Flying With Children (Or Why I’d Rather Have A Root Canal)

I hate flying. It’s a necessary evil to get to where I’m going quickly. But I hate it. And it seems no matter how many times I fly, I never get used to it. Every time we take off and climb into the sky, I think I’m going to die. Once we get stable in the air, I relax. Until we hit turbulence. Then I think I’m going to die again. About to land? Yep, death.

As if getting on an airplane wasn’t stressful enough, add little children to the mix. I mentioned in a previous post that we recently flew back to my hometown of Ohio. I figured my 9-year-old would be no big deal. But we were traveling with a 3-year-old and an 11-month-old. The baby would be a lap child. Can you imagine the fun times ahead?

Phoenix to Chicago

First we got to the airport late. We knew we were cutting it close, so we really had to book it. My daughter starts whining about how she couldn’t handle her suitcase and was wobbling with it all over the airport. My toddler decided he did not want to hold my hand and would prefer to get lost in the sea of passengers zipping by. I swear if he said “I yanked away from you!” one more time I was going to snatch him up by his collar right there in the airport.

So I’m dragging the 3-year-old by his shirt since he wouldn’t give me his hand and rolling my suitcase around with a diaper bag that kept falling off. Then I noticed the milk was leaking out of one of the bottles. Crap! Milk got over everything, but we had to keep it moving. My husband was carrying his luggage, an extra bag and pushing a baby stroller. And of course I overpacked and we had way too much stuff.

We finally get to the security line and it is miles long. This is when the toddler decided that he no longer wanted to stand and would lie down on the floor every time the line moved. We aren’t even on the plane yet. Why?!?!

I’m literally dragging the boneless, limp boy at this point and he starts to cry. The baby, who had been quiet, also was done with life and decided he wanted to participate in the chorus of whines. As we made our way through security, I had the pleasure of having my hands checked for explosives. I’m not sure why that happened. A few terrorists caught carrying babies as a cover? I don’t know.

Anyway, we were the last people on the plane as everyone else had already boarded. But we made it. Thank God! I was the designated baby holder and sat with my 9-year-old. Dad got the toddler.

As the plane took off, the baby was quiet and I thought “this isn’t so bad!” But soon my daughter started complaining about her ears. And she was hungry. And bored. “Just take a nap,” I told her. That’s my answer for everything. When in doubt, take a nap.

Then the baby started getting restless. He squirmed and fussed. Unfortunately I was in the middle of the seats and he kept wanting to caress the man’s arm who was sitting next to us. I kept looking over at my oldest son and hubby on the other side of the aisle and they were laughing and playing on the iPad; happy and carefree. I was so jealous. All I wanted was to drink my juice without a baby trying to slap it away. Dang. I picked the wrong kid.

Eventually the baby settled down and my daughter stopped complaining. As the plane landed, I so wished we didn’t have to deal with a connecting flight in Chicago. I just wanted to be done with it.

Chicago to Toledo

Our next flight was about an hour away, but the airport was huge and with 3 kids, you aren’t getting anywhere fast. We raced to the next boarding area, in between diaper changes, potty breaks and food stops.

As we prepared to board the next plane to Ohio, I told dad he was holding the baby for the shorter 40 minute trip. Two seconds later, the baby threw up. All over himself. This cannot be happening. As we cleaned him up, he threw up again. As he continued to blow chunks, a staff member at the gate decided she needed to inform us that he was throwing up. Gee, thanks, I had no idea.

Ten minutes before scheduled takeoff. How are we going to make the flight? Should we even try to get on the plane? Finally, he stopped hurling. Then the ticket lady couldn’t figure out that we had 3 children (1 lap), 2 adults and 4 tickets. She kept counting people and tickets. Over and over again. At one point I did the count for her. She still didn’t get it. Eventually she figured it out and we raced to the plane, changing the baby’s puke soaked clothes en route. My husband tried to forget he was due to hold our pukey son as he left me behind and I chased him down holding the baby out in front of me. “Hey, wait! It’s your turn!!” I shouted. By some miracle, we made our flight and all was well again.

Back to Arizona

Our return trip from Ohio back to Arizona was no less adventurous. We had to get up in the wee hours of the morning for a 6am flight that really was a 5am flight because of Springing Forward for Daylight Saving Time. The connecting flight from Ohio to Chicago was fairly peaceful. This time, I told my husband he was holding the baby for the longer flight back to Arizona and I was getting the fun toddler. However, on the second flight, my toddler decided I was not allowed to go to sleep. I must stay awake and hold his hand the entire four hour flight.

He also decided he did not want to watch any movie I played for him. He was also hungry. No matter how many snacks I gave him, nope, still hungry. The baby napped on dad’s lap most of the time. Yet again, I picked the wrong child.

I thanked the good lord in heaven when we finally landed. Then we had to sit on the runway for an extra 40 minute delay. This was unacceptable to the 3-year-old and he busted out in a full blown cry. No bribes, threats or fruit snacks could calm him down. He was ready to get off the plane and so was I.

As we finally were able to walk, not run through an airport, we realized we didn’t remember where we parked the car. Wonderful! After going through one wrong parking lot, we waited as dad went up and down the elevators searching various parking lots. Of course, the oldest son cried again because daddy must have left us forever to go on another airplane headed to Aruba or something.

My husband finally found where we parked and on the way to the car, we smelled something. The baby. He had the most explosive blowout I think I’ve ever witnessed (the medicine he was on for an illness gave him the runs). The devastation left behind ruined the stroller and we ended up throwing away the clothes he was in rather than trying to transport them home. A perfectly crazy way to end the trip. One week later, I’m still recovering. From now on, if I can’t drive, I’m not coming.

Featured Image by U-ichiro Murakami