Babies on Airplanes

Among the minor hells of modern life, sharing an aircraft with an infant ranks up there with getting stuck in an elevator and I-5 on 4th of July weekend. Air travel is claustrophobic enough under the best of circumstances, what with the Tetris-like seating, the recirculated farts and the endless infomercials. Add the uniquely unbearable squawks and cries of a squalling baby, and you begin to envy the dead.

"There was a baby on the flight." No more need be said. Friends wince sympathetically and shake their heads. Spied in airports, young families inspire fear and loathing — not on my flight, surely! Right behind me? You've got to be kidding. Here comes the seat kicking ... oh, where is that Xanax?

Without question, these traveling circuses of misery inflict great discomfort on those around them. And yet, who ever stops to consider the suffering the families themselves endure? Rather than sympathy, it is scorn they attract, resentment for the disturbance and contempt for their inability to control the situation. Women a few years or decades past childrearing age cluck their tongues with false sympathy and offer obvious suggestions they know won't work. Others avert their eyes on the way to the bathroom, as if passing a leper or a homeless person. Parents and child suffer alone together in their own little nest of wretchedness.

Baby et al. have already had a long day by the time they start to ruin yours. Arriving early to ensure proper seating (window seat, not an exit row) means a long, restless wait in the stroller. A shoe bomber can get through security more smoothly than an infant's entourage. Belt, shoes and computers are only the beginning; the little terrorist must be carried through the Portal of Judgment in his mother's arms, his conveyance stripped, folded and scanned for WMDs. Car seat, diaper bag, cooler bag, in one end and out the other — OK, unfold that stroller and saddle him up, hurry up now, they're stacking up behind you, no time to tie your shoes or buckle your belt.

Food and booby must be withheld until takeoff, when swallowing will be desperately needed for ear relief. Finally, the parents give up and let the child crawl bare-handed where shoes of all nations have been tracking a UN of dog poop residue all morning. Pre-boarding is a nice gesture — but that comes after first and business, if you don't mind. They've paid handsomely for the privilege of watching you wrestle that car seat down the aisle.

For normal people, packing an in-flight bag is an exercise in optimism. A big, fat novel that won't ever run out. A laptop for long stretches of uninterrupted work. A favorite candy bar — OK, two. A newsstand magazine that your home subscriptions will never know about. And oh, the mp3s....

Parents are spared the trouble of packing novels or computers, but these savings are more than offset by the armamentaria of infant support. Food, bottle, diapers, wipes, board books — five for a trunk flight, 10 for cross-country — toys both plush and noise-making. Two spare outfits: one each for throw-up and blowout. The latter will be changed on the galley floor, the restrooms being occupied and too small, while the cabin crew eat their dinners and watch from the jump seat.

Benadryl, a mild sedative, is an option for people with no ethical qualms about drugging their children. Why not? They'll all be on downers by junior high anyway. Those who find the practice reprehensible change their tune by the third hour or so, scouring the rows from stem to stern for a fix from a better-prepared parent.

Some poor parents fall for the short-term solution of ejecting the in-flight phone or demonstrating the light switch, not realizing they've doomed themselves to untold hours of do-it-again. There will be no meditation on this flight, no reading, not even the uninterrupted enjoyment of an unseen Hollywood potboiler, just one more time through "Bob's Busy Hammer." Forget about in-flight yoga; try walking up and down the aisle holding little hands down in front until your lower back screams louder than the most colicky baby. Later, a shoulder will be wrenched in the under-seat pursuit of a fugitive sippy cup.

By one hour out, nerves are clearly sagging. Nattering is overheard over the seatbacks, hushing, a hiss of "Shut-the-fuck-up." A flight attendant who pipes up during a hard-won nap gets a cold stare in return from a parent who only wants a moment's rest, and perhaps a cup of hemlock. Underfoot swirls a sea of discarded clothing and food wrappers, milk-soaked napkins, shuffled books, shredded magazines, diapers changed at the seat, already-lost socks.

There is no joy like the release of leaving an airplane after a miserable flight. Grounded, the spirit soars, the day or evening bright ahead. Except, that is, for the ones who end up with the baby, waiting in the jetway for the gate-checked stroller while Mr. Happy-crazy-fussy-crying fights for his freedom. Their reward will be jet lag and interrupted sleep for days to come, and the shame of having failed as both parents and members of the community.

Spare a kind thought for the traveling infant, and those who accompany her. They mean none of the offense that they cause, and they carry a special burden: allowing anyone suffering through a travel day from hell to see somebody else having an even worse time.

— J. Daniel Janzen (jdaniel at flakmag dot com)