Wubs on a Plane

Boy, do I love my son Grant. He is sweet, funny, active, and affectionate. His little smile and voice melts my heart, and his curiosity of the world around him is a adorable. I love my son. That said, I will not be taking him on another airplane until he's old enough to vote.

A few weeks ago, my in-laws treated us to an incredible trip to the UK. We had all been talking about it for months and eagerly anticipating seeing my husband's extended family and introducing Grant to his Welsh great-grandmother. But alas, there was an elephant in the room. And that elephant was "How is Grant going to hold up during a 7.5 hour international flight when a ONE HOUR flight to Boston is difficult?"

Funny how not many of us wanted to address this proverbial elephant. My mother-in-law, who travels internationally like most people ride subway cars, insisted that taking a 20-month-old boy on a long flight was incredibly doable, adding that she had taken my husband and his brother many times when they were young. This was my first red flag, as it is common knowledge that my husband was THE MOST PERFECT BABY TO EVER LIVE and could sit still and quietly entertain himself. According to my mom, I was similar. And according to Grant's mom, ME, he is the exact opposite. Perhaps some recessive genes from my rebellious brothers? Who knows...

We arrived for our night flight with Grant already in his pajamas, PRAYING that the sheer hour of the day would knock the kid out and he would sleep through to when we touched down in bonny England. We ran into another couple waiting to board, and remarked on how their young son already looked sleepy. They leaned in and let us in on a little secret: BENADRYL. "Oh no!" I thought, reacting less to the fact that they had drugged their child out of convenience and more to the fact that I hadn't had the common sense to do the same.

After dinner and a couple hours of Grant of sprinting around the terminals, we boarded the plane. The lights were off, and Grant was showing signs of grogginess. My mother-in-law had scored my husband and me some bulkhead seats, so we had extra room. "Maybe this won't be so bad, afterall!" I figured.

We asked the flight attendant for a bassinet to put Grant in. She returned with one and I tried to ignore the fact that it was about three-quarters of his size. That fact became harder to ignore when a different, heavy-set Scottish flight attendant stopped short when she saw us and gasped, "YUUUU CAAAN'T UUUUSE THAT! HE'S FAAAAHR TUUUUUU BIIIG!" My husband and I agreed immediately, but she didn't seem to think we were getting it and continued. "Yuuu seee, that seeeat is fer a young baaaybeee and yur child is faaaahr tuuu biiig to yuuuuse it!" Yup. Roger that. We read you loud and clear, m'am! And yet she went on for the next five minutes to prove her theory, demonstrating some obvious points related to size. Grant was starting to lose it. And the plane was still on the ground.

We soon got a bigger seat to strap to a fold out table in front of us, but by then the lights had been turned back on and Grant was overtired and furious, having already rejected the toys that my mother-in-law had thoughtfully packed and spilling two drinks. When I had to strap a seat belt around him for takeoff, his cries and whines were promoted to full-on SCREAMS. I should also mention that the baby in the next row from us was behaving perfectly, making our son look like even more of a loose cannon by comparison. Perhaps the other baby was my husband's illegitimate child...

After we were in the air, I was both relishing the fact that we stood very little chance of being kicked off the plane AND wishing I could trade places with anyone else for the next seven hours. ALL OF THE LIGHTS stayed on for the entire flight. When poor Grant's exhausted tantrum hit its peak (he wanted to run freely down the aisles of the plane) we finally had to strap him into the seat. After an amount of effort that compares only to that of a circus performer, my husband FINALLY got him to fall asleep, lights glaring and all.

Twenty minutes later, we hit some mild turbulence and our favorite flight attendant told us we had to take him out of the seat. Yes, he woke back up. Yes, he screamed. He fell back asleep. He woke up. More screaming. It pretty much continued like that until we mercifully touched down at Heathrow hours later. My husband and I had aged about fifteen years, and it was then that I decided that I was moving to England, because there was NO WAY I was making my son do that flight again.

All in all, we survived and ended up having a wonderful visit. And I kept telling myself that at least the plane didn't crash. And on the flight back, I tried to keep that in mind...

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