sat in the corner, silent, as his father explained the tragedy.

I realised that life holds injustice for us all, even the most innocent and undeserving. I now scan the faces of the people around me and know that each set of eyes conceal their own personal pain. Tragedies, horrors that touch each person. I imagine a league table, a hierarchy of pains from each of us written out in black-and-white on giant chalkboard. And I would hazard to guess that despite my pain, I may not be on the top of the list.

Cheery? No. But true and strangely it imbues me with a sense of calm and compassion for my fellow humans and gives hope for myself. When I was caught up in my own tragedy, I felt overwhelmed; weak and like I wanted to run away. Now, people-watching and taking perspective, I feel stronger. And more than ever happy and tied to my own little family, in my own stories, tragedy and all.

So here I come LA.