The ups and downs of flying with children

In less than two weeks, I will experience a modern miracle. I will travel thousands of miles from Virginia to Alaska. The journey would have taken my progenitors months to complete on foot or horseback, and they might have given birth or fallen dead (or both) along the way.

I will do it flying in an airplane, in a matter of hours, and my toddlers will be safe, warm and dry the whole time. When I think about it that way, I’m grateful for modern air travel.

But I usually think of it as: “Rachel alone with her two crazy children for 15+ hours: coming soon to a plane near you!” And oh man, am I dreading it.

There will be missed naps and a very late night. There will be spilled snacks and squabbles and tantrums. But I pray I’ll at least be spared blood and vomit.

I am not the kind of apologetic trip-ruiner who passes out bags of candy to passengers with the misfortune to share their journey with a child. I’m the kind who looks people straight in the eye defiantly as I board the plane with my two bundles of joy, daring you to mutter under your breath about us.

I wasn’t always so brazen about flying with kids. There was a time when I considered it to be a difficult midterm test in “Parenting 101,” to be completed in front of a hundred strangers who detest me.

When I flew home for the first time with Rosy, I was paralyzed with fear. She was six weeks old and a very fussy baby (I can say this now because my son, Atticus, was a happy, content baby, so I know the difference). In the comfort of our home, with every amenity imaginable, she was happy about 40 percent of the time. The remainder of her existence she screamed and cried for no discernible reason. I was sure my flights would include hours of howling.

I got to my gate with plenty of time to spare and began a complicated ritual of nursing, burping, and changing, hoping to board the plane with a peacefully sleeping baby, but to no avail. She wasn’t hungry yet, so I put her in the baby carrier and crossed my fingers. Though she was quiet when we boarded, every face I met looked angry.

My fellow passengers looked at me as if I had brought a small, dangerous, slimy and disgusting dragon onto the plane instead of my own tiny offspring. “How dare you?” their looks demanded, “How dare you ruin my flight experience by bringing that THING?”

Thinking back on it, I’m sure there must have been more than a few sympathetic passengers on board, but they didn’t register in my mind. All I could think, as I fumbled to breastfeed during take-off and my daughter screamed liked a stuck pig, was “they hate me, they hate me, they hate me.” When Rosy finally fell asleep against my bare chest, I tugged the edges of my still unbuttoned shirt around her and stayed as still as possible. Better someone see a little skin, I decided, then risk moving the sleeping tyrant.

During the layover before my next flight, I paced the floor with Rosy in her carrier, calm and sleepy. As I walked I noticed a mom traveling alone with SIX children under the age of 10. I looked into her face, expecting to see a mirror of my own panic and desperation, but she was calm and serene as her brood sat in a circle eating homemade sandwiches. They were so well-behaved, I thought, and I wondered if I would be so put together if I ever found myself in the same situation.

Rosy was still a tiny newborn, which attracted the gaze of some of the kids, who came over to look at her. Self-consciously, I noticed that the back my shirt had become entangled in the carrier, and I began yanking at it, trying to cover my exposed post-partum love handles.

Supermom approached me from behind and gently tucked my shirt into place. Then she laid a hand on my trembling shoulder and whispered, “You’re doing great.”

I got on the plane with a little boost. Supermom had given me a shield against the nasty sneering faces. “I’m doing great,” I told myself.

A few weeks later a boy I knew in high school posted to his Facebook wall, “Flying on a plane with kids is excellent birth control.”

With my newly bestowed confidence, I wanted to reply, “So, a kid ruined your flight, huh? Did they cry because the pressure change made their ears hurt? Or maybe they got motion sick and puked all over their own lap and you had to smell it? Maybe they were tired because it was a red-eye flight and they threw a tantrum because the airline only served cookies and they wanted pretzels?

Well, I’m so sorry that inconvenienced you. Anyone who chose to participate in this trend called having a family should be banned from air travel to ensure you have a comfortable and quiet flight — at least until their young can quietly sit still for hours.”

Instead I just unfriended him. No need to get into an argument to defend my “Parenting 101” grade.

Two weeks from now, no matter how many new toys and coloring books and snacks I bring—and I’ll bring a lot—my kids are probably going to cry, and try to run down the aisles, and maybe, God forbid, even kick the seat in front of them. But we’ll survive! In fact, I’m going to do great.

Rachel Kenley Fry was born and raised in Palmer and graduated from Utah State University in 2012 with degrees in journalism and agricultural communication. Her previous work for the Frontiersman includes two years as a “Student Views” columnist and contributions for a “What to Eat” column while she was an intern with the Alaska Division of Agriculture. She currently lives in Virginia with her husband and two children. This column is the opinion of the author and does not necessarily reflect the views of the Mat-Su Valley Frontiersman or its parent company, Wick Communications.