Have you ever been flying with kids, and the experience was bad, ugly, or wonderful?
I have.
Many times.
So, what to do?
Will you ever see these people again?
Long ago, I flew with a two-year-old and a four-year-old from New York to Rome.
We were hunting down their father, patrolling the Mediterranean Sea on a submarine.
He’d been gone several months. When you’re two years old, that number mounts up into large percentages of your entire life.
We all needed to see Dad again.
But that was a long trip.
Did I prepare in advance?
I read an article in the New York Times Sunday Magazine discussing horrible flights with children.
It included this memorable tale:
On an eight-hour flight to Rome, my infant cried the entire flight. We tried everything. Nothing worked. I finally ended up standing in the back of the plane with the baby screaming away, for the entire flight.
Everyone hated the baby. I hated the baby. Nothing worked. I finally consoled myself with one thought. “I’ll never see any of these people again.”
That’s the only thing that helped.
I laughed when I read it. It gave me hope. Flying with kids couldn’t get any worse than that, right?
Our trip home went well–a Navy wife friend from the same boat switched her flight home and flew with us.
Flying with kids on an ugly day
I flew a lot with my older children.
On another memorable flight hunting my husband, I traded eight Chex cereal boxtops for a free round-trip ticket.
Pregnant with our second child, we decided I would travel to meet the boat in Florida with the two-year-old.
It was a time of airline deregulation. You could find cheap deals, but they may not be direct. Or at a convenient time.
This flight involved flying with kids from Groton, CT, to New York City, to Atlanta, to Jacksonville, to Orlando.
“What?” I exclaimed over the phone.
“Oh, it’s practically direct going home: Orlando to Detroit to New York to Groton.”
One free plane ticket, I told myself.
The child was two. I was pregnant. I flew up on the first leg. He spilled juice on the second. He danced on the third while screaming, “I want orange juice,” egged on by an orange grower.
My husband met us at the airport. Thanks be to God.
On the flight home, he threw up, spilled juice, and we landed in Detroit during a snowstorm.
I had one diaper left.
The delay was not overlong. We got home safely.
- Without our luggage.
- To a stopped-up sink.
- To a surprising house guest dropping by.
But I digress.
Flying with kids was ugly, but we got home safely.
But then there’s the wonder.
Other than friends or family who flew with us, I’ve never met anyone on a flight again.
Everything is new when you’re a child–even when you’ve flown before.
Pushing the shade up and down, pushing buttons, and looking out the window.
It can be magic.
On a recent flight between San Francisco and Seattle, I sat beside a woman with her ten-month-old daughter.
A lucky woman, her husband sat on the other side and shared the baby.
We talked the entire flight about the joy of children and the ability to travel with them.
By the time we arrived, this high-tech professional thanked me for the conversation.
“You’ve convinced me. I think I’m going to have another baby.”
I didn’t look at her husband.
My stories of flying with kids gave her hope and encouragement.
We survived. So did the kids. Modern technology gave us a chance to see the world.
The good, the bad, the ugly, yes, but also the wonder and the joy of finding Daddy in a strange land
At least for us.
Thanks be to God.
Thoughts? Reactions? Lurker?