Winging It
Written By Shoshana Marchand
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A gallivanting mom shares the first rule of flying with children: There are no rules.
Two summers ago, I watched my then 14-year-old son, Rafael, shrug into his giant backpack, smash his cap down on his head, hand his ticket to the gate agent, and take his first flight, cross-country, by himself. He was on his way to visit the California side of the clan, and his grandfather would meet him on the other end. He turned around for one last, heartbreaking glance over his shoulder and — I swear it's true — blew a kiss, saluted me, and headed off down the jetway as cocky as the captain of the plane.
Nothing complicated about it for him; I was the one with tears in my eyes. I drove home sobered. He was off into the wild blue yonder, flying solo. This was only, I knew, the first time of many. It's just that flying was something we'd always done together. By the age of 1, the child had logged 18,000 miles. Three years later, by the time his sister Koko was born, that number had doubled. And when our third, Amara, came along, he was up to 50,000.
With kids in tow — at various ages and stages of potty training — I have logged more than thirty 3,000-mile airplane trips, many sans husband, and I'm still smiling. Well, all right, the smiling part is a complete lie, but I'm here to tell the tale. I survived.
You may be wondering why I've spent all this time in tiny seats drinking nonalcoholic Bloody Mary mix on the rocks and squeezing into bathrooms smaller than a shower stall. My far-flung, beloved family is one reason. With my husband's siblings and my own living at one time or another in New York, London, Tokyo, Los Angeles, and the San Francisco Bay area, I've had little choice but to leave my small New England town and sally forth.
Then there's my own reluctance to admit there's anything I can't do. I've got a big scar on my knee from the high wall I walked along, and fell off, 30 years ago, just to show my sister I could. When I had my first child in my mid-20s, my friends without kids were sure I'd never do anything exciting again. I took that to be a dare.
After 9/11, when absolutely everyone from the East Coast was canceling their plane reservations, my family and I got back up in the air just a day or two after flights resumed. A certain wedding in California was definitely still on — and I was the bride's sister.
When we changed planes at O'Hare, you could have gone bowling right down the concourse, it was so empty. Every baggage handler, every concessionaire, every porter was so glad to see kids, and for the return to normalcy heralded by their shouts and squeals.
Have I enjoyed every minute of my travels? No way. About halfway through every trip, I start fantasizing about the big bouncy yellow slide — you know, the one that gets inflated in an emergency? I imagine just how good it would feel to push certain small, squirming people down that slide. Hard.
But excuse me, do I enjoy every minute of parenting down here on the ground? Again: No way. Why should it be any different eight miles in the air?
I do have very fond memories, though, of the little carrot-topped girl my son met on Northwest when he was 4. Her name was Sinead, and she was 5. They fell in love there in coach class, and insisted on a wedding. They were married at 40,000 feet, and several members of the flight crew served as bridal attendants and groomsmen.
And I remember the gruff, middle-aged man who turned out to be a killer player of both Crazy Eights and Go Fish, and played with my daughter for an hour straight, saving my sanity. And I wouldn't trade for anything the sight of chubby, windmilling legs running back and forth on the acres of moving sidewalks at O'Hare.
The thing about traveling is that all rules are suspended. The airplane can pump in the oxygen, keep it feeling like normal life down here on earth, but it's not. (I don't know about your neighborhood, but mine certainly doesn't have a beverage-and-pretzels cart that travels down the block.)
Of course, the kids embrace this temporary lawlessness. Have another soda. Here's more gum. Talk to strangers. Suck on this candy — please! Yes, you can watch another cartoon. Sure, flush the toilet — just for fun.
Long after these kids of mine are grown, I know I'll picture them wearing backpacks, leaning against the giant plate-glass window at the gate, waiting for the call to board, waiting to zoom away to their destinations.
Up in the air, we're just practicing for the real world. We have no ties to town or school, to neighbor or policeman or teacher. As a family, we travel like a nation unto ourselves, eating what we wish, playing how we like.
And just as they began to fly with me, one by one by one, I now realize that so too they'll head off into the stratosphere by themselves, one by one by one. Some trips we can take together, and some we must take alone. I don't know whether I earned my wings for all the difficult trips I took with little kids, or for my willingness to let them go on without me. I don't even know how you're supposed to know when they're ready. But one day, it's just time.
And what will they do up there, my children, up there in their own sky-high futures? Chew gum. Talk to strangers. Play Go Fish and Crazy Eights. Watch cartoons. Drink as much soda as they like. Maybe get married. This I know: They'll make their own rules.
Next page: Tips for flying with kids
