Babies on a Plane

Somewhere over the Atlantic

Years ago, there was this movie starring Samuel L. Jackson, called “Snakes on a Plane.” In it, hundreds of deadly snakes were released in the aircraft. The premise was ludicrous because people don’t bring snakes on planes. No, we bring babies and babies on a plane is a far more terrifying prospect. I considered how my screenplay might unfold.

The passengers would all be childless, laptop-carrying businessmen who break into a cold sweat over signal loss or the prospect of landing in a country without a Starbucks. Sharing airspace with people under the age of five is what executive nightmares are made of. My plane of terror would be crawling with infants.

Like the one I took to Chicago from Estonia, which is about a 14-hour trip all told. Unless you’re the one with the baby on the plane, in which case those hours pass in black hole torpor. My under-five (18 months, actually) was the loudest, screamiest, writhing-est baby of them all. At that time, on that plane. Naturally.

You’ve probably heard people say, “If humans were meant to fly, we’d have wings.” Certainly, this is true of babies, who, if meant to fly would have an on-off switch or, at the very least, a volume control. We could have turned mine to “mute,” and set about monitoring his furious little face for shades of purple not yet invented.

It’s not as though we’d embarked on this trip unprepared. I, for one, always over-pack, you know, for contingencies. Like carting a baby across the world. 

The problem is that, as a general rule toddlers are programmed for constant movement. No amount of well-planned snacks, packed with love and nutritious intent can make up for eight hours of seat-belted restraint, interrupted only by the occasional visit to passengers within throwing distance to retrieve our toys, juice boxes, and cheese cubes.

At one time we even appealed for outside help. There are buttons on the seats that you can use to adjust the volume of the in-flight entertainment. There’s one for an overhead light. And another to signal a flight attendant. But neither of us, Mommy or Daddy, could find a button to summon an exorcist. 

We couldn’t be certain without blood tests and whatnot, but it really did seem as though Satan had taken over the body of our son. He was so not about to be fobbed off with applesauce or Pepperidge Farm Goldfish. Meanwhile, we were getting looks from people who, instead of being infinitely relieved not to be us, were becoming annoyed by having to sit near our tireless, howling child. 

Emboldened by raw nerves and exasperation I mentally dared anyone to say anything. I’d not have hesitated to peel my son off of my neck and sit him in their lap. “Go on,” I’d challenge, “show me, oh Childless One, how to make it stop.” And then I’d lock myself in the nearest toilet for the rest of the flight.

Unfortunately, nobody provoked me enough to unload my 25 pounds of purple rage. Daddy couldn’t be of any help because my firstborn was in his “Mommy” phase, which means, he would only scream in my ears, wipe snot on my cheek and tear fistfuls of hair from my head. Daddies, evidently, can simply not be trusted with this level of responsibility. 

Either that or babies have an innate understanding that Daddies, in the face of that kind of devotion, would simply stow them in an overhead bin and go back to sleep. The good news is, my husband is thick-skinned and I don’t think his feelings were hurt.

I have to hand it to the flight attendants, however. No, they weren’t in any way consoling or helpful. But once, when my little guy was coiled around my neck with the fingers of each hand clenched tight around my earlobes, his feet crushing what was left of my pelvic bone, she did ask if I wanted coffee or tea.

“Sure. With milk and sugar, and can you just pour that in my lap?”

In the past, when getting off a plane, I’ve passed rows of seats that had been inhabited by babies and toddlers. These deserted demolition zones, finally silent, their souls broken, can tell you everything you need to know about the last eight hours in the air with more accuracy than a black box.

A lingering odor of vomit; used napkins, baby wipes and cracker crumbs carpet the seats and the floor. The seats themselves, with belts hanging every which way, seat pockets crammed with trash, lay still, probably feigning death, in case the assault resumes.

Page-less magazines, empty pudding cups, a tiny white sock lay still – it will take years of therapy before they ever fly again.

Like a movie script, you can picture the anxious but happy family embarking on their trip, clambering into their seats, the kids climbing around, peering over seatbacks at the scalps of the passengers to the front; making googly eyes at the ones behind them. Mom, efficiently arranging toys and snacks in the order they’ll likely be needed. Dad settling in for some catch-up reading. 

And then the seat belt light goes on, followed by the captain’s announcement for take-off. Let the wailing begin! Hell has officially broken loose and both the parents and nearby passengers begin to wonder how anyone ever decided air travel with small children was a good idea.

At five second intervals for the next eight hours and 45 minutes, they’ll all ask themselves the same question. There’s just no good answer.

Finally, ‘DING’ and the captain’s voice announces landing in 10 minutes. But something’s wrong. It’s quiet. All the babies are asleep. Of course they are.

No longer though, would we need to invoke our imaginations to tell the story of what happened in seats D32-G32, because we had just starred in our own extended drama that started on take-off and ended minutes before we landed 

Unfortunately, I think it’s going to get worse before it gets better because soon my little guy will get angry AND be able to talk. I’m pretty sure the ‘the big smelly man’ in the next seat won’t appreciate being told he’s big and smelly, especially by someone who is himself small and often smelly.

As the mother of a toddler, “Snakes on a Plane” didn’t scare me. Nor would babies on a plane. Just the one is enough, especially if it’s mine.